I gather my gown, step out—And the world explodes in white light. Flashes go off like fireworks. People call my name. Hands wave. Christmas music blares from the speakers near the entrance.
Cillian steps out behind me and the volume doubles. We must look…cinematic. A siren in red velvet. An Irish devil in a tux. Snow swirling around us like confetti.
Cillian’s hand finds mine instantly, grounding me with a gentle squeeze. “You’re safe,” he murmurs just for me. “We’re right here.”
Rouge leads us inside through the decorated foyer, staff guiding us quickly past the crowd and straight toward backstage. The moment the doors close behind us, the noise dims, replaced with muffled applause and soft backstage chatter.
We’re ushered into my dressing room — warm light, mirrors ringed in bulbs, the faint scent of roses and powder. As soon as the door clicks shut, the weight settles over me again.
This city. This world. This future tied to ghosts and blood. I smooth the skirt of my gown, fingers trembling so slightly I hope he doesn’t notice.
Of course he notices.
Cillian crosses the room in three long strides, catching my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re thinking too loud,” he says softly.
I swallow. “I… don’t know if I can stay here.”
His eyes soften rather than break.
He brushes his thumb along my cheekbone, slow as breath. “You don’t have to decide today.”
“But the city—your people—your—”
He silences me with a kiss. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just warm. Tender. Reassuring in a way that undoes something inside me.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “No matter what you choose,” he whispers, “I’ll see you out there.”
I breathe him in. Cedar. Winter air. Something darker beneath it. He steps back, giving me one last soft smile before the stage manager knocks.
“Five minutes, Miss Kelleher.”
Cillian squeezes my hand once. Then again. Then he lets go and slips out the door.
The stage manager guides me to the wings, and the moment I step into the light—The crowd erupts. Cheers. Applause. A sea of faces rising as one.
For a breath, I freeze. Not from fear— fromfeeling.They shouldn’t love me this much. Not after everything. Not after all the secrets and blood and lies I’m still holding in my chest.
But they do. And for tonight… I let them. I glide across the stage toward the piano, my gown trailing like liquid velvet behind me.
When I sit, the bench dips slightly—warm from the lights, smooth under my palms. The keys gleam like tiny winter moons. My wrist shifts as I place my hands, and the charm he gave me glints under the spotlight. Gold. Soft.
I exhale. Lift my hands. And begin.
The first chords bloom gently, each note a warm ripple across the hall. The melody curls under my fingertips—familiar as prayer, light as snowfall.Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring — Bach
My right hand sings the line: soft, serene, like breath on a frosted window. My left hand anchors it— steady, warm, certain.
The audience leans in. I feel it. That collective hush, that shared inhale as the music threads through the room. My chest loosens. My pulse steadies.
I glance up. Cillian is on the edge of his seat, tux crisp, hair perfect, green eyes molten with something that steals my breath. He smiles. Quiet. Private. Like the music is for him alone.Maybe it is.
The shift is immediate— from sacred warmth to crystalline winter.“December: Christmas” — Tchaikovsky
My fingers move faster, brushing over the keys like sleigh bells, like ice fracturing under sunlight. The melody sparkles, bright and nimble. As I play the cascading runs, the charm on my wrist jingles softly against the ivory. A sound no one else hears. A sound that feels like a secret between me and him.
Images flicker through my mind— the snow outside, the morning gifts, his hands on my waist, his voice whisperingMo chollike a spell.
The audience sways with each flourish.I don’t. I’m anchored by the man in the front row whose gaze never leaves me.
