“I’m not here to catch up,” I say quietly.
He nods. “I know.”
“I’m not here for Cillian, either.”
He smirks. “You keep telling yourself that, dove.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in a palace paid for by devils.
The suite is silent after the door shuts behind him. Lavish, over decorated silence. The kind that echoes. I don’t move for a while. Just stand there, coat still on, fingers curling into my palms, breath shallow. I’m here for a reason—and it’s not the gala.
The truth is, I almost said no when the invitation came. Almost deleted the email. Almost blocked the number that followed. But then I saw the signature. Not from some assistant. Not from a publicist or booking agent. From Darragh O’Dwyer himself.
And the moment I read it, I knew something was wrong. Darragh never did anything without reason. And he never liked me. So why invite the girl his son once burned for? Why now? Why Christmas?
The only answer that made sense was the one I wasn’t ready to say aloud: He wants something. But I want something, too… apiece of my past this familyowesme. Answers for their precious dove, the prodigal pianist,Dublin’s Darling Daughter.
I turn, looking around the room. The piano waits in the corner like a dare. Black lacquer. Untouched. Gleaming in the firelight like something sacred—or cursed. I move toward it slowly, tugging off my coat and letting it fall across the velvet chaise like I belong here.
I don’t. But I sit. And then I play. The first few notes are soft, cautious—like breath held in the dark. Then it opens. Blooms. Unspools into something slow and bleeding, a melody stitched together from every bruise I’ve never let heal. It’s the kind of piece that would make an audience cry.
But no one is here. Only me. And the ghosts.
Until I see it. Tucked just under the bench, barely sticking out—like it was meant to be found, but not right away. A black envelope, heavy paper, sealed with wax.
No markings. No name. No signature on the front. I stare at it for a long moment before I pick it up. My hands don’t shake. I break the seal. Inside, one line. Handwritten. The loops sharp, deliberate, undeniably familiar.
Play for me. One last time. —C
