“Tea?”
“Always.”
“Grand. We can face anything with tea.”
The dress had pockets.
That was the first lie of the night.
Niamh stood in the hotel bathroom in Vancouver with her hands shoved into nothing, staring at her reflection like she might be able to negotiate a different face if she tried hard enough. The bodice was satin-smooth and too honest about ribs. The skirt fell in an elegant line that made her look like the sort of woman who attended galas on purpose rather than because her publisher had threatened to “realign her public profile” if she didn’t.
Realign. Like she was a badly hung picture.
She leaned closer to the mirror and pressed a fingertip under her left eye where her concealer had gathered in the tiniest ridge.
“Don’t crease,” she muttered. “Please. I’ve had enough men do that.”
From the other room, Declan yelled, “Mum! Ruairí’s eating toothpaste!”
Ruairí’s voice floated after, indignant. “It’s mint! It’s food!”
Niamh closed her eyes. In. Out. There was a eucalyptus candle burning on the counter that smelled like a spa and felt like mockery.
“Ruairí!” she called. “Toothpaste is not a snack.”
“It’s not a snack,” Declan agreed, always eager to be morally superior. “It’s a condiment.”
Niamh pinched the bridge of her nose. “Neither of you should be eating condiments in the bathroom.”
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Her sister’s name flashed.
ÁINE: You still alive? I’m in the lobby. Receptionist looks like she eats authors for breakfast.
Niamh typed back with one hand while smoothing down the front of her dress with the other.
NIAMH: Tell her I’m full of fibre and regret.
The phone buzzed again almost immediately.
ÁINE: Put your brave face on. Your brave, fancy face. Also the boys have created a fort out of towels and are calling it “The Da Trap”.
Niamh stared at the message. A familiar, sour tightness curled in her stomach, like a fist remembering its shape.
The Da Trap.
Of course they had.
They’d been obsessed with the concept for months in the way only five-year-old twins could be obsessed: feral sincerity, weaponised persistence, and a complete lack of respect for emotional privacy.
Some days it was sweet.
Other days it felt like someone had found a bruise and decided to see how much pain it could hold.
Niamh set the phone down and turned to the bathroom door.
“Boys,” she called, voice brightened by sheer will, “can we do a quick pre-gala check? Hair? Teeth? No… ingesting personal care products?”
Declan appeared first, solemn as a judge, wearing the little navy suit Áine had found online and declared “non-negotiable for the family brand.” His hair, dark and thick, had been smoothed to the side with a damp palm that made him look like a miniature solicitor on his way to court.
Ruairí followed behind him with toothpaste on his chin and a grin like he’d just robbed a bank.
Declan looked at Niamh, eyes scanning her dress, her makeup, the red lipstick she rarely wore because it made her feel too visible.
“You look like a princess,” he said, impressed despite himself.
Ruairí tilted his head. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“It’s a charity gala,” Niamh said. “So… sort of.”
Declan frowned, the wee accountant of the household. “If it’s charity, why does it cost money?”
“Because humans are confusing,” Niamh said honestly.
Ruairí wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing mint. “Are you going to see Da?”
Her throat tightened so fast she almost swallowed it.
“Not tonight,” she said, aiming for casual. “Tonight I’m going to smile at strangers and talk about books and pretend I don’t want to go home.”
Áine knocked once and then—because she’d never respected a closed door in her life—opened it and leaned in. She was wearing a sharp black suit and an expression that said she’d fight a stranger for looking at Niamh wrong. Her hair was in a sleek bun that made her look like she belonged in a boardroom, not in a hotel suite refereeing toothpaste consumption.
“Right,” Áine said. “Everyone decent? Everyone clothed? Everyone only mildly traumatised?”
“What is mildly,” Niamh said.
Áine’s gaze flicked to Niamh, softened for half a beat, then snapped back into place. “You look unreal.”
“I look like I’m about to be auctioned.”
“That’s the vibe,” Áine said. “Prestige with a side of panic.”
Declan cleared his throat, small and formal. “Auntie Áine, we built a fort.”
“I know,” Áine said. “I saw the towels. I have questions I don’t want answers to.”
Ruairí bounced on his heels. “It’s called The Da Trap.”
Áine’s eyes cut to Niamh.
Niamh lifted her chin, the gesture a little too defensive to be elegant. “We’re not discussing The Da Trap.”
“We’re not discussing it,” Áine echoed, and then, to the boys, “You two are staying with me and Nana Máire tonight. Mum has to go do grown-up stuff.”
Declan looked at Niamh’s dress again, as if measuring the distance between this version of her and the one who made pancakes at six in the morning with flour on her cheek.
“Do grown-ups have to do stuff they don’t want to do?” he asked.
