#declan o’hara x female

[rivalsispunk]

The Interview (Chapter 1 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (eventual) smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), more warnings added per chapter

Word count: 3.1k

Author’s note: Hello! Long time reader, first time poster! Please be kind but also let me know what you think! Proof read but probs still some mistakes. Not entirely canon, Declan still works for Corinium, Maud has disappeared to god knows where and the rest, well, you’ll have to read to find out :)

Chapter One: The Interview

You were going to positively kill Taggie once you returned to the Cotswolds. Only she, your closest friend since you relocated to the country after finishing your university degree six months ago, could convince you to cut your gap year short in favour of interviewing for a personal assistant job at Corinium. And, for her father, Declan O’Hara, no less.

“Oh, go on!” Taggie had pleaded with you over The Priory’s kitchen counter. “I know you’re getting bored out here. You can’t spend all of your days sitting around here, helping me peel the shite out of prawns for dinner parties.”

“Why not?” You plucked a grape from the fruit platter she’d just finished assembling for an event at Freddie and Valerie Jones’ that evening. “I happen to like spending all my time with you. Even if it does mean peeling shite out of crustaceans.” You eyed your friend with faux suspicion. “Are you getting sick of me already?”

“Of course not! I just think you’d be grand at it, that’s all, what with your journalism degree and all,” Taggie explained. “You’ve heard Daddy when he comes home. Always complaining about the sorts he’s had to interview. Plus, he already knows you. That’s ought to win you some points right there.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be all bad,” you confessed, mulling the opportunity over as you chewed through another handful of grapes. It would look amazing on your resume and you’d have a foot in the door at one of the biggest TV networks in the United Kingdom. Plus, it wouldn’t kill you to have a front row seat to Declan in all his glory every single day. You would never mention it to Taggie, but you fancied her dad a rather handsome sod.

“Say you’ll do it. At the very least, for me?” Taggie bat her thick eyelashes at you.

“Fine,” you eventually relented, a smile cracking over your face at the new possibility. “I’ll go in for an interview, but no promises. And I don’t want you convincing him of me either! I want to get this job on my own merit, okay?”

“Convince Daddy of you? Please, he already adores you.” The sentiment spread fire through your chest. Tag rounded the kitchen bench and grabbed you by the hand. “Now let’s find you an outfit! Mummy ought to have left something halfway suitable behind.”

Taggie nor Declan had said much about their absentee matriarch Maud in the recent weeks since she fled the countryside after yet another explosive argument between her and her husband. You knew better than to ask, but you could tell by the way Taggie’s shoulders sagged at the sight of her mother’s partially empty closet that her absence had a somber affect on her.

You’d only been into the main bedroom of The Priory once before, when the room was overtaken by Maud’s florally perfumes and extravagant evening gowns. This time, however, the space was so intrinsically Declan; all heady cedarwood and whisky and smoke. Shirts with patterns of plaid and tartan as well as numerous odd, natural-coloured socks were peppered across armchairs and vanities, while a stack of memoirs sat on his bedside with a full ashtray perched atop. Your heart swelled, and sunk simultaneously, at the thought of Declan being sat up here alone at night, or early of a morning, thumbing through a book while taking slow drags of his cigarette as he let himself be consumed by a life far different to the one he was currently living.

“How about this?” Taggie’s voice ripped through your daydream, forcing you away from thoughts of her father. You peered at the oatmeal-coloured dress she had retrieved from the closet, surprised that Maud owned something so…brown. You’d always known her to wear jewel tones that complimented her flaming red hair. You shook your head, and thus began a cycle of Taggie suggesting an outfit and you shooting it down. Eventually, you agreed to Taggie swapping out your creature comfort jeans and Wham! T-shirt for an old black pencil skirt that you were convinced had given you hives from the way your legs hadn’t stopped itching since you put it on, as well as a silky fuchsia blouse that stretched a little too tight over your breasts. While your friend had done a good job at assuring you that you’d fit right in at the Corinium offices, you weren’t as convinced.

The receptionists, all in latest season fashion with not a hair out of place, had looked you up and down as soon as you stepped foot in the marble foyer, snickering behind your back about your fashion fauxpas once you’d checked in. Sarah Stratton wasn’t as covert with her judgement. As you sat outside Declan’s office, waiting to be called in, Sarah outwardly guffawed when she spotted you across the floor. You’d met her several times in passing at parties and Corinium events you’d previously attended as Taggie’s plus one, and for the most part, she’d kept her observations to herself. But now, as her red heels clip across the carpet, her gaze set right on you with her matching rouge lips upturned. “I would never have expected to see you here, darling!” she coos down at you, reaching for a strand of hair that has slipped in front of your shoulder. “And playing dress ups, no less!” Another laugh tinkers out of her as she twirls your hair around her finger. “Interviewing for the assistant job with Declan, hm?”

