—M.
I fold the note. Slide the map back into the envelope. Tuck it inside the lining of my coat. The piano looms in front of me, silent and waiting. But I don’t play. Not yet. Because tonight, I’m not the girl with music in her blood. I’m the thief with vengeance on her tongue.
Later That Evening: The O'Dwyer Penthouse Suite, Dublin
Thesuitesmellslikehairspray, perfume, and pressure. There’s a team here – four of them, maybe five. I’ve lost count. Someone’s curling my hair. Someone else is steaming the dress in the corner. Another is lining up makeup brushes like scalpels on the bathroom counter. All of them moving in perfect, well-trained silence.
No one asks questions. No one mentions the O’Dwyers. No one looks me directly in the eyes.Smart.I sit in front of the vanity in a silk robe—a different one now,monogrammed, dark red—and sip champagne I didn’t ask for from a flute I don’t want. My reflection stares back at me like a dare. Cheekbones sculpted. Brows carved. Winged liner precise enough to draw blood.
And on the tray beside me? The tube.That red.
The one Cillian always used to smear across my throat with his mouth. The one I wore the night I left. The one I’m wearing tonight.
They bring the dress in on a velvet hanger, steamed and gleaming like a loaded weapon. It’s red. Of course it’s red. I bought it for one reason only—to bring Cillian O’Dwyer to his fucking knees. He was always weak for me in this color. Said itmade me look like I could burn down the world and smile doing it. And maybe tonight, I will.
One of the stylists lifts the hanger with care, her eyes flicking over the deep slit, the low back, the high neckline. Her mouth twitches. She knows exactly what kind of damage this dress is meant to do. They don’t ask questions. Just help me step into it like they’re preparing me for a throne or a firing squad—I’m not sure which.
It fits like a second skin. Like sin poured into silk. I hold still while they zip me up. Hook the clasp at the nape. Smooth the sides. Add a pin to hold a wave of hair behind my ear. I swipe on the red lipstick without looking in the mirror.
I already know what he’ll see.
Then they bring out the box. Black velvet. Heavy. Marked with the O’Dwyer crest in wax. My stomach tightens. Inside—the shoes. Custom Louboutins. Jet-black patent leather with a crimson sole, the heel sharpened like a blade. My size, of course. He knows exactly how I walk, how I fall apart when I wear something dangerous.Bastard.
I step into them without a word. My foot slides in like it was made for this. For him. Then comes the smaller box. Jewelry. Not borrowed. Not bought. O’Dwyer heirlooms.
A pair of black diamond drop earrings, glinting with menace. A bracelet etched in gold, delicate vines wrapping like shackles around my wrist. And the necklace—simple, brutal. A ruby cutlike a teardrop, caged in iron. Heavy with legacy. Heavy with intention.
He wants me to wear his history like a leash. And I do. Because tonight, I am everything he made me. And he’ll see the cost of it all—glittering at my throat.
I glance at the mirror. Not to check—just to look death in the face. The woman staring back at me isn’t sweet, soft, or sentimental. She’s a reckoning in red. Painted lips. Poison eyes. Neckline like a threat. Cillian always did say I looked like sin in this color. Tonight, he’ll remember what it costs.
The suite door opens—and Rogue is there, lounging against the wall like he’s bored, like he’s waiting to make fun of me again for breathing too loud. But then he sees me. And that grin dies quick.
He straightens slowly, lips parting just slightly, like he’s caught a ghost mid-stride. They used to call meThe Siren of the Southside. Before I left. Before I broke everything that mattered. The name wasn’t given—it was earned. In silk and stilettos and blood.
Rogue doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flirt. Just offers me his arm like I’m royalty—or a curse come home to roost. I take it. He flinches almost imperceptibly. And we walk. The hallway stretches in front of us, my heels slicing through the hush like blades. Only when we near the elevator does he clear his throat and mutter under his breath—
“Christ help him.”
I smile. But I don’t say a word. The elevator doors glide open, and Rogue steps aside, letting me enter first. He follows without a word. Just stands beside me like a shadow in a suit, arms crossed, jaw set.
The doors slide shut. I watch the numbers tick down. One floor. Two. Three. The air inside crackles—thick with everything unsaid. Everything coming. He glances my way once. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. Just exhales like a man bracing for war.
Ding.
The elevator doors glide open. Rogue steps out first, scanning the corridor like a soldier on parade, but even he can’t stop glancing back at me. At the soft sweep of red silk trailing behind. At the glint of heirloom ruby at my throat.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a look. He pulls open the ballroom doors. And the room halts. No music. No chatter. No clinking glass or forced laughter.
Just silence. But not for Cillian O’Dwyer—not tonight. Forme.
I step into the golden light, one slow stride at a time, heels clicking like a countdown. Eyes track me from every corner. Mouths part. Breath holds. Because I’m not just the girl who left anymore. I’m the woman who came back.
Wrapped in fire. Dripping in legacy. Dangerous as the secrets I carry. And every last person in this ballroom knows— I didn’t come to beg.
I came to burn.
