Niamph sat quietly in the church pew, listening to the priest's solemn voice echo through the hallowed halls.
There was something comforting in the cadence of his words-something that reminded her of her mother, a devout Catholic whose faith had once shaped the rhythm of their home.
Niamph followed that same path, finding solace in the rituals and stillness of the church. It was the only place that made her feel seen, heard, and at peace. At home, her father was always too busy to notice her presence, buried under meetings and paperwork, while her stepmother and stepsister filled the silence with cutting remarks and sharp stares.
The weight of their disdain hung over her like a cold fog. And yet, in this sacred space, she could breathe. Of course, peace also came in the form of soft fur and quiet purrs-her cats, always curling beside her like tiny guardians of her soul.
Just as the priest finished his sermon, her phone vibrated gently. Aiofi. She stepped outside the church and answered with a soft, "Hello."
A bright, chirpy voice greeted her. "My sweet candy pie, I have good news for you!" Aiofi practically squealed. "The organization you perform for every month is hosting a big evening tonight. And guess what? They want you to perform. As the amazing belly dancer you are-and they're paying double!"
A wide smile broke across Niamph's face, her cheeks lifting and glowing with joy. "Oh my God, Aiofi, that's such good news!"
They chatted a bit longer, excitement buzzing between them, before Niamph ended the call. She stood in the quiet street, her emotions tangled-part sadness, part anticipation. She loved belly dancing; it was never about the money. But even as the daughter of Conor Moore, a man of influence and wealth, she had found herself dancing not just for passion, but necessity. Her father did provide her monthly allowance, but it was never enough-not with the expenses of her beloved cat sanctuary and her personal needs.
Once, she'd tried to ask for more, but her stepmother and stepsister had twisted her intentions, poisoning her father's ear with talk of frivolity and waste. So Niamph had stopped asking. She danced instead. And truth be told, it paid well. Thanks to one of Aiofi's friends who worked in the organization, landing the spot had been easier. Still, every performance was her own quiet rebellion-an elegant dance of freedom in a life that often felt like a cage.
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Niamph stepped into the grand living room of the mansion, the soft click of her shoes echoing off the marble floor. Morning light poured in through the tall windows, casting a golden glow across the room. At the long dining table sat the familiar trio.. her father, hidden behind the rustle of his newspaper, while Aira and Cara sat across from him, deep in their usual morning chatter.
She quietly made her way to the table and took her seat without being acknowledged. A few years ago, that silence would've stung. She used to feel the ache of not being called to meals, the loneliness of being invisible in her own home. But time had taught her something valuable-she couldn't keep clutching onto the things that brought her pain, not when there were other small joys in life that lit her up from within.
Aunt Jenny, the house's warm-hearted caretaker, emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of pasta-Niamph's favorite. She placed it gently in front of her with a kind smile, the aroma comforting and familiar. No one else in the house liked that particular flavor, but Aunt Jenny always made it for her anyway. Since her mother's death, she had been the only person in the mansion who showed Niamph even a sliver of affection.
But the moment of warmth was broken by the sharp clang of a spoon against a plate and the shrill voice of Cara from across the table.
"Stop serving her that oily food, Aunt Jenny," she said with a smirk. "She's already starting to look like a buffalo."
The words cut through the air, laced with cruelty, and hung there-familiar and heavy. Aunt Jenny's hands froze mid-motion, her expression flickering with restrained anger. Niamph, however, didn't flinch. Not anymore.
Niamph gently reached out and placed her hand over Aunt Jenny's, giving it a soft squeeze. Her eyes silently pleaded, Please, don't say anything. Aunt Jenny hesitated but nodded, retreating with a quiet sigh.
From the other side of the table, Aira let out a laugh-sharp and amused-as if Cara's insult had been the punchline of the year. She sipped her coffee with smug satisfaction.
"She's not wrong, though," Aira added, her tone casual but laced with venom. "Niamph, if you keep ballooning like this, no man will ever look your way. You already have freckles all over your face, and now with that big body... well, never mind."
Niamph's hand tightened around her fork, the words landing like stones in her chest. But before the silence could stretch, her father's voice cut through the air, stern and disinterested.
"That's enough now," Conor said from behind his newspaper, not even sparing a glance.
It wasn't a defense. It was a command to stop the noise.
Niamph didn't respond. She ignored the sting crawling through her ribcage, the heat pooling behind her eyes. She knew what she looked like. Freckled. Curvy. A little too soft, a little too round for their pristine world. But she also knew the taste of the pasta Aunt Jenny had made just for her-the creamy, buttery warmth melting in her mouth, comforting her in a way her family never could. So she kept eating, one quiet bite at a time, refusing to let them steal that from her too.
Aira and Cara left the room with exaggerated grace, their heels clicking against the polished floor. As they passed Niamph, they cast her the kind of glance one would give a stain on a silk dress-disgusted, dismissive.
"Hope she doesn't finish the whole grocery," Cara muttered with a snort, loud enough to sting but quiet enough to pretend innocence.
