“Star isn’t going to the guest room,” Cillian says.
The silence that follows is absolute.
“Star stays where I stay,” he continues, his tone dark and final. “In my room.”
The temperature in the foyer plunges. Mary’s smile remains fixed, but her eyes narrow, darting to where Cillian’s hand is possessively splayed across my lower back.
“Of course,” she says after a pause that stretches too long. “How... progressive. I’ll have Margot make up the bed with fresh linens.”
Progressive.She makes it sound like a dirty word.
Cillian pulls me closer, his body heat a furnace against my side. It’s a clear message to his mother, to his ex-wife, and to the house itself:Mine.
“I’ll take Star upstairs myself,” Cillian says. “We’d like to freshen up before dinner.”
“As you wish,” Mary concedes, though her words lack any real surrender. She steps back, creating physical distance while her presence continues to dominate the foyer. “Bea, dear, let’s check on the wine selection for dinner. I’m considering the Bordeaux, but you always had such a good sense for these things.”
Bea nods, throwing me an apologetic glance before following Mary toward what I assume is the kitchen. The message is clear:Bea belongs in family decisions. I don’t.
As they disappear around a corner, a shaky breath escapes me. The marble foyer suddenly feels larger, emptier without Mary’s overwhelming presence.
“Well,” I whisper, “that went about as well as a root canal.”
Cillian’s laugh is short and tight. “Actually, that was better than I expected. She usually doesn’t bother with pleasantries.”
“That was pleasantries?”
“For my mother? Absolutely.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing its styling. It’s the first genuine gesture since we entered the house. “Star, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—“
“It’s not your fault,” I interrupt, meaning it. “Though the boiler breakdown story is about as believable as me suddenly developing a passion for emerald sweaters.”
His mouth quirks into a half-smile—the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “She’s been planning this for weeks. Probably invited my ex the moment she heard I was bringing you home.”
“Your mother doesn’t waste time.”
“Not when she’s trying to rewrite history. We were not in love, you know. It was a marriage of convenience that sputtered out.”
The thought is reassuring, and truthfully, I did not sense any chemistry between the two of them.
Cillian sighs, picking up our suitcases. “Come on. Let’s get upstairs before she parades my kindergarten teacher through the foyer.”
As we move toward the staircase, I glance back at our reflections in the wall of mirrors. Two figures in a house built for appearances, where even the floors hide their mechanisms beneath polished surfaces. Mary Brown has orchestrated this opening scene with expert precision—the surprise appearance, the perfect ex-wife, the dismissive greeting.
But the scene isn’t over. And I didn’t come here to play a part in her production.
Cillian’s hand finds mine as we climb the stairs, our fingers intertwining. The gesture says what words can’t in this moment:We’re in this together.A united front against whatever Mary has planned next.
The battle has only just begun.
Chapter 3
The family room resembles a Christmas card brought to life. The fireplace cracks, stockings hang straight, and a tree stands so wonderfully adorned it could have been crafted by elves with engineering degrees. I stand in the doorway, still wearing my red dress, watching Mary arrange crystal glasses on a silver tray as if setting up chess pieces for a match I’ve already lost.
Cillian’s hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me into the room. His touch feels different here. A public gesture. I miss the way his fingers absently trace patterns on my skin when we’re alone in our apartment, unobserved and authentic.
“There you are,” Mary says, not lifting her eyes from her arrangement. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost. Though I suppose the east wing can be confusing for those not used to such big spaces.”
The jab is a reminder that I don’t know this house, don’t belong in its geography of familial memory. Bea wouldn’t getlost. She knows which floorboards creak and which doorknobs stick.