You nod with a taut smile and try not to let her comment about you looking god-awfully out of place get to you. Sarah’s eyes shift to Declan’s closed mahogany door and tuts. “Well, good luck, sweetheart. Seems like you’ll need it with the way the rest of those interviews have panned out.”

“Oh, hop off it, Sarah!” an unmistakingly Irish voice barks from your left. Sarah jolts upright and despite the embarrassment that tinges her cheeks pink, still manages throw a sultry smile in Declan’s direction. Your posture matches her pin-straight stature as you side-eye his office. It hadn’t occurred to you that he wasn’t inside, preparing for your interview the way you had been all morning. You’d crafted your pitch of yourself perfectly, complete with ideas and suggestions for potential guests for Declan’s show, anything to set you apart, make you seem even a fraction less useless that the interviewees that came before you. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Where’s James?” he questions Sarah, alluding to the very common knowledge that she and her co-host James Vereker are having an affair. Declan makes a show of raking through his moustache - god, that moustache - then adds with a smirk, “James and better. Probably not two words that should be in the same sentence, eh?” Sarah’s smile plateaus at that, and that stiff upper-lip culture she was dying to marry into takes its place.

“I’m sure I can make myself busy, Declan. Got a show to prepare and all that. Ciao!” She doesn’t look at you again and you’re grateful that Declan starts to speak before you bumblefuck your way through the silence.

“Ciao,” he repeats once Sarah’s out of earshot . “Doubt that leech of a woman’s ever had a decent carbonara, let alone stepped foot in Italy.” he says, offering you the first genuine smile you’ve received all day. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” He swings open his office door and holds an arm out. “After you, love.”

“Thanks.”

You shuffle into the room ahead of him, completely oblivious to the way Declan’s eyes are trained on your arse in a skirt that’s familiar to him, but he’s unsure how. Right now, however, he doesn’t care, because it fits your body so magnificently, as if it were made for you. He fights to ignore the dull throb beneath his trousers while he watches you sit, the black fabric pushed to its limits as it stretches across the globes of your arse.

God, has she always been so… womanly? Declan wonders, then immediately chastises himself for leering so openly at his daughter’s best friend. Yes, she was a few good years older than Taggie, and always a beautiful girl, but he was glad his middle child had finally made a friend amid the shitshow that was the move to the country and his crumbling marriage to Maud. He didn’t need to muddy the waters with pervacious thoughts about the young lass’ curves. If only she’d shown up to his office in her usual ripped jeans and George Michael-adorned tees.

“Everything okay, Mr O’Hara? Should I sit somewhere else?” you ask when you notice Declan frozen in the doorway with a furrow etched in his brow. You immediately start second-guessing yourself and wonder if this was a bad idea after all. You can only imagine everyone else who lost out on this job before you faced that same expression. He shakes his head at you, at himself, then busies himself with straightening his maroon tie as he moves to sit behind his desk. You shift in your seat, trying to thwart of the lingering itch Maud’s skirt has buried into the back of your thigh. You think if you can wriggle just so, you can ward it off for at least the main portion of the interview. While you think your subtle movements go unnoticed by Declan because he’s perusing your resume - impressive, he’d earlier noted in black pen beside details of your internship at The Times - he’s been clocked onto your behaviour since he’d laid eyes on you across the office. Scared shitless, and he doesn’t half know that Sarah’s sneaky comments only added to it, thanks to the way you’re fidgeting with that damned skirt mere metres away from him. If Declan had any less sense in him, any less dignity, he’d have half the mind to tear it straight from your body. Of course, he decides against it and tries a less barbaric approach to settle your nerves.

“No band t-shirt today?”

Now it’s your turn for your brows to knit together. “I’m sorry?” Declan nudges his head in the general direction of your chest and your chin dips in response to see what he’s referring to. There, your vision is flanked with fluorescent pink and a tinge of flesh where the silky material doesn’t quite stretch to cover your breasts between buttons, and you silently curse Taggie for allowing you to wear something so borderline revealing at her father’s workplace. Plus, you were surprised he’d even noticed your usual attire.

“I thought it was best I grow up a bit in the clothing department if I were to go for a job at Corinium,” you confess. Declan doesn’t miss the way the swell of your breasts arch against your shirt when you take a deep breath and fold your arms across yourself. “But now I’m thinking the bright pink was a mistake.”

