The silence stretches between us, heavy and merciless.
“Alright then… tell me about the conductor. The real story. Not the tabloids.”
I glance up, startled by the shift. “You read those?”
He laughs, low and dark. “Read them? Cillian bought every damn copy he could find and set them on fire like they insulted his mother. Threatened half the bloody city to stop printing them. You were untouchable, Siobhán. Didn’t matter what they said—you were his. Everyone knew it. They were on your side whether you wanted them or not.”
A lump catches in my throat. I look away.
“A chroí, a chinniúint”2he murmurs under his breath.
I don’t ask him to repeat it. I already know. The silence stretches. Rouge doesn’t fill it—just props his shoulder against the piano like he’s giving me time to breathe, or drown.
“The conductor,” I start, voice brittle around the edges. “I met him in New York. He was the kind of man who made you feel seen, you know? Older. Refined. Everyone respected him. I thought working with him might help rebuild my name after…” I gesture vaguely at the space between us. “After everything with Cillian.”
Rouge hums low. “Older, powerful, and emotionally unavailable. Love that for you.”
I shoot him a look. “Do you want to hear this or just get stabbed?”
“Bit of both, honestly.”
I sigh, but the tension breaks just enough for the words to come. “He wasn’t cruel. Not at first. He was charming in that weary, tragic way men like that always are. Told me he was separated. Said his wife was long gone. He made me believe him.”
Rouge’s brow lifts. “And let me guess—she wasn’t.”
I laugh, short and bitter. “Not even close.”
My fingers trace the piano’s edge, following a crack that wasn’t there before. “I remember that night clear as day. I’d had a good week—two sold-out shows, new reviews coming in, a standing ovation that actually felt honest. I decided to surprise him. Went to his condo. Had Thai food and a bottle of cabernet. Stupid little celebration before my next flight.”
Rouge murmurs, “You romantic disaster.”
I smirk without humor. “Door was unlocked. His lights were still on. And there she was—his wife. Sitting up in bed, wearing his shirt, smiling like I’d just delivered her dessert.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“She thanked me,” I say, the memory tightening my chest. “Said I’d made it easy. That I wasn’t the first, and I wouldn’t be the last. I dropped the food. Heard the bottle smash. Then I heard the cameras.”
Rouge straightens. “Cameras?”
“Across the street. In the goddamn windows.” My voice cracks. “They knew. They were waiting. Photos hit the tabloids by morning—Prodigy Pianist Seduces Married Maestro.I lost everything in forty-eight hours. Sponsors, bookings, my label deal. No one wanted me near a piano again unless I came with a public apology and a priest.”
Rouge shakes his head slowly. “That’s not a scandal, that’s an execution.”
I meet his eyes. “And the moment I hit bottom—guess who emailed me?”
His mouth twists. “Darragh.”
“Darragh,” I echo, tasting the venom of it. “So polite. Offered a lot of money for me to play just six events. That Dublin missed it’s Darling Daughter. On and on. And I fucking took it..”
Rouge exhales, long and low. “He set the whole bloody thing up.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. We both stop—same second, same realization slamming into place. I wasn’t collateral. I wasbait.
Rouge mutters something filthy under his breath, then goes quiet again. The fire crackles, the air feels colder. For the first time, I think we both understand just how deep Darragh’s game really went. “Well, fook me sideways, princess. That’s a new level of bastardry—even for Dublin.”
I almost smile. “You’re not wrong.”
He studies me for a moment, then tips his head. “So what then? When this is over—when the ledger’s done and the old man’s six feet under—are you going back to New York?”
