Page 24 of When Kings Fall

She watches as I lift the phone to my ear, my hand trembling ever so slightly. I force my breathing to slow, to mimic the sound of someone speaking through fear, giving an imaginary report. Every word is measured.

“Yes, I’m safe now,” I murmur into the phone, glancing out the window as the city lights blur past. “They were following me... but I’m on the bus now. I’m heading toward Phibsboro. Please, just let me get there safely.”

The woman gives me a small, approving nod. I meet her eyes with what I hope looks like gratitude before turning my gaze back to the window. I can feel her eyes on me, but she’s convinced. I’ve sold the lie.

The truth is, I know exactly where I need to go. Phibsboro—known to tourists as Victorian Village—has been on my mind since I first dug through the file on Tyrone Lynch. The Prime Minister’s temporary residence is nestled there, split between his luxury townhouse and the adjoining half, where he conducts his official duties. A perfect, discreet setup. I wonder how many secrets are tucked away behind those charming, old-fashioned walls.

It requires a bus change, but I manage it easily. I’ve spent my whole life calculating risks, playing invisible when I need to be. Tonight’s no different.

The closer I get to Phibsboro, the quieter the streets become. The historic charm of the neighborhood is undeniable—the red-brick houses with their iron gates, the Victorian facades that have been painstakingly preserved. I imagine what it looks like to tourists, with its quaint tea rooms and boutique shops. But I’m not here for tea.

The bus drops me off at a corner a few streets away from Lynch’s townhouse. I pull up my hood, blending into the shadows as I walk. The air is cooler here, the soft hum of the city quieter, almost peaceful if it weren’t for the tight knot in my stomach.

An Garda has a visible presence around Lynch’s residence—officers patrolling casually, but alert. They’re guarding Ireland’s Prime Minister, after all. I can't afford to be reckless now. One wrong move and I’m caught.

I sit on the bench, eyes fixed on the residence down the street. It’s a charming brick structure, the kind of place I could see myself choosing if my life had been different—if it were truly my own. There’s a warmth to it, despite the cold undercurrent running through the neighborhood tonight.

I wonder if Sophia Hughes ever sat where I’m sitting now. Did she spend hours watching that house, wondering if the maninside was capable of seeing her as more than a passing interest? Tyrone had been using this townhouse long before he became Prime Minister—back when he was still Minister of Justice. It would’ve been easy for him to keep things discreet. No official statement about his personal life, no one to answer to.

Part of his appeal was that he remained perpetually “available” to the public, unattached, keeping up the charm of a single man in power.

But Sophia… did she ever sit on this bench, hoping that the man behind those walls would one day make things real? It’s maddening not knowing. There’s no hard proof that Tyrone and Sophia were intimate, but something about it gnaws at me. There are few things that inspire murder, quite like a romance gone sour. And for all the secrets in his life, Tyrone has the kind of ambition that leaves little room for loose ends.

I’m so deep in thought, I almost miss it—the quiet presence settling beside me on the bench. The man sits so silently, so casually, that it doesn’t register at first. When I finally do notice, my muscles tense, but I don’t look at him. My instinct screams at me to bolt, to run, but something tells me not to.

I keep my gaze forward, fixed on the townhouse.

Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and steady.

“So, what’s the plan now, Selene?”

He knows my name. That could mean a lot of things—none of them particularly good or safe. I resist the urge to turn and look at him, to gauge the situation with more than just my instincts. Instead, I keep my voice steady, casual, hoping to fish for more without giving too much away.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

The stranger doesn’t miss a beat. “You got away from Diarmuid’s men. You made it all the way here. What’s your plan?”

My pulse quickens, but I force myself to breathe.He knows about Diarmuid’s men?

"I don’t know,” I admit, my words coming out more defeated than I intended.

The stranger’s tone shifts, almost amused. “You snuck off to the Prime Minister’s house and you don’t have a plan?”

Now that he says it aloud, it does sound really stupid. What was I thinking? Sitting here, staring at Tyrone Lynch’s townhouse like I’d get answers just by showing up. I’ve been driving myself insane, trapped in Diarmuid’s house, endlessly flipping through photos and notes, like they’d somehow piece themselves together.

“I guess I don’t,” I murmur, the weight of my own recklessness settling in.

The stranger makes a small, disapproving sound, a ”tsk” that feels oddly like something Diarmuid would do. He stays quiet for a moment, both of us watching the townhouse.

“They’re going to notice us staring soon,” he says finally, his voice calm. “We should leave.”

We?A spike of suspicion jolts through me, and I finally turn my head slightly, just enough to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching the house like I am, not a trace of nerves in his posture. I size him up, searching for a reason to trust—or not trust—him.

“And why,” I ask, my voice sharper now, “should I leave with you?”

The stranger shifts slightly, glancing at me for the first time. His gaze is sharp, assessing. “Look, Diarmuid’s a respectable guy. He knows his shit, runs things a lot better than his uncle ever did. But he’s too protective over you and Niamh. Always has been.” He pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I came here to fetch you. But if you’re already knee-deep in trouble, we might as well try to accomplish something.”

I narrow my eyes, studying his face for any sign of a trap. “You want to help me? Aren’t you afraid of upsetting Diarmuid?”

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