You peer across the expansive wooden desk expectantly, and Declan pitches his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t ask me! Fashion, clearly, is not my strong suit. All I know is, according to my girls, leaving the house with ladders in your tights is a big no-no unless you’re a gothic or Winona Ryder.”

You chuckle at that, even more so for knowing that his youngest daughter, Caitlin, would be all for half-shredded tights.

Declan looks coy as he sips from his tea. “But if it counts for anything, you look lovely.”

“Well, I should hope you think so. These are your wife’s clothes, after all.” Your confession elicits a splutter from the otherwise put together man in front of you. Tea spouts from his lips across the desk, marring your resume and any other papers with brown stains. You immediately spring into action, scanning the room for a towel, handkerchief, anything that could mop up the mess.

“Sorry, love,” Declan says quietly, thumping a fist against his chest. “Wrong pipe.”

That’s when you see it, a pocket square the same colour as his tie poking from his breast pocket. Without thinking, you lurch across Declan’s desk and pluck it from its resting place, and begin soaking up the liquid. Declan ought to help you, it’s his mess after all, but he’s frozen at the view you’ve awarded him as you lean over. Your cleavage fights against the V cut of Maud’s blouse and Declan can just make out the ripple of a black lace bra below the neckline. He can’t even imagine Maud in that outfit. Right now it’s all so you. His cock stirs at the sight and he can’t help the pained groan that bubbles up his throat.

“Stop,” he breathes in barely a whisper. You don’t, of course, you can’t hear him, and you keep wiping at the desk, your breasts bouncing with every swipe up and down.

“Christ, girl, stop it!” Declan explodes, bolting up from his chair. Thankfully, the height of his desk hides his growing bulge, but it doesn’t matter. The look of pure fear painting your face has the same effect as a cold shower. You sink back into your seat and begin spluttering apologies, that you shouldn’t have used his pocket square, that you were out of line and another dozen variations of sorry, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Declan mirrors you by returning to his chair, raking a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he states eventually. “I don’t give a dying rats arse about the pocket square. It’s just… I’m a bloody fool just standing here while you clean up after me. I can’t have you doing that. You don’t even work for me.”

Despite the shock of Declan’s outburst, you manage to muster up a bit of cheek in response. “I don’t even work for you yet,” you correct him.

Your confidence juts Declan’s eyebrows to his curly hairline and a grin cracks across his face. “Cocky little thing, aren’t ya? Go on then.. tell me why I should hire you.”

You spend the next twenty minutes talking Declan through your university studies and experience, the tension from earlier already forgotten. When Declan mentions he once worked with your media law professor, the conversation detours into the pair of you sharing stories about your experiences with the man, far too senile and set in his ways to do the younger generation any good. The rest of the interview carries on like that, you and Declan laughing and exchanging anecdotes like two friends in the pub rather than an employer vetting a potential employee. You’re about to pitch the idea of getting Farah Fawcett on Declan’s show when the office door thumps open to reveal Corinium’s managing director, Tony Baddingham, at its entryway.

“O’Hara! If you’re done with giggling like a little schoolgirl down here, we’ve got a production meeting to get to,” he bites, barely glancing in your direction. You don’t miss the roll of Declan’s tawny eyes as he waves Tony off.

“Alright, Tony. Give me five, I’m just finishing up here,” he says before introducing you by name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Baddingham,” you tell him, standing to shake his hand. He doesn’t properly look at you until your palms meet, and your spine stiffens when his beady eyes rake over you.

“One of Declan’s assistant candidates, I presume?” he wonders aloud.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’re far prettier than some of the other trolls we’ve had roll through here recently.”

“Tony,” Declan warns. The last thing he wants is another man leering at you like you’re a rite of passage for them.

“Right, well, lovely to meet you,” Tony clasps his other hand over the top of yours, careening his neck so he’s at your eye level. “Hope to see you around here. You’ll definitely be a much-appreciated addition.”

Offering a tight-lipped smile, you reserve the urge bawk in his face. You’ve worked with enough Tony Baddinghams to know his interest in you has nothing to do with your professional ability and everything to do with aesthetics. Fucking men.

For the most part, they sickened you and Declan all the same, but for the latter, he was mainly sickened with himself for wanting to pummel Baddingham for the way he was eye-fucking you. But who was he to talk? He’d been doing the exact same thing just minutes earlier.

