Page 22 of Dublin Charmer
“But we wanted the world to know,” Bryan adds, his voice thick as Harper wraps her arms around his neck.
“That you’re ours,” they finish together.
The celebration flows around me. Champagne appears—Laine raises her water glass in solidarity—and toasts are made. The twins are pulled into embraces by Tag and Sean, while the women gather around Nora and Harper to admire the rings.
I stand back, nursing my drink, letting Laine’s words sink in.
The last line of defense. The quiet Quinn. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time I stopped waiting for permission to be who I already am and claim my seat at the table…however that looks.
Back in my room, I set my whiskey down and tilt my neck from side-to-side, letting off a subtle series of pops as the tension eases. The two large, curved monitors I have set up in my room glow with familiar comfort, but tonight I feel different.
Maybe it’s Laine’s words still echoing in my head, or Ginny’s rejection making me take stock, or maybe it’s the way my brothers looked at their fiancées.
Whatever it is, I’m done being the quiet Quinn.
A notification pings and I go over to my desk to check it out. Someone’s poking around my maintenance folder—the one I deliberately left exposed.
My pulse quickens as I sit down to track their movements.
“Hello, there. Back again, are you?”
Whoever they are, their code is elegant, efficient, with a signature style I don’t recognize. Well, not immediately. Truly gifted hackers almost always have a signature that traces back to them like a fingerprint. If I can figure out who has been knocking at my door, it’ll make it that much easier for me to shut them down.
I take a sip of whiskey and settle in. “Game on.”
As I watch, they try to add in a line of innocuous code that would allow them to establish a backdoor through my security protocols. “Not bloody likely.”
I counter, blocking their access while simultaneously tracking their signal. They adapt quickly, switching tactics faster than anyone I’ve ever faced.
“Impressive.” My fingers fly across the keyboard. “But you won’t get away that easily.”
For every breach they attempt, I have a countermeasure ready. It’s like a chess match at light speed.
They probe my defenses. I redirect their attacks.
They try to overwhelm my system. I split their traffic and contain it.
But damn, they’re persistent.
And creative.
Just when I think I’ve got them cornered, they slip through a gap I didn’t even know existed.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I race to patch the vulnerability. This isn’t some script jockey—this is a professional. Someone who thinks like me, who sees the beauty in the code, not just its utility.
I catch myself grinning.
Finally, a worthy opponent.
The battle rages on, lines of code blur together, but I stay focused. This is my domain. My fortress. And no one, not even this brilliant phantom, is getting past me tonight.
Then I spot it—a pattern in their attack sequence.
It’s nothing I’ve seen in person, but it’s something I’ve heard about. It’s what I was saying before about the signature. This is their fingerprint. I doubt they even realize they do it.
I don’t have time to research it now, but I know there was talk about the beauty of that pattern somewhere in one of the dark web hacker chat rooms I’m in.
But that’s a thought for later.
