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I glance at him, my voice hesitant.“Where are we going?”

“To my apartment,” he replies, his tone calm and matter-of-fact as if that answers everything.

“You live at the hotel?”

“I do,” he says, his gaze fixed forward as the elevator hums to life.

The ride feels endless, the tension in the air coiling tighter with each passing second.When the elevator finally stops, and the doors slide open, my chest tightens at the sight of two men waiting outside.

They’re dressed in dark suits, standing tall and alert, their gazes scrutinizing as they assess me briefly before focusing back on Eamon.

Guards?My pulse quickens.Why does he have guards?

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.A harsh realization cuts through me—I don’t really know him.Not the way I thought I did.

Eamon doesn’t spare me a glance as he speaks to one of the men.“Her friend’s hosting a party in the ballroom.Get the address and arrange for her belongings to be picked up.”

The man nods without hesitation.“Yes, sir.”

I swallow hard as Eamon steps forward, his hand brushing against mine to pull me along.

The doors to his penthouse swing open, and I stop just inside, my feet planted.The space is sprawling, luxurious but not ostentatious, with sleek furniture in neutral tones and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the River Liffey.

I hesitate, suddenly unsure of myself.

“Come in and make yourself at home,” he says, his tone even as he strides toward a built-in bar along one wall.Eamon pulls out a bottle of red wine and pours two glasses, the deep ruby liquid catching the light as it swirls in the crystal.

He turns, handing me one of the glasses, his movements calm and deliberate.“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the sofa.

I take the glass, my fingers tightening around the stem as I cross the room.He waits until I settle on the soft leather before sitting beside me, his gaze steady and unreadable.

“Start talking,” he says, leaning back, his posture deceptively relaxed.

I stare at the wine for a moment, then glance up at him.“I don’t know where to begin.”

“At the beginning,” he replies, his voice low but firm.

The words stick in my throat, refusing to budge.Only after a deep breath do I manage to speak.“My name is Aoife Quigley.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I see the faintest trace of something in his eyes—recognition, maybe.

“My father was Patrick Quigley,” I continue, the words barely above a whisper.

This time, there’s no mistaking the shift in him.His brows draw together, his body going still as the name sinks in.

“You’ve heard of him,” I say softly, more a statement than a question.

Eamon nods once, his voice calm but pointed.“Everyone in our world has.”

I frown, the phrasing catching me off guard.Our world?What does he mean by that?But I push the thought aside and continue telling my story.

“I was traveling because of him,” I begin, the words careful, deliberate.“He didn’t want me involved in the Syndicate.Every time I brought it up, he shut me down.Wouldn’t hear of it.”

Eamon stays silent, his expression unreadable as I take another sip of wine.

“Instead of arguing with me, he suggested I travel.See the world,” I pause, my lips twisting into a faint, bitter smile.“He was hoping that I’d change my mind.That I’d decide a different life was better.”

“And did you?”Eamon asks his tone even.