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Ruairi:You need to stop playing games, Evie.Walk away from him before it’s too late.

Aoife:Or what?

His response comes fast.

Ruairi:You’ll see just how dangerous things can get.

A threat.A promise.

Ruairi:You don’t want to test me on this.

I’m done with hiswarnings.His attempts to control me.If Ruairi thinks he can scare me into submission, he’s wrong.

He doesn’t get to decide where I go, who I trust, or who I let into my bed.Let him rage.Let him threaten.I won’t bend for him, especially not when I’ve just started to stand on my own.

My gaze flicks to my phone again, but this time, it’s not Ruairi I’m thinking of.It’s Eamon.I tap out a message, fingers steady.

Aoife:What game are you playing?Giving me time off to have dinner with Cian?

Eamon’s reply comes quickly.

Eamon:An opportune moment.You spend more time with him.I control the variables.I also wanted to see if he knew about us.

Aoife:And?

Eamon:He doesn’t.Clearly, Ruairi doesn’t tell him everything.

If Eamon wants to play games, I’ll raise the stakes.

A slow smile curls at my lips.

I slip into a deep burgundy dress—the color of temptation and defiance.The fabric hugs every curve, the hem skimming high on my thighs, daring anyone to look too long.A pair of razor-thin heels with crimson soles complete the look.Dangerous, elegant, and impossible to ignore.

When I step into the restaurant, all heads turn.But there’s only one reaction I care about.

And when my eyes find Eamon’s from across the room, I know I’ve won.His jaw tightens.His grip on his drink flexes.But he can’t do anything, or he’ll give us away.

Cian’s jaw nearly hits the floor.“No more shy and innocent tonight?”he asks, voice husky.

“I thought I’d try something different,” I say as I slide onto the seat across from him.

Cian’s practically drooling.Subtlety clearly isn’t his strength.But it’s not his attention I’m after.My eyes slip over his shoulder to the man behind him.

Eamon O’Sullivan is seething.And I’m enjoying every second of it.

Eamon

Jerry Callahan’svoice grates in my ear, his tone tinged with impatience.He’s demanding something—money, a favor, respect he hasn’t earned.I should be paying attention, should be shutting him down, but my focus is elsewhere.

Across the restaurant.

On her.

The woman wrapped in a short, red dress that clings to every damn curve.The moment she steps through the door, the entire room shifts.Conversations falter, glasses pause mid-air, and men openly stare.Murderous rage courses through me, and I force myself to take a slow sip of whiskey.I knew playing with her was like playing with fire.I just didn’t think she’d be so blatant about it.

O’Leary sits back in his chair, the picture of arrogance, like he’s already won.Then, he leans in and says something to her, and she laughs lightly.His fingers brush her hair back.Each move is calculated and intentional.

The urge to storm across the room and rip him away from the table by his collar simmers low in my chest.But I stay rooted, forcing myself to play the part.