I lower my voice. “You think this is a game?”
“I think you’re scared of what I remember.”
Before I can respond, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. My father arrives. His presence is a cold thing. It sucks the joy from the room, even at Christmas.
“Well played,duchess,” he says, voice dry as ash. “Though next time, perhaps you’ll consider something with a little more cheer.”
Siobhán’s expression doesn’t waver. “Forgive me, Mr. O’Dwyer. I didn’t realize your taste in music required pom-poms and sleigh bells.”
He smiles, sharp and wrong. “Just civility.”
“Oh, I gave you civility,” she replies, her tone dipped in honeyed venom. “You just don’t recognize it when it comes from a woman with a spine.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—something close to rage—but he laughs instead. A hollow sound. “She’s got teeth, son. Careful she doesn’t bite.”
“She doesn’t bite,” I murmur, eyes locked on her. “She fucking devours.”
And she smiles again. Because she knows I’m right. A man with a whiskey-slick smile leans in toward her. One of my father’s investment bankers, younger than most of the bastards here, but arrogant enough to think he’s special.
His cufflink glints like it’s winking at me. “Will you play another, duchess?” he asks, voice just shy of flirtation. “Something just for me?”
Siobhán’s lashes lower, her smile sly. “Only if you promise to behave.”
He laughs like a fool. “I make no promises,” he says, tilting his glass.
She clinks her champagne flute against his. “Then I suppose you’ll enjoy the punishment.”
The crowd around them chuckles. She turns before I can step in and break the man’s jaw. She walks slowly—no, deliberately—toward the piano in the center of the room. Like it’s her throne. The red velvet clings to her curves, parting just enough to tease the outline of her thigh with each step. The diamonds at her ears flicker under the chandelier’s gaze. But it’s her eyes I can’t tear myself from. She doesn’t look at anyone else.
Just me. As she sits, her spine is straight, posture regal. Her fingers hover over the keys like they already know secrets the rest of us will never be worthy of.
“I think I’ll play one more,” she says, her voice delicate, deceptive. “A little something for the winter wind.”
The room stills. A few old patrons murmur appreciatively at the mention of Chopin, but they don’t understand. Not really. Not the choice. Not the venom tucked inside the elegance. Her gaze remains locked with mine as the first note hits.
Cold. Cutting. Furious. The music slashes through the room like a blade wrapped in silk. She doesn’t play it. She weaponizes it. Each movement is chaos under control—violent winds tucked into manicured grace. The kind of performance that turns men to fools and women to ghosts.
My father shifts in his chair, his jaw tight. Men watch her like wolves do prey, but I see it—the rage in her fingertips, the fury masked by finesse. This isn’t a performance. This is war. And every note she plays is a reckoning.
For someone. Maybe for him. Maybe for me. But as the music howls, as her eyes burn, I realize one terrifying truth: She is not here to be adored. She is here to destroy.
And God help us all—she’s beautiful while doing it.
The final note crashes into silence. And for a moment, no one breathes. Then—Applause. Roars. Gasps of awe. The ballroom detonates like she lit a fuse beneath it. She stands, slow and deliberate, and tips her chin to the room. Not a bow. Not humility. Just acknowledgment. Like a queen. Or a goddess. Or something even more dangerous. I barely hear the praise being thrown around.
“Prodigy.”
“Unreal.”
“Christ, she’s fucking magnificent.”
She is. And she’s mine. She finds me in the crowd. Her gaze catches. Snags. Holds. And then she smiles—small, smug, private. Then she turns. “Rouge.”
He steps out of the shadow near the back entrance, every inch of him sharp and waiting. “Yeah, duchess?”
“Take me back to my room, please.”
My stomach clenches. She doesn’t say the guest house. Doesn’t ask for a driver. Doesn’t even look at me. She looks athim, and saysmy room. Rouge just gives me the quickest glance, like he’s checking I’m not about to protest. I don’t. Because this is what she does. Always did. Throws the match and walks away before the flames can touch her.