“Yes,” Niamh said. “Constantly. It’s the main plot.”
Ruairí considered that. “That’s a bad story.”
“It is,” Niamh agreed, and kissed his hair, breathing in the warm soap smell of him. “But sometimes the side characters make it worth reading.”
Declan’s ears went pink. He pretended not to like the kiss he got anyway.
Áine checked her watch. “We need to go. The lobby’s full of people who think books are decoration and writers are exotic pets.”
Niamh grabbed her clutch—too small to hold anything useful—and her phone. As she stepped into her heels, something sharp flashed in her mind: a doorway, a suitcase, a boy at thirteen trying to be brave.
She shoved the memory back where it belonged.
Past tense. Closed chapter.
“Alright,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let’s go sell my soul for a good cause.”
Áine looped an arm through hers. “That’s the spirit. If anyone annoys you, I’ll tell them you won’t sign their book.”
“That’s violence,” Niamh said faintly.
“Strategic,” Áine corrected.
They herded the boys out into the corridor, where the hotel carpet swallowed sound and the air smelled faintly of citrus and money. Declan and Ruairí ran ahead, their polished shoes squeaking, their laughter ricocheting off soft walls.
Niamh watched them, her heart doing that constant double act of love and fear. It was easier now than it had been. It was also harder, because love made her brave in ways she hadn’t asked for.
At the lift, Áine pressed the button and leaned in.
“You alright?” she asked, low.
Niamh’s laugh came out clipped. “What is alright.”
Áine’s gaze held hers. “You don’t have to prove anything tonight.”
Niamh drew a careful breath. “My publisher thinks I do.”
“Your publisher can eat glass.”
Niamh snorted. “Tempting.”
The lift arrived. The doors opened like a mouth.
Doorways, Niamh thought, as the mirrored interior reflected her in multiples. Always doorways.
She stepped inside anyway.
The lobby was a glittering aquarium.
Light spilled from chandeliers in warm cascades, catching sequins and watch faces and expensive smiles. There was a harpist in the corner, plucking out something delicate, while servers moved like quiet ghosts holding trays of champagne and small foods that looked like art and tasted like an apology.
“Aye,” Máire said, unimpressed, “and if anyone has an opinion, they can post it straight into the bin.”
Niamh’s pulse picked up.
Áine guided the boys towards Nana Máire—already waiting near the entrance in a sensible coat and lipstick the colour of defiance. Máire took one look at Niamh and beamed like she’d just won a prize.
“Look at you,” Máire said. “Like a film star.”
Niamh kissed her cheek. “Like a hostage.”
Máire squeezed her hand. “You’re doing grand. Now go on. Go. Be famous.”
“I’m not famous,” Niamh said.
Máire lifted an eyebrow. “Tell that to the woman who asked me for your autograph at the lift.”
Niamh groaned. “That was my worst nightmare.”
“Your worst nightmare is those two,” Máire said, nodding at the boys, who were already attempting to climb a decorative plant like it had personally offended them.
Declan looked back and caught Niamh watching. He grinned, then, very deliberately, made a salute like a tiny soldier.
Ruairí copied him, less precise, more chaos. His salute turned into a wave, then into a dab.
Niamh laughed despite herself. That laugh anchored her, a small, solid thing.
Áine nudged her towards the ballroom entrance. “Go. Smile. Network. Pretend you’re not mentally writing dialogue for everyone you see.”
Niamh’s mouth twisted. “I’m always mentally writing dialogue. It’s a disease.”
“It’s a job,” Áine corrected. “And you’re brilliant at it.”
Niamh’s chest tightened at the praise. She took a breath and stepped forward into the ballroom.
A woman in a silver dress intercepted her immediately, eyes bright with recognition and opportunism.
“Niamh O’Callaghan,” she said. “Céline Park. Park Publicity.”
Niamh smiled. “Hi.”
Céline’s gaze flicked to Niamh’s clutch, her shoes, her posture. “You look incredible. Very… elevated.”
Niamh’s smile held. “Thank you. I’m dressed as someone who knows what she’s doing.”
Céline laughed. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to—”
They stopped in front of a man in a tux who had the slicked hair and polished teeth of someone who spent his life selling dreams.
“James,” Céline said. “This is Niamh O’Callaghan.”
James’s eyes widened. “The Niamh O’Callaghan? The one with the—what was it—‘breakout romance’?”
Niamh felt her smile sharpen. “Yes. That’s me. The one with the words.”
James laughed. “We love words. We’re big on words.”
“Are you?” Niamh said. “Because most people here seem big on… lobster canapés.”
James waved a hand. “Oh, you’re funny. I like that. Listen, Niamh, have you ever considered adapting your work? Streaming is desperate for—”
“More content?” Niamh supplied.
