The dim glow of the chandelier cast flickering shadows across the grand ballroom, the hum of low conversation mingling with the soft strains of a piano. Cian O'Sullivan leaned casually against the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand, his sharp green eyes scanning the room with detached interest.

And then he saw her.

She stood near the edge of the dance floor, her dark hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, the crimson dress she wore a striking contrast to the muted elegance of the crowd around her. She wasn’t like the others—there was something in the way she held herself, poised but unyielding, as if she dared anyone to come closer. Cian felt his breath hitch, an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation tightening in his chest.

He watched as she turned, her eyes meeting his across the room. They were like liquid fire, a mix of challenge and curiosity that seemed to burn through the distance between them. His grip on his glass tightened. He should’ve looked away, but he couldn’t. Something about her drew him in, made him forget where he was, who he was.

“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” murmured a voice beside him.

Cian blinked, his spell momentarily broken. He turned to see Connor, one of his father’s lieutenants, smirking knowingly.

“Who is she?” Cian asked, his voice low, almost wary.

Connor chuckled, his tone turning cold. “That, my friend, is Saoirse Murphy. Daughter of Aidan Murphy.”

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. The Murphys. The family his own had feuded with for decades, their blood feud etched into the streets of Dublin.

Cian’s jaw clenched, his pulse quickening. Of course, it had to be her. The woman who’d caught his attention like no one else before was the daughter of their sworn enemies.

But even as his mind screamed to look away, to hate her on principle, his eyes found her again. She was laughing now, her smile radiant and completely oblivious to the weight of the centuries-old hatred that should have kept them apart.