Page 23 of Killaney Fire

She always checks her lipstick in the car mirror before getting out, prefers to straighten her curly hair, which I'm not sure why, and my personal favorite, always pretends she doesn't see me shadowing her but quickens her pace when she knows I'm near.

Overall, the one thing that irks me is her habit of walking five feet ahead of me, even when we're in crowds, as if to prove she doesn't need me.

And that bothers me mostly because she's going to get herself killed if she keeps treating me like an inconvenience.

Because it's me who notices things. Like the man who watched her too much and then ran when he saw me. Or the car that tailed us for three blocks the other day before I ditched it.

She's completely oblivious, and that's the difference between us. She moves through the world like it owes her something. I move through it knowing it owes me nothing.

Tonight, we're at the Killaney Family Trust charity gala. It's held in a museum-like venue downtown near Boston Common. Vaulted glass ceilings, chandeliers, and cameras. The kind of place where the wealthy pretend to care about the poor while sipping champagne that costs more than the rent of the people they're here to help.

I came this morning while they were setting up. Mapped the perimeter, assessed all exits, stairwells, security personnel. Noted three blind spots. Positioned myself near the largest one.

She doesn't bother with any of that.

She just walks in like she owns the place.

And maybe she does.

The crowd parts for her as she enters. Dressed in an emerald green dress that clings to every curve, her red hair straight and styled into a low bun that exposes the sharp line of her jaw and the soft skin of her shoulders. Her smile is a weapon, and the men in their black ties, donors and politicians alike, swarm to her.

I watch from the edge of the room, blending in with the staff and security. But I see everything.

She moves through the crowd like water, fluid and adaptable. Charms a donor with a touch on the arm. Commands attention with a laugh that's too loud, too bright. Makes people feel like they're the only ones in the room. Even me, when her eyes flick across the space and lock onto mine.

Just for a second.

And then she moves on.

A man in a tailored suit approaches her, his hand drifting toward her lower back.

I step forward, uneasy at his closeness, but she sidesteps without missing a beat, turning her body just enough to avoid contact while keeping her smile intact.

I stop, genuinely surprised. She doesn't need me to protect her from men like that. It's the ones who don't care about her smile I'm here for.

She continues moving, and I shift my position, keeping her in my line of sight. As the night goes on, I start to see some of her subtle cracks.

The way her jaw tightens when someone mentions her father, like she's holding it all in. The way her fingers drum at her sides when Callum's name comes up. The way she disappears into herself for half a second before the mask snaps back into place.

At one point, she catches me watching.

She looks at me for a moment, a beat longer than necessary, then turns back to the donor without breaking stride.

Everything with her is a test.

I don't react. Just keep watching.

She knows I'm here. She knows I'm always here.

And she hates it.

An hour into the gala, she takes the stage and introduces a few people. Afterwards, she walks down the steps and stops to talk with a group of older women. She's laughing with them about something.

"Excuse me, sir," someone says to my right.

"What?" I say, looking down at the man.

"Bathroom?"