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"Yes." He shifts toward me. "I can't change our past. But I can change the future."

A war wages inside me. He is telling me the truth while I lie to him. Each honest moment from him makes my deception worse. My mission means I have to stay Orla Kelly, the fascinated assistant and convenient lover. Yet part of me wants to match his honesty.

"Cillian," I start, my heart racing. "I need to tell you something."

He faces me, waiting.

"About my past." I pause. "I wasn’t completely honest."

His body stiffens.

"My father—" I choose words. "He worked in finance. For a company that handled Kavanagh accounts years ago."

"What was his name?"

One small truth among many lies. A test to see his reaction before risking everything.

"Thomas," I say. "Thomas Nolan."

"Nolan. The account executive from Eastern Harbor Investments."

I nod. "Yes."

"That was almost seven?—"

His phone rings. Cillian checks the screen and frowns.

"I need to take this," he says, standing. "It's Eamon."

He walks to the deck, closing the glass door. I sit motionless, my heart pounding. How much should I tell him? Where does a small truth become dangerous admission?

Through glass, I watch Cillian transform—back straightening, head raised. His voice carries faintly.

"When was that?" A pause. "What exactly is Doyle asking about her?"

My blood freezes. Detective Doyle. Questions about me. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"No. Keep it contained. Pay a visit to Walsh at the records office. Make sure those files are lost forever." Another pause. "We're coming back tonight. Have security ready at the house."

Fear grips me. Doyle promised to keep his distance while I gathered the evidence. Why risk exposing everything now? I can’t help the panic that is rising inside me, I could be in real danger—this was a terrible idea.

Cillian returns transformed. The man who shared his childhood trauma vanishes, replaced by the Kavanagh heir—calculating, dangerous, deadly and ice cold.

"We need to leave," he says, moving toward the bedroom. "Pack your things."

"What happened?" I ask, playing ignorant.

"Business emergency. I'll explain in the car."

I follow him, my mind racing through the ways to get out of this, to escape. My partial truth about Thomas Nolan is there—not enough to reveal my true identity but raising questions I can't answer if he asks me.

Fifteen minutes later, our bags are back in his car. The beach house is dark as we drive away. The connection we shared over wine and firelight disappears and he changes from man to monster right in front of my face.

I watch the passing trees while Cillian makes calls. Each instruction confirms that I am in deep shit. One detective asking the wrong questions could be the end of me.

The silencein Cillian's car grows thicker with each mile. He hasn't spoken since ending his third call, but I feel his anger like a weight. Every few minutes, his eyes flick to me, checking if I'm watching him.

I am.