Her father, as always, remained silent. Conor folded his newspaper, grabbed his briefcase, and left for the office without a single word or backward glance.
Niamph stared down at her plate. The once-inviting pasta had gone cold. She hadn't even finished her first bite. Her appetite had withered beneath the weight of their words. With slow fingers, she pushed the plate aside.
Aunt Jenny, who had been watching from the kitchen archway, walked over and sat beside her. She cupped Niamph's face gently between her hands, her thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek.
"Sweetie," she said softly, "don't let the words of fools sting your beautiful heart. You know they always speak nonsense. Empty hearts speak the loudest."
Niamph offered a small smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "When will this end, Aunt Jenny? I'm so tired of their taunts... of being unwanted in my own home."
Jenny pulled her into a side hug, wrapping one arm protectively around her shoulders. "One day it will, my love. One day you'll be in a place where your light won't be dimmed by their shadows. But until then, you've got me. And your cats. And your dance. They don't deserve your sadness."
Niamph leaned into her, letting herself rest for just a moment in the rare warmth this house offered. Just one moment of softness before she had to be strong again.
Jenny wiped the lingering tear from Niamph's cheek and stood up with a soft hum. She walked over to the counter, scooped a fresh, warm helping of pasta, and returned to place it in front of her.
"I made this with so much love, darling," she said with mock seriousness, her hands on her hips. "Won't you eat it, just for me?"
Niamph let out a small laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time that morning. "Aunt, you're going to give me sugar with how much cream and butter you've used," she teased.
Jenny winked. "Then we'll dance it off later."
With a playful roll of her eyes, Niamph picked up her fork and took a bite. The familiar, comforting taste spread warmth through her chest-chasing away the bitter residue of earlier words. For a while, just a little while, she let herself forget everything else.
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Mikhail stepped into the grand hall, the heavy doors closing behind him with a soft thud. The chandeliers above sparkled like a thousand icicles, casting sharp light across the polished floor. His presence was commanding-tall, sharply dressed, and coldly elegant. Every conversation in the room seemed to dip a few decibels as eyes turned toward the Russian czar.
He had come to Ireland only for a few days, a brief detour in his relentless empire-building. The organizer of the country's largest equipment industry had personally invited him to the company's platinum jubilee-a gesture not many would dare to extend. But Mikhail Cozlov never did anything without purpose.At his side was Leonid.
A man in his late forties approached with an eager smile, adjusting his tie nervously. "I'm truly delighted to see you here, Mr. Cozlov," he said, extending a hand with rehearsed charm.
Mikhail's eyes flicked to the offered hand but didn't take it. He gave a subtle nod instead, his voice low and deliberate.
"But I believe you've also considered the offer I presented. As you must know... I never attend anything without a reason. Or benefit. Mr...?"
The man cleared his throat, lowering his hand awkwardly, though his professional smile didn't waver.
"Oliver. Oliver Smith."
Mikhail's gaze remained fixed, unreadable. The tension between power and politeness hung in the air like a blade balanced on a thread.
"Of course, I would love to do business with you, Mr. Cozlov," Oliver said, his voice firm but just barely hiding the tension beneath.
Mikhail smirked internally-as if the man had any other option.
"Leonid will explain the terms," he said, his tone final, already stepping past Oliver without sparing him another glance.
Leonid gave the man a cold nod, then followed Mikhail's lead with the smooth precision of a shadow.
Oliver's practiced smile faltered slightly as he watched them walk away, the weight of what he'd just agreed to settling in his gut. Doing business with Mikhail cozlov was a gamble-one that could cost him far more than money. But the rewards... those could be monumental.
He straightened his posture, exhaled slowly, and whispered to himself, "Let's hope it's worth it."
Meanwhile, Mikhail entered the VIP lounge with the calm confidence of a man who owned the room, even if he didn't say a word. He didn't need to. Power clung to him like a tailored suit-sharp, silent, and impossible to ignore.
In the opulent VIP lounge, Mikhail sat in a high-backed leather chair, his posture composed, his expression unreadable. The low hum of conversation and soft jazz filtered through the walls, but he remained detached, as though the world around him was a background hum, not worthy of focus.
Mr. Oliver Smith settled into the seat beside him, slightly adjusting his cuffs, still trying to mask the weight of nerves pressing against his composure.
"Mr. Cozlov," he began with a forced smile, "we've arranged a special performance for tonight's celebration. A dancer-very talented. I think you'll enjoy it. She's... quite amazing."
Mikhail didn't bother to look at him. He adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit and smoothed the front of his tie with calculated elegance. Not a word left his lips. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
His silence said it all: It doesn't matter to me.
Oliver cleared his throat awkwardly, turning his gaze to the stage in anticipation, silently praying the performance would impress.
Mikhail leaned back, glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside him. He hadn't come here to be entertained.
But soon, that would change.
The host stepped onto the center of the stage, his voice echoing through the grand hall.
"And now... the moment we've all been waiting for-the show-stopping final performance of the evening!"
