The memories rush in fast. Cillian beside me, all elbows and grins, playing too loud just to piss me off. Me pretending to be annoyed when I was really just trying not to smile. Our knees bumping. His shoulder brushing mine. That summer we lived for late-night practice sessions and cheap beer and secrets whispered over sheet music.
He kissed me for the first time in this room. Told me he loved me here, too. I blink hard. But the good memories never come alone. They always drag the shadows with them.
The scream. The silence. The blood they tried to scrub out of the tile. My mother’s casket closed tight. My throat tighter. And Cillian—showing up like a storm in the aftermath, eyes wild, hands shaking, saying,“Come with me. Please. I’ll take you away from all of this. We can go tonight. Barcelona, Siobhán. Say yes.”
But running was never an option. Not when the truth was still buried in this house. Not when my mother’s death didn’t make sense. I look around now, the room unchanged. Still echoing with the girl I used to be. Still steeped in the boy he used to be. This used to be our safe place. And now it feels like a grave.
A single tear escapes before I can stop it. Hot. Silent. I don’t wipe it away. The piano stays silent beneath my hands. Because some songs don’t deserve to be played.Not yet.
ThesuitesmellslikeChanel No. 5 and nerves. There are hands in my hair, brushes on my skin, pins clicking against my scalp like the tapping of a metronome. My heartbeat syncs with it, steady and slow, just waiting for the downbeat.
Two makeup artists argue over shimmer placement like it’s life or death. The PR woman paces by the window, reading through the evening’s program, listing names, timings, reminders in staccato rhythm. It's all noise—but the kind I like. The kind I can translate.
This is what I live for.The discordant chaos before I step onto a stage and make it submit. Someone zips up the back of my dress and murmurs something about posture. I’m not listening—I’m mentally tuning. Tightening the strings of my spine. Finding middle C somewhere in my ribcage and holding it steady.
Every part of me is an instrument before a performance. I don’t need the applause. I crave the silence right after the final note fades—the kind that feels holy. The kind that tells me I’ve stolen the air right out of the room.
“Miss Kelleher, the charity rep has requested a moment of your time before the performance—”
I nod, eyes half-lidded as someone tugs my curls into place. My reflection catches in the mirror. I look like a siren sculpted from gold and steel. But underneath the rouge and ribbon… I’m still just a girl who learned to survive by playing pretty melodies over the sound of breaking things.
Let them watch. Let them worship. Tonight, I bring the storm.
They tug the final curl into place, the heat of the iron vanishing just as quickly as the touch. My hair spills over my shoulders in cascading waves, dark as the secrets I keep, kissed with just enough gold to glint under chandelier light. I can’t see the storm in my eyes, but I feel it—simmering under the surface, quiet and waiting.
The dress fits like a sin I chose on purpose. Burgundy velvet hugs every curve, wickedly cut and sharply tailored, long sleeves clinging like a second skin. The slit rides high—dangerously so—flashing my thigh with every calculated step. I don’t move in this dress. I prowl. I stalk. I command.
One of the stylists clasps the last ruby earring into place, her fingers trembling just a little. I catch the flicker of reverence in her eyes before she steps back, lips parted like she wants to say something—anything—but instead she nods and retreats with the others.
The suite falls quiet. The hush is loud after all that noise, but I welcome it. I stand slowly, letting the weight of the gown pool around my legs, velvet dragging against the marble like a warning. My necklace catches the light—a golden chain and aruby the size of a promise I shouldn’t believe in. It rests just above the swell of my breasts, heavy and hot like a brand.
Cillian’s.Pulled from his family vault with the same casual power he wields over men twice his age. And now it rests against my skin like he owns the night I’m about to walk into. I move toward the mirror, but I already know what I’ll see. A girl sculpted from temptation and trauma. Velvet and venom.
The suite door is only a few steps away. I exhale. Open. And there he is. Cillian. Leaning against the far wall like a sin I haven’t confessed yet. One ankle crossed over the other, hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted back just enough that he has to lower his chin when he sees me.
And oh—he sees me.
Not like the others. Not like I’m a fantasy draped in designer fabric and tragedy. No, he sees right through the lace and polish. He sees the blood in the water. The girl I used to be. The woman I became without him. The siren in silk, sharp enough to draw blood.
His eyes darken. The moment stretches, tight as a drawn bowstring.
“Siobhán,” he says like it’s a curse and a prayer in one.
My name in his mouth sounds like a memory. His gaze drops. Trails down the bare slope of my collarbone. Lingers where the ruby rests, then lower. Heat coils low in my spine. A familiarrhythm begins to pulse behind my ribs—one I haven’t played in years.
“You’re late,” I say, voice smooth as glissando.
“You’re beautiful,” he counters, unapologetic.
The tension doesn’t crack. It tightens. We’re seconds from detonation. And I don’t know if it’ll end in a kiss, a fight, or something far more dangerous. He pushes off the wall, slow and deliberate, like every step toward me is a note in a darker symphony only we know the ending to. And I’m not sure if I’m the melody or the murder weapon.
Cillian lifts his arm, offering it like a dare. His gaze doesn’t leave mine—not even as footsteps approach from the side. I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow, the heat of him seeping through the fabric like an ember pressed to skin.
“Do you two always look this dramatic?” Rouge’s voice breaks the tension like a cymbal crash, sharp and far too loud for the mood. He appears at Cillian’s other side, eyes bright and smirking, dressed like sin dipped in silk. “I swear, it's like watching the final act of a doomed opera. Very romantic. Very stabby.”
Cillian doesn’t flinch. “Rouge.”
“Yes, dear?”
