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Several minutes later, the server returns with two lowball glasses, each filled with a generous pour of whiskey—dark, smooth, and meant to burn slow.

“Try it,” he urges, watching me closely.

I take a sip, letting the heat spread through me, licking a stray drop from my bottom lip.Cian’s eyes darken, his gaze lingering far too long, but he says nothing.He doesn’t have to.

I shift in my seat, setting the glass down with a soft clink.“I thought the Syndicate’s business stayed in Belfast,” I say casually, picking up my fork.

“It usually does,” he says finally, his tone easy—too easy.“But sometimes lines blur.Borders shift.And someone has to make sure everything still runs smoothly.”

“So, Ruairi sent you up here?”I probe.

Cian’s eyes stay on his plate for a beat too long before he lifts them to meet mine.“Not exactly,” he says, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.“I offered.Figured since I was coming up for the wedding anyway, I might as well make myself useful.”

He smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but there’s something behind it—something too polished.

Before I can dig deeper, he gestures toward my plate.“Eat before it gets cold.The chef here has a way with seabass, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Just like that, the conversation shifts, steered cleanly away from business and back into safer territory.

We finish the rest of the meal with wine and practiced smiles, the kind that don’t quite reach the eyes.He keeps the conversation light.Trivial stories and surface-level charm.And I let him.I know better than to press too hard all at once.Whatever Cian’s really doing in Dublin, he won’t give it up over dinner.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not watching.Listening.

The check comes and goes, and I rise from the table, already filing the evening away in my mind—every glance, every answer he didn’t give.

“One more picture,” he says, lifting his phone.“Gotta document the whole day.”

I move closer to him and pose just right, letting the warm pub lights cast a golden glow over my skin.He takes a few pictures and studies the screen for a second before showing me.

“We look good together, don’t we?”

I laugh softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.“I suppose we do.”

And we do—on the surface.Cian’s the kind of man people call distinguished.Sharp suit, clean lines, expensive taste.Conventionally handsome in a way that photographs well.But he’s much older, closer to my father’s age than mine.

I still don’t understand why Ruairi thinks this makes sense.I wasn’t looking for an arranged marriage, and I’m sure as hell not interested in being paired off for politics.

But none of it matters.

Because I’ve already made my choice.

And it isn’t Cian.

He slides his phone into his pocket, but his gaze lingers.“This is just the beginning, Aoife.”

I give him a slow smile, keeping my expression playful, but my thoughts drift elsewhere.

Eamon knows I spent the day with Cian.I told him it was strategic—an opportunity to gain trust and maybe learn something useful.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

What I didn’t tell Eamon was that Cian planned to bring me to a Syndicate meeting.And I went.

Eamon’s going to ask questions about where we went and what we did.And he isn’t going to like the answers.Even after last night, after I proved I wasn’t afraid to take control, I know exactly who Eamon is.He allowed it, let me have that moment, but that doesn’t mean he’s the kind of man to sit back and let things happen.

Eamon O’Sullivan is a man who takes.And I have no doubt he’s going to take back control the first chance he gets.

By the time we return to the hotel, night has settled over Dublin, the city pulsing with quiet energy.I’m exhausted—tired of the masks, the small talk, the game.But Cian isn’t done.