He goes back to his breakfast, and I go back to mine, and neither of us mentions the sister again.
But I feel it.
The shift.
Something's coming that I can't outrun.
The venue is a renovated Georgian townhouse in the heart of Dublin, all high ceilings and original moldings and windows that let in the watery afternoon light.
Greer Mackenzie has transformed it into a showcase space—racks of clothing draped in white fabric, a runway down the center of the main room, champagne stations positioned at strategic intervals.
Sixty-three guests on the list.
I've memorized every name, every face, every possible connection to anyone who might wish the Mackenzies harm.
The security team has been briefed.
Exits are covered.
Sight lines are clear.
Everythingis under control.
Except my fecking heartbeat when she walks in.
Dalla.
She's wearing something soft—cream colored, flowing, the kind of dress that moves when she moves.
It should look innocent.
Bridal, almost.
Instead, it makes me think of bedsheets.
Of skin.
Of things I have no business thinking about a woman I've been assigned to protect.
Her hair is down today, those ash blonde waves catching the light, the darker strands threaded through like honey in milk.
She's laughing at something her sister said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.
She hasn't seen me yet.
Good.
I position myself near the back wall, where I can see the whole room without drawing attention.
That's the job—be everywhere, be invisible, be ready.
I've done it a thousand times.
I've never had to do it while fighting the urge to stare at my principal like a gobshite teenager with his first crush.
Focus.
I scan the room.