He leaned in, eager. “Exactly. And you’ve got this… Irishness. People eat that up.”
Niamh’s smile froze.
“And you’ve got such a compelling backstory,” James continued. “Single mother, self-made—”
The air thinned. “How do you know that?” Niamh asked.
James blinked. “Oh—public. Interviews. Social media. It’s all part of the brand.”
Her hand tightened on her clutch so hard the metal clasp bit into her palm.
“It’s my life,” Niamh said. “And it’s not a pitch deck.”
James held up his hands. “Of course. No offence intended.”
“None taken,” she lied.
Céline swooped in. “Niamh, darling, why don’t we get you a drink?”
Niamh nodded.
She sipped champagne. It tasted like cold apples and false confidence.
Céline leaned closer. “We control what we can. That’s the game.”
Control made something inside Niamh flinch.
A laugh rose from a group near the centre of the room, louder than the rest. Heads turned. Phones lifted.
The room shifted.
Céline’s eyes lit up. “Oh.”
Niamh’s stomach dipped. “What?”
Céline squeezed her arm. “He’s here.”
“He?” Niamh repeated.
Céline looked at her like she’d admitted she didn’t know what oxygen was. “Ciarán Kavanagh.”
Niamh’s brain stuttered.
Her throat went dry.
The crowd parted.
And there he was.
Ciarán.
Grown, tall, in a suit that fit like it had been tailored by someone who understood the architecture of his body. Dark hair, brushed back. Stubble.
He smiled at someone, then his gaze shifted and landed on her.
Niamh’s whole body went still.
The smile faltered.
He started walking towards her.
“Niamh,” he said.
“Ciarán,” she replied.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I’m everywhere,” Niamh said. “I’m an author. We multiply.”
His mouth twitched, then vanished. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“That message.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Five years ago.”
His voice was rough. “You told me never to contact you again. You said forget you exist.”
Niamh’s mouth went dry.
“That wasn’t you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I left,” he said. “And I hated myself for it. And then you vanished and I thought you didn’t want me.”
“You thought I didn’t want you.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I thought I’d ruined it.”
“You did,” she said softly.
His eyes flicked around them, aware of the watching. He lowered his voice.
“Are you safe?” he asked.
Safe.
A word she didn’t fully trust.
“Yes,” she lied. “I’m… fine.”
“Bull,” he muttered.
“Welcome back to my life,” she said. “It’s mostly bull.”
Her phone jittered against her palm.
ÁINE: URGENT. Ruairí has convinced Declan they should “find Da” tonight. They are wearing shoes. Repeat: shoes.
Niamh went cold.
“My sons,” she said, forcing the words through, “have decided to escape my family and find their da.”
Ciarán stilled. “Sons.”
“I have to go,” she said.
“I’m coming,” he said.
They ran.
Vancouver night air hit like cold water.
They reached the promenade.
“Declan!” Niamh shouted. “Ruairí!”
Two small figures near a bench by the rail.
She sprinted, crouched, hands on their shoulders.
“WHAT do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re finding Da,” Declan said.
“We stayed together,” Ruairí added.
Áine arrived, bent over, gasping. “I’m going to strategically… end both of you.”
Niamh pulled them into her, holding them too tight.
“You scared me,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Declan said quietly.
Ruairí blinked up. “Are you crying, Mum?”
“It’s the wind.”
“The wind is mean.”
Then Declan’s gaze slid past her shoulder.
Ruairí followed.
Niamh turned.
Ciarán stood a few steps back, frozen, face lit by streetlight and something raw. His breath fogged in the cold.
Ruairí whispered, “He looks like us.”
Declan’s voice went small. “Mum.”
Ciarán took one careful step forward.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Ciarán.”
Ruairí squinted. “Are you famous?”
“Apparently.”
“Do you have snacks?”
Ciarán choked.
Declan’s voice was very small. “Are you our da?”
Ciarán looked up at Niamh, eyes wide, terrified. He waited.
She worked past the sudden dryness in her mouth.
Then she nodded, once.
“Yes,” she whispered. “He is.”
Ciarán’s breath left him.
He looked back at the boys, voice shaking.
“Hi,” he said again. “I’m your da.”
Ruairí: “Okay.”
Declan nodded once, solemn.
Then Ruairí asked, “Can we get chips?”
Declan added, “Salt.”
Ciarán laughed, half joy, half grief. “Both excellent choices.”
“I’m not leaving again,” he whispered to Niamh.
“You don’t get to say that like it’s simple.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going to prove it.”
Declan reached out and took Ciarán’s hand.
Ruairí grabbed the other.
Niamh’s phone buzzed again.
She couldn’t look.
Because the reveal wasn’t just a reveal.
It was a detonation.
And detonations did not ask permission before they tore a life open.