The room dimmed. A hush fell over the audience as the lights faded into darkness, and thick, theatrical fog began to swirl across the stage. A haunting, exotic melody started to play-slow, seductive, and full of mystery.
In the VIP lounge, Mikhail remained seated, utterly uninterested. His attention was fixed on the phone in his hand, scrolling through encrypted messages about an incoming shipment from the Baltic route. The low glow of the screen reflected in his icy eyes.
Oliver, seated beside him, glanced over with forced excitement, ready to share in the moment. But his smile faltered as he noticed Mikhail's disinterest. The man isn't even looking at the stage. He seemed almost bored-an emperor in a room full of jesters.
Oliver sighed under his breath, the weight of disappointment settling in his chest. So much for impressing him.
Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the stage, where shadows were beginning to shift and a lone silhouette began to emerge from the fog.
The stage remained cloaked in fog, soft amber lights casting an ethereal glow as a lone figure appeared-her back to the audience. The shimmering fabric of her costume clung to her curves, each thread designed to tempt the eye and defy gravity. Her face was veiled, only her eyes visible-wide, innocent, yet undeniably alluring.
As the rhythm deepened, she began to move.
Her hips swayed slowly, deliberately, with a hypnotic grace. Each motion flowed into the next like water-fluid, sensual, yet never vulgar. The golden coins of her belt chimed softly with every movement, and the thin veil fluttered with her breath like silk in wind.
In that costume, with that presence, she didn't look like a dancer.
She looked like a nymph.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned to face the audience, and the spell intensified. The veil remained, hiding everything but those haunting eyes, while her body danced like fire-graceful, untamed, magnetic.
Mikhail, still scrolling through his phone, raised his eyes lazily, just to check if the performance had ended.
He froze.
The screen in his hand meant nothing now. His fingers stilled. His mind emptied. His attention was no longer his to command.
His gaze locked onto the figure on stage-entranced.
She moved as if the music bent to her will. Every curve, every sway, every flick of her wrist was a siren's call. Mikhail's jaw tightened slightly, his posture still, his ice-blue eyes darkening by the second.
It wasn't lust-it was fascination.
Obsession, waiting to bloom.
And he couldn't look away.
Niamph ran her fingers through her long, cascading hair, letting it fall over one shoulder with casual grace-a teasing, natural motion meant for the rhythm, but it struck Mikhail like a blow.
Without realizing, his jaw clenched, and so did his fist-tight, bone-white against the dark leather of the couch.
Leonid, seated beside him, shifted subtly. His sharp eyes flicked toward Mikhail, catching the shift in his energy. It was rare-almost unheard of-for anything to stir the Czar of the Bratva. But this?
This woman was unraveling something dangerous.
He opened his mouth slightly, voice low. "Mikhail..."
No response.
Mikhail wasn't blinking anymore. His gaze was locked on the stage, unblinking, unbreathing, as if to miss a single second of her movements would be a sin. His other hand gripped the edge of the seat-tighter, tighter-as if he were resisting the urge to break something, or someone.
Leonid's expression stiffened. He could see it-the glint in Mikhail's eyes that only surfaced in moments of primal possession. Not desire. Not admiration.
Mikhail's eyes moved over her body like a slow burn-tracing every curve, every flick of her wrist, every seductive sway. His breath was shallow, his thoughts consumed by the vision on stage. The veil. The sway of her hips. The hint of softness beneath the sheer fabric.
He was trying to see through it.
Trying to own the mystery behind it.
With a final, breathtaking arch of her back, Niamph held her pose-elegant, fierce, and utterly captivating. Then, as the music faded, she straightened and bowed gracefully.
The hall erupted into applause.
Thunderous, echoing claps filled the air, but she didn't linger. Without so much as a second glance, Niamph turned and disappeared into the shadows of the backstage-like a dream slipping out of reach.
In the VIP lounge, Oliver exhaled in satisfaction. "She was magnificent," he murmured, half to himself.
But when he glanced at Mikhail, his smile faltered.
The man was still staring at the stage-vacant now, swallowed in fog and silence. Yet Mikhail's eyes hadn't moved, as if the dancer were still there. As if he could will her back with sheer force.
Oliver looked at Leonid for reassurance, but the Russian's expression was unreadable.
Then he noticed Mikhail's hand.
The leather of the couch's armrest was torn clean through-ripped under the brutal grip of his fingers. The expensive material frayed under his palm, like it had been caught in the claws of something barely restrained.
Oliver cleared his throat. "Uh... Mr. Cozlov?"
The moment snapped.
Mikhail turned his head sharply, his gaze colliding with Oliver's. Ice-cold. Piercing. Dangerous.
Oliver flinched and without uttering a single word, Mikhail stood and stormed out of the lounge.
The air he left behind felt heavier.
Leonid stood a moment later, offered Oliver a tight-lipped nod, and followed mikhail out.
Oliver sat back, heart thudding.
He didn't know what just happened.
What he didn't know is that he hadn't just hired a dancer for entertainment.
He had unleashed something far more volatile.