Page 39 of His Obsession

“I’m sure,” she said, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t just walking into a fundraiser—she was stepping into the enemy’s lair, wearing a wire that would transmit every word directly to Callum’s team.

Inside, the gallery buzzed with life. Guests in designer gowns and tailored suits moved through the space, their voices a symphony of polite laughter and murmured conversations. The smell of champagne and fresh flowers filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of oil paint from the exhibits on display.

Isolde forced a smile as she greeted familiar faces, her fingers tightening around the clutch that concealed the device feeding her every word back to Rory, and Walsh. Tiernan was moving through the crowd unobtrusively, keeping an eye on her. Her gaze swept the room, locking briefly on Councilman Bradford near the far wall.

As she made her way toward him, Isolde could see he was flanked by aides and sycophants, his smile practiced but cold. She recognized the sharp glint in his eyes as he turned to her, his expression shifting into one of feigned warmth.

“Ms. Fitzwilliam,” he said smoothly, extending a hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it tonight.”

She took his hand, her own grip firm despite the nausea roiling in her stomach. “I wouldn’t miss it, Councilman.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about Callum Kavanagh. I understand the O’Neill organization has taken quite the interest in your foundation.”

Her pulse spiked, but she forced her features to remain composed. “A connection my father fostered, I’m afraid. That’s part of why I’m here tonight. I thought you might have advice—or connections—to help me extricate the foundation.”

The lie slipped from her lips as easily as breathing, and Bradford’s expression flickered with something predatory. She resisted the urge to glance at the clutch that concealed the transmitting device. Quinn had told her they would find it in a cursory search, and if they used a wand, she should simply put the clutch down and step away from it. Callum’s team was listening. She had to keep him talking.

The buzz of conversation and the clink of crystal glasses created a fragile symphony in the glittering room, but none of it registered with Isolde. She sipped champagne, the bubbles tickling her throat as her eyes darted across the sea of faces. Her dress—a deep emerald silk that clung to her curves and whispered over her skin as she moved—was as much armor as it was camouflage. Tonight, she was playing a part, and her life might very well depend on how convincing she could be.

Her pulse stuttered when her gaze landed on a familiar face across the room. Deirdre Lynch.

The woman was as poised and dangerous as Isolde remembered, her fiery hair swept into an elegant knot, her dark eyes scanning the room with a predator’s precision. Deirdre stood near the edge of the crowd, her smile cool and calculating as she spoke to a man Isolde didn’t recognize. The sight of hersent a cold prickle down Isolde’s spine. Where Deirdre went, Eoin Lynch was never far behind.

Her hands clenched around the delicate stem of her glass, and she forced herself to breathe. You can do this, she told herself. But she was certain she could feel a faint vibration from her clutch, a constant reminder that every word, every move she made, was being monitored. Callum’s men were here. Walsh was watching. She wasn’t alone.

But that didn’t mean she was safe.

“I wondered if that might not be why you are here…”

“Let me assure you Councilman, I am here to support my friend Siobhan…”

Bradford nodded—all smiles. “I’m sure you are. But I did wonder with all the trouble surrounding your foundation lately, if you might have better things to do than attend fundraisers.”

Isolde took a sip of champagne to cover the tightening in her throat. “O’Neill and Kavanaugh have taken certain liberties, about which I’ve only been recently made aware. I’m sure you understand how delicate these matters can be.”

Bradford’s eyes narrowed, the mask of civility slipping just enough to reveal something colder beneath. “Oh, I understand far more than you think, Ms. Fitzwilliam.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, the buzz of champagne mixing with a sudden rush of fear. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to?” His lips twisted into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re out of your depth, my dear.”

Isolde’s heart slammed against her ribs, her mind racing as she scrambled for a response. How did he know? How much did he know?

“I—” she began, but Bradford’s hand shot out, gripping her arm with enough force to make her wince.

“Let’s have a proper chat, shall we?” he said smoothly, his smile returning as he steered her through the crowd.

The pressure of his fingers dug into her skin as he guided her toward a hallway at the back of the gallery. Isolde’s eyes darted around the room, searching for Walsh, Tiernan—anyone—but the crowd felt like a sea of strangers, their faces blending into a blur.

“Councilman,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “I don’t think this is appropriate?—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, his grip tightening. “You wanted my help, didn’t you?”

The hallway was dimly lit, the muted hum of the party fading as he led her to a heavy oak door. He pushed it open, revealing a small, lavishly furnished office. And there, sitting casually on the edge of a mahogany desk, was Eoin Lynch.

The room spun as Isolde registered his presence. Lynch was as imposing as ever, his sharp features and cold eyes cutting through her like a blade. He smiled, a predator’s grin, as Bradford shoved her inside and closed the door behind them.

“Well, well,” Lynch drawled, his Irish lilt as smooth as silk. “If it isn’t the lovely Ms. Fitzwilliam. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you properly.”

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