I stare at the floor between us. “My father was violent,” I start, slowly. “Behind the music and the champagne smiles and the press clippings… he was a cruel, hollow man. My mother tried to shield me. We’d disappear to the countryside some weekends and she’d pretend like we were just… normal. But she couldn’t hide the bruises forever.”
Rouge doesn’t interrupt. Just watches me the way only someone who’s seen blood spill for less could.
“One night, he went too far. Broke her arm. Tried to break me too. But Darragh got to him first.”
That makes Rouge blink. His brows rise a little.
“He killed him,” I say, voice flat. “Darragh killed my father. Said it was for us. Said we’d be safe.”
“You were?” Rouge asks.
“For a while. But it wasn’t safety, not really. It was a deal. A transaction. He didn’t save us out of mercy—he did it for leverage. My mother owed him, and he made sure we remembered.”
Rouge’s mouth pulls to the side. “Jesus.”
“I became payment. Dublin’s Darling Daughter. The little prodigy with the pretty fingers and the pretty smile. I played piano at his private parties. Wore the dresses he chose. Sat beside him like a fucking porcelain doll while men twice my age clinked glasses and told him what a treasure I was.”
Rouge snorts. “Bet he didn’t know who he was parading around, yeah? A siren wrapped in silk and stage lights.”
The laugh that follows is dry, sharp. It dies in the quiet like a match burning out.
I lift my chin, voice steady. “You know the rest—about me and Cillian. Darragh never truly approved. Hell, he let it happen. Thought it made him look powerful to have the Darling of Dublin wrapped around his son’s little finger.”
Rouge doesn’t even blink. “It was never about love, it was all about the leverage. You were a prodigy. The golden girl. Press darlings fawned over you, and every gala wanted your name on the bill. He kept you close because it made him look good. Made Cillian look good.”
My voice turns brittle. “But don’t get it twisted—he never thought it’d last. Thought it was a phase. A crush. It wasn’t….”
“No shit,” he mutters. “But Darragh doesn’t play by the rules.”
“I thought we’d be safe. That the war between our families had ended. But it didn’t end, did it? Darragh just… changed strategy.”
“Exactly. Took his time. Let you think you had peace. Then yanked it all away.” Rouge exhales slowly. “So that’s when it happened, yeah? The night everything went to hell?”
I nod. “The Velvet Knife.”
His brows shoot up. “That place Cillian’s father owns? Jesus, Siobhán.”
I stare past him, lost in the memory. “It was one of the private shows he insisted I play. I was twenty. My first performance back in Dublin after Paris. Darragh booked the entire club—said it would be my ‘rebirth.’”
Rouge snorts. “Sounds about right for him.”
“I played the whole set,” I whisper. “Every note. And then afterward, someone slipped an envelope into my case. No name. Just an initial.M.Inside were photos. The music room at the O’Dwyer manor. My mother’s body on the floor. Blood poolingbeneath the piano bench. The same bench I used to sit on as a girl.”
Rouge goes still.
“I knew that room,” I say. “The blue velvet curtains. The crystal decanter on the sideboard. Cillian’s family crest carved into the damn piano. And there she was—dead. A pool of red where the music used to live.” My voice shakes. “The note saidAsk him why.”
Rouge’s jaw tightens. “And you thought—”
“That he knew,” I cut in. “That he kept it from me. He’d been distant for weeks. Strange phone calls, long nights away. I thought he was protecting Darragh, covering for him. So I ran.”
“Straight to New York.”
“Straight into another trap,” I murmur. “Malachi was already waiting. Said he’d been following my career. Said he wanted to help me uncover what really happened. I was so angry. So lost. I believed him. He always just referred to himself as M. I didn’t…I didn’t know it was Malachi.”
Rouge shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath.
“I thought I was running from Cillian,” I whisper. “But really, I was running right into his father’s plan.”
