Rouge, unfazed, continues, “You’re up in the gold room today. Planner’s been tearing her hair out trying to set the stage lighting to ‘ethereal heartbreak’ or whatever the hell you embody. Also, you look pale. Are you eating? Blink twice if you're being poisoned.”
“Rouge,” Cillian growls again, jaw tight.
“What?” Rouge raises both brows. “If you lock a woman in a bedroom, you lose the right to silence.”
I keep walking, silent still—but not for long. Because tonight, I have to play a piano solo in the home of the man I once loved—and maybe still do. And if I fall apart on those keys? At least no one will hear me over the sound of applause.
The carved double doors of the manor open with a sigh, and the opulence inside is immediate—gold leaf trim, polished floors, chandeliers that mock gravity.
Rouge whistles low. “Christ, the gauntlet’s been thrown. I feel underdressed and emotionally unprepared.”
Cillian doesn’t answer. He leads us through the main foyer, nods to a housekeeper who vanishes into another hall, then stops abruptly at the base of the grand staircase.
“Go ahead, Rouge. Upstairs. You know the way.”
Rouge lifts a brow. “And leave you two alone in the hallway? Scandalous.”
“Go,” Cillian says, voice steel under silk.
With a dramatic sigh and an exaggerated wink in my direction, Rouge ascends the stairs, boots echoing until they disappear into plush silence. Then it’s just us. He takes my hand, just for a moment, thumb brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding himself. Then he lets go.
“I’ll be nearby, but I’ve business to tend to. Don’t wander, Dove.” My name in his mouth is a warning and a vow. “I mean it.”
“I heard you the first time,” I say quietly, chin lifting.
Something flickers in his expression. Then he steps closer. No preamble. No tease. He kisses me—hard, sure, and over far too fast. Just enough to make me lean forward when he pulls away. Just enough to leave me gasping for more.
“Break a leg,” he murmurs, then turns and walks down the corridor like he didn’t just shake my entire foundation with one kiss.
I watch him go, lips tingling, heart pounding like I’m already sitting at the piano. And then I open the door to the gold room… and step back into a house filled with ghosts. The gold room is sunlight and silence, but I barely get five minutes of peace before the other door bursts open and the planner arrives like a hurricane in designer heels.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” she exclaims, juggling a clipboard, tablet, and at least three color-coded binders. “We’re running behind. The stage crew is still adjusting the risers, the lighting tech needs confirmation on your spotlight angles, and the orchestra is wondering if you’ll be bringing your own metronome again—because, I mean, of course you would, but it’s not listed and—”
She doesn’t breathe. She monologues.
I blink at her. “Good morning?”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry. Morning. We’re already behind on run-through and the gala performance istonight,and the O’Dwyers are very particular about—well. Everything. You know.”
She laughs nervously and plops into the nearest chair, spreading out the chaos of her clipboard like a war map. I sip my tea and nod through the assault of questions and micro-decisions—until the phrase“gold sequin backup gowns”nearly sends me into orbit.
“I’m going to excuse myself for a moment,” I say, already standing.
“But—wait! We haven’t even discussed—”
“Just a moment,” I repeat, already at the door.
The halls are quieter than I remember, but the house still hums beneath the surface—like it’s watching. I know this place better than I should. My fingers trail along the polished banister of the back stairwell, feet carrying me instinctively down a different corridor. Past the conservatory, past the locked study with its secrets. Left at the tapestry of St. Brigid.
I pause at the familiar oak double doors. The music room. I push them open. It’s exactly the same. Velvet curtains, gold-gilt molding, that same grand piano catching the light like a secret. My chest tightens. This room holds echoes.
Cillian at eighteen, wild and devastatingly beautiful, playing Rachmaninoff like he was casting a spell. Me in the corner, too young and too in love to realize what it meant that he never looked at anyone else while he played. We were just kids. Stupid. Reckless. And so, so doomed.
I step inside. Let the door drift shut behind me. The silence here is thick with ghosts. And I... don’t want to leave just yet.
I move slowly, fingers brushing the old wallpaper, my steps soft on the worn carpet. Everything smells like polished wood and ghost notes. The piano waits in the corner.Our piano.The velvet dustcover peels back under my touch, smooth and familiar, like a secret never fully told. I pull it free, fold it once, and drape it over the bench before lowering the fallboard.
The keys are still pristine. I sit. Not to play. Just to be here. To feel. I hover my fingers above middle C. I don’t press down. Idon’t let the sound escape. Because if I do… I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.
