Chapter ten
In the House of Green Silk
Cillian
ThemomentItakeher hand, the room stills. It’s not the hush of respect or even curiosity—it’s reverence. Like they know something holy is about to happen, and they’re not sure whether to cross themselves or run.
My fingers brush over hers, guiding her past linen-draped tables and crystalline laughter. The chandeliers tremble above us, glittering with firelight. A symphony of glasses clinking and heels tapping fades beneath the hush of anticipation as we stop at the edge of the grand piano.
She stands beside me like a fucking vision. Red velvet and gold. Blood and fire. The Darling of Dublin dressed for the kill. My fingers settle at the small of her back, pressing just enough for the room to notice. My palm is calm, my pulse is not.
“My friends,” I say, voice smooth, unhurried, biting the edge of formality with my usual grin, “I promised you something unforgettable tonight—and as always, I intend to deliver.”
A ripple of amusement, murmurs. But none of them are watching me. Not really. Not when she looks like this. Not when she breathes like a storm kept behind glass.
“Tonight you are in for something rare. Intoxicating. Haunting.”
The crowd leans in. Eyes flick toward her, then back to me. They always want to know what she is to me. Tonight, I’ll tell them.
“Please welcome the Darling of Dublin… our very own duchess.” I pause, turn my head slightly, and let my gaze drink her in. “But I know her simply as Siobhán.” A breath. A beat. “My dove.”
There’s a ripple through the room—soft laughter, raised brows, half-swallowed gasps. It’s a claim. And she knows it. I feel the tension in her spine before I see it on her face. But when she turns to the crowd, it’s all poise and red-lipped charm.
She smiles. God help me, shesmiles.Lifts her own glass and locks eyes with me like she’s planning my execution.
“Sláinte,” she says sweetly, and takes a sip like a queen blessing her court. Then she turns toward the piano, voice calm and clear. “I’m going to play my favorite Christmas piece for you tonight.”
A murmur. Cameras click. Some lean forward. She settles beside the grand piano, her fingers brushing over the ivory like it’s a memory.
“It was one my mother used to play,” she says, voice a little lower now. “Every Christmas morning. Without fail.” Then—deliberately—she lifts her glass again. “This one’s for you, Lord O’Dwyer.”
My gut twists. She’s not here for me. She’s not here for the money. Or long lost times. She’s here forher.And then she drinks. A full sip. Not a polite one. Not a lady’s toast. Adeclaration.The room doesn’t know what she’s done. But I do. My pulse spikes. My fingers clench around my glass.
My father inclines his head—barely. But I see the flicker in his expression. Recognition. Resentment. And maybe, just maybe… guilt.
The music starts. Soft. Elegant. Familiar.Tchaikovsky.Her fingers move with haunting grace. It’s beautiful. Nearly angelic. And it guts me. Because I know what this is. It’s not just a tribute. It’s a reckoning.
She’sheretonight because of her mother. She wore red velvet and kissed my cheek and smiled for the crowd—because she suspects something. And she thinks the answer is insidemyhouse.Fuck.I swallow down the panic. I watch her. Her posture is perfect. Regal. Controlled. But her jaw ticks. Her brows twitch. Her foot presses the pedal with more force than the piece calls for.
She’s furious.
And the room is too entranced to see it. They see a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress playing a beautiful piece. They don’t see the fire behind her eyes. But I do. God, I always have. I step closer, half-aware of the ripple of tension near the head table. My father’s knuckles are white around his cane.
Ishouldstop her. I should interrupt—whisk her off the bench, say she’s had too much champagne, make some fucking excuse. But I don’t. Because there’s a part of me that wants her to burn it all down. And a darker part that wants towatch.
She leans into the final cascade of notes, her hands trembling from the intensity. One last chord rings out—full and echoing—before silence falls like snowfall. For a breath, the room is still. Then applause erupts like thunder. People rise. Toasts are called. But she doesn’t move. She just sits there, back straight, face unreadable, eyes locked on mine like sheknows.
And I’m the one who breaks first. I make my way toward her, all gracious smiles and polite nods. The crowd parts for me. They always do. The son of the devil commands a certain reverence, and tonight, I wear that title like a second skin.
But the second I reach her side, I lean in—close, but not touching. “What the fuck have you done, dove?”
Her smile is a blade wrapped in silk. “Claiming me in front of your father? How bold of you.”
She stands, slow and composed, lifting her glass with poise as if she hadn’t just played a funeral dirge hidden beneath a Christmas classic. As if she hadn’t just set fire to the foundation of this house using nothing but a piano and a ghost. People flock to us like flies to sugar and rot. A woman in emerald furs coos over her dress. A politician pats me on the shoulder and tells me I’m a lucky bastard. Siobhán laughs. So do I. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Between every smile, we trade barbs like daggers.
“Did you pick that song to impress my father, or haunt him?”
She sips her champagne. “I don’t play for men like him.”
