His smirk is faint, quiet. “Almost.”
I shouldn’t smile. But I do. By the time the dessert’s cooling, we’re both leaning against the counter, side by side. Not touching. Just near enough that the air starts to hum again.
“So,” he says, careful but not cautious. “New York.”
My hand stills on the counter.
He reads it instantly—he always did. “What happened?”
I exhale, slow, watching my breath fog the glass of the window. Snow’s falling harder now, the world beyond the estate soft and white. Untouchable. “I lost everything,” I say simply.
Cillian doesn’t speak. He waits. Always patient. Always damn steady.
“I didn’t even know he was married,” I whisper, staring at the snow. “That’s the part that still makes my stomach twist. Not me getting fired, or blasted across the tabloids, or my name being smeared across my peers.”
His knuckles flex against the marble, but he stays silent.
“I walked into his apartment with Thai takeout and wine,” I continue, “only to find a woman in his bed wearing his shirt telling me she was his wife and they had three kids at home.”
Cillian goes absolutely still.
“He told me he loved me,” I say softly. “Told her he was out of town for a conference. He told both of us lies. And the tabloids—God, they devoured it. The married conductor and his foolish pianist mistress.” The wine burns down my throat.“The Philharmonic didn’t want the scandal. Too messy. Too emotional. They said my ‘reputation might distract from the winter performance.’”
“Bastards,” Cillian mutters.
I shrug. “They weren’t wrong.”
When I look back at him, his jaw is clenched tight enough to crack.
“I’d have killed him,” he says finally.
I laugh—small, bitter, but real. “I figured you’d say that.”
He leans closer, voice dropping low. “Don’t mistake honesty for theatrics, dove. I’d have buried him under his own fucking stage.”
That shouldn’t make me feel warm. But it does. And that’s the most dangerous thing of all. The air between us hums like a suspended chord—held just long enough to ache. He looks at me like he always did. Like I’m the only song in a silent room.
And then he moves. His hand lifts to my cheek, tentative, reverent. Thumb brushes the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of my silence. I don’t stop him. I can’t. When he kisses me, it’s soft. Careful. Not because he doesn’t want more—but because he knows how much it means.
Slow, sweet pressure. A question. I answer with a sigh, with the parting of my lips. Let him in, just enough. The taste of wine and memory lingers between us as it deepens—still tender, still unhurried. His hands stay where they are. No rush. No claiming. Just the kind of kiss that saysI remember every part of you.But I pull back before it goes further. My breath is shallow. My heart’s louder than it should be.
“Goodnight,” I whisper, brushing my lips over his one more time.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Just nods, slow and solemn, like he knows he’s holding a note that’s not ready to resolve. I slip past him, fingertips trailing the edge of his sweater for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then I step into the bedroom. Close the door. Press my back to it. And exhale. The silence on the other side feels like a held breath. Mine trembles as I crawl into bed, haunted by lips and longing.
1.I yield. I am your servant, my dear love.
