It was the summer of 2004 in London, and the world premiere of “Fragments of Glass” — the psychological thriller that had kept him occupied on set for months — represented the exact antithesis of everything Cillian deemed tolerable.

The camera flashes were an unbearable, stroboscopic storm. Red carpets were the polar opposite of his every comfort. He loathed that aspect of his craft: the vanity fair, the commodified intimacy, the obligation to smile.

He kept his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark, tailored suit, his shoulders imperceptibly tense. His jaw was set in a line of restrained impatience. His icy gaze methodically evaded the lenses, searching for a void beyond the vanity fair.

Then there was Ewa, standing exactly to his right.

He didn’t need to look at her to sense her presence. He perceived it with an almost painful lucidity: the warmth she radiated, that feline magnetism which, for months, had been eroding the foundations of his quiet existence.

Until that set, his romantic life had been a perfectly balanced equation.

Since 1996, there had been Yvonne: three years older, she embodied stability, rootedness, and the practical intelligence of one who did not need drama. A safe harbour. A rational and comforting refuge.

Ewa, otherwise, was a perfect storm. Four years younger, she possessed a subterranean fire, a feline grace, and a seductive grit that Yvonne had never approached. She shared with Yvonne the same mental independence and the same disdain for superficiality that he considered essential.

The two women were kindred spirits, but the similarities ended there.

Working in proximity to Ewa had revealed a vulnerability he never knew he possessed: a fatal attraction that struck him at both a visceral and intellectual level, confronting him with instincts he believed he could tame with his iron discipline.

Ewa was the intellectual and physical short-circuit that was slowly dismantling his unwavering self-discipline, forcing him to doubt certainties he once thought unshakable.

As another photographer shouted their names, demanding a more intimate pose, Cillian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.

Then he leaned imperceptibly toward her, closing the distance and invading that vital space he usually defended with ferocity. His Cork accent emerged low, husky, and confidential, cutting through the surrounding clamour.

“Tell me you’ve devised an escape plan,” he murmured, his tone dry but laced with that subtle, disillusioned humour he reserved for only a few.

He turned his head slightly, finally locking his eyes with hers. “Because if they yell at me to smile one more time, I might be forced to commit a felony. Alternatively, to kidnap you in search of the darkest, most inaccessible pub in this city.”