Chapter nine
Requiem in Red
Siobhán
Iwaketosilence.Notpeace—silence. The kind that hums against my skin, thick with everything unsaid. The door is still locked.Of course it is. Cillian O’Dwyer always did love control.
Yesterday burns behind my eyelids like a fever dream—the press of his mouth, the sound he made when I kissed him back, the taste of tea and want on his tongue. I would’ve gone all the way. If he hadn’t stopped. He walked away. Locked the door. Left me shaking and furious and stupidlywanting.
Now morning light cuts through the curtains, soft and accusing. My heart feels wrong in my chest—like it’s remembering something it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t still want him. I shouldn’t still ache from a kiss that didn’t even end the way I wanted it to.But I do.
I pull the blanket tighter around me, staring out the frosted window. I’m supposed to play tonight—another gala, another O’Dwyer performance. This one inside the manor itself. His father’s home. His family’s empire.
And I can’t keep staying here. Not in this place. Not inourplace.
Because this isn’t just a house—it’sthestable. The one we dreamed of as kids. The one we swore we’d turn into something beautiful when we were grown. He actually did it. Turned our childish sketches into a home straight out of my imagination—warm light, polished wood, a baby grand by the window. My dream, wrapped in his devotion.
It should feel like safety. Instead, it feels like a trap. He built me my fantasy… and now I’m living inside it. But that’s not why I came back to Dublin. I didn’t return for him. Or the music. Or the ghosts of what we used to be.
I came for the truth. For the secrets buried beneath this family’s marble floors. For the lies that killed my mother. Somewhere inside that manor, someone knows what really happened. And I’ll find it—no matter what it costs.
Because I’m not here to fall for the Dublin Devil again. I’m here to burn him alive with the truth he’s been hiding.
A soft knock breaks the silence. I don’t answer. Another knock, a beat longer this time.
Then his voice—rough, low, careful. “Siobhán.”
I stay sitting on the edge of the bed, robe wrapped tight around me. I hear the key turn. The door clicks open, but he doesn’t come in right away.
“Brought you breakfast.”
He waits. Like he knows better than to test my mood too soon. Eventually, I look up—and there he is in the doorway, holding a tray like he’s some kind of gentleman instead of the man wholocked me in a bedroomafter kissing me senseless. The tray holds coffee, a croissant, and what looks like scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. Fancy. Too fancy for an apology.
“You think eggs are going to fix yesterday?” I ask, voice dry.
His mouth twitches. “Didn’t think it’d hurt.” He steps in and sets the tray on the window ledge, not daring to come closer. Smart man. “You’ve got a performance tonight. At the manor,” he says. “The planner wants to go over the setlist, lighting, all that.” He pauses, something flickering in his eyes. “I’ve got business upstairs, but I’ll take you up with me. Just be ready in twenty.”
“Twenty minutes to pretend none of this happened?”
“No,” he says quietly. “Twenty minutes to remember why it can’t happen again.”
Then he’s gone. Door wide open this time. And I just sit there—hungry, furious, and nowhere near ready to walk back into the O’Dwyer Manor with his taste still on my lips. I dress quickly, trading my silk nightie for a cream sweater dress and low boots.The tea sits untouched on the tray, already cold. Just like his words.
When I step into the living room, he’s waiting by the door. No tie, but a jacket slung over one shoulder like he owns the world and the storm that comes with it. We don’t speak. The silence is louder than yesterday's kiss, stretching between us like a pulled wire.
The manor looms ahead, draped in morning mist, elegant and indifferent. We take the gravel path together, boots crunching, hands not touching. Halfway up, Rouge comes bounding down the hill like a border collie with secrets.
“There she is! Sleeping Beauty finally emerged,” he crows, falling into step beside me. “You know, I expected frostbite on your behalf. Devil doesn’t usually play jailor—but I guess you bring out the worst in him, sweetheart.”
“Rouge,” Cillian warns, voice low.
“Oh, don’t start with me,” he waves him off. “I’m invested. Emotionally. Also I need her to sign a program for my mum. She cried watching your performance the other night at the hotel, you know that? Absolute wreck. Full tissues and everything.”
I glance sideways, lips twitching. “Tell her I said thank you.”
“Oh, I will. She thinks you're the reincarnation of some 18th-century siren who died tragically young. Probably drowned in a fountain. Or killed a duke. Or both.”
Cillian exhales, but it’s not quite a laugh.
