Mary’s composure fractures further with each word. Her breathing grows shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly. The hand not gripping her wine glass moves to her collarbone, splaying, fingers as if trying to hold herself together.
“That’s not true,” she whispers. “Everything I’ve done has been for you. For this family. For our legacy.”
“Your legacy,” Cillian corrects, “not mine. Your vision, your plan, your need for control.”
Cillian’s gaze sweeps the table, taking in his father and ex-wife. Something shifts in his expression—not softening exactly, but a flicker of realization, of clarity about what he’s seeing.
“Look at them,” he says, gesturing toward his father and ex. “You wanted us to match. Color-coordinated and aligned to your specifications. But you just made yourself look small.”
The statement lingers, simple yet devastating in its truth. Mary flinches as if struck. For the first time, I see her not as the formidable opponent attempting to erase me from her son’s life, but as a frightened woman watching her world collapse.
Her perfectly manicured hand trembles against the white tablecloth, fingers curling inward as if trying to grasp something already gone. The mask she’s worn all evening crumbles, revealing the fear beneath.
“You don’t understand,” she says, her voice cracking. “I was trying to protect you. To ensure you didn’t make mistakes that would ruin your future.”
“The only mistake was letting you dictate my life for so long,” Cillian interrupts, calm and precise. “The true error was believing I needed to make you happy at the expense of my own truth.”
“He’s right, Mary,” Arthur says quietly.
Mary’s head snaps toward him, betrayal in her eyes. “Arthur, you can’t possibly be serious.”
“I am,” he says, straightening. “Should have said it years ago.”
Stunned silence fills the room. This second rebellion, from the person Mary least expected, unravels her remaining composure. Her hand trembles violently, the tremor traveling up her arm.
“Star,” he says, my name carrying weight beyond its single syllable. He reaches his hand out for me to grasp it.
I stare at his palm, aware of the magnitude of this moment. It’s not just about leaving a disastrous dinner. It’s about standing with him publicly against his mother, about choosing sides in a family war I never wanted.
Mary’s expression hardens, her shock crystallizing into something colder, more dangerous. She sees a moment before I grab his hand, and mistakes it for weakness, an opportunity to reassert control.
“This is absurd,” she says, finding her voice. “You’re making a scene over nothing. Both of you, sit down!”
I place my hand in Cillian’s.
His fingers close around mine, warm and certain. The contact grounds me, steady against Mary’s disapproval.
“If you ever speak to my girlfriend again the way you have tonight, I’ll cut you out of my life. Truthfully, I didn’t care enough about your little meddling. But now that I’ve found the woman I love, I won’t stand for it a second longer. I’ve spent all night ignoring you, not because I agreed with you, but as a way for you to acknowledge that you are only speaking toyourselfand not to me. But obviously that didn’t work, so now you get my true reaction. The one involving me not giving a fuck about my own mother when it comes to Star. Make me choose mother, and you won’t like the outcome.”
“We’re leaving,” Cillian finishes, his voice firm and final.
Mary rises halfway from her chair, hand outstretched as if to stop us despite the distance. But Cillian doesn’t stop. Instead, he places his hand at the small of my back, protective yet not possessive. I feel the subtle pressure guiding me toward the doorway, away from the wreckage of Mary’s dinner party.
Chapter 8
We take three steps into the hallway before Arthur’s phone trills behind us.
The dining room’s suffocating grip has barely loosened. Yet, despite the interruption, Cillian’s hand remains steady against the small of my back. I can already taste the sharp night air. I can feel the phantom crunch of snow beneath my boots as we escape.
Three steps toward liberation. That is all we get.
“Cillian.” Arthur’s voice calls out. He materializes from a side corridor, cell phone clutched in his hand, face taut with practiced urgency. “A moment, please. It’s important.”
Cillian’s fingers press more firmly against my spine. “We’re leaving. Whatever it is can wait until morning.”
Arthur steps closer, lowering his voice. “It’s Harrington. The Singapore deal—something’s happened with the investment portfolio.” He glances at me, then back to his son with deliberate emphasis. “Emergency.”
The words hang between them, weighted with meaning beyond their surface. Family. Emergency. I feel Cillian’s resolve wavering through the tension in his fingers.