When Tony leaves the office, he leaves the door ajar, a reminder that Declan is expected elsewhere. You’re about to ask Declan if Tony is always so…Tony, but he’s already got his briefcase in hand and is ushering you towards the door. “I have to admit, I was surprised when Taggie said you wanted to interview for this position, with you being on a gap year and all,” he confessed as you strolled out onto the office floor. “But you know your stuff. You’re bloody intelligent. Passionate. That’s rare these days.”

“Thank you, Mr O’Hara.”

“Please, call me Declan. Here, and at The Priory. Just Declan,” he smiles and you return it.

“Alright, then. Declan.”

“I’ve got to get going, but I’ll let you know about the job. There’s a couple more interviews on the books in the next few days, I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

Declan gives you a curt nod, and you start for the elevator, but you barely make it five steps before he calls you back.

“For what it’s worth, I’d be lucky to have ya here. And like I said, you look great, but I prefer the jeans and t-shirts. They’re much more…you.”

His admission sends your heart thrumming against your ribcage, and red creeps up your neck and onto your cheeks. “Thank you, Mr O’Ha- Declan,” you correct yourself. “Thank you, Declan. See you around.” You turn on your patent black heel, leaving Declan standing there with an image that’s bound to haunt him for nights to come: you in that fucking skirt.

Please let me know if you enjoyed this, and if you’re feeling generous, a lil’ reblog won’t go astray <3

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Forbidden Fruit.

That’s the thing about Declan - he always gets what he wants. It might be wrong… but it feels so right.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. use of the c word. age gap. cheating. declan’s filthy mouth needs its own warning.

word count - 2.3k

authors note - that man is a munch and I cannot be convinced otherwise. my crush on aidan turner has returned tenfold and i’m about to make it everyone’s problem. read declan’s dialogue in that gorgeous irish accent of his for the full experience.

masterlist. inbox.

You’ve fake laughed so much this afternoon that you can’t remember what your real one sounds like.

Finally breaking away from a conversation with Freddie’s wife, you swan across the garden in your sundress towards the food and drink table. You absentmindedly pick at the strawberries, hoping and praying that no one bothers you for a moment. All you need is a minute to yourself, away from all of these faux smiles and boastful exchanges.

Reaching towards a raspberry, you feel fingertips ghosting across your back quickly.

“Y’alright?”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.

“Bored out of my mind, actually.”

“You’d never know.”

“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”

He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.

“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”

“What time?”

You roll your eyes but answer anyway.

“Nine.”

“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“You usually love my stupid ideas.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”

He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.

“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”

He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.

“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…

“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”

He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”

“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.

He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.

“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”

Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.

He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.

You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.

The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hi darlin’.”

His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.

“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.

He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.

“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”

“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.

“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”

He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.

Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”

“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.

“I fucking love it.”

“Good. Bought it for you.”

He groans, grinding his hips into yours.

“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.

He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.

“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”

Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.

Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.

You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.

“Please, Dec.”

“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”

He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.

“Don’t tease.”

“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”

“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”

He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”

You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.

He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.

His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.

You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.

Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.

“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”

He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”

“I-Declan, I just-”

“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”

Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.

“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”

All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.

“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”

He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.

You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”

Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.

“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”

You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.

You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.

“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.

“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”

You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.

“It’s twenty past eight.”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.

“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”

You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.

“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.

“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”

You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.

“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”

“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”

You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”

“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”

“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”

“You’re a minx.”

He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Yes, you will.”

You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.

You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.

You don’t need Patrick asking questions at all.

a little gift for you, as promised…

@do-it-for-kicks @whytheylosttheirminds @laverna-fanfictions @graceflorence

and of course, if you enjoyed this - throw me a little reblog if you so wish… help a girl out… <3

[ladywuvly]

♱ press release (declano’hara x journalist!f!reader)

summary|| Being part of Corinium has always been a dream come true. However, when your boss, Tony Baddingham, brings on board the boisterous Irishman from the city, you realize that your once pleasant workplace is about to change for the worse. wc: 5.5k

warnings|| MDNI; 18+ content, smut, infidelity/cheating, dirty talk+swearing, size kink, fingering/oral/spanking (f!receiving), choking, unprotected sex (p!v), rough sex, bodily fluids (cum), agegap, begging, breeding;

masterlist. socials. recs.

Declan O'hara; an Irishman, determined journalist, cutthroat talk show host, loving father, and devoted husband. 

As well as the most sexy, intelligent man you'd ever met. 

The time you'd spent working at the studio, you'd never met anyone like him. Compared to him, James Vereker looked like a schoolboy, and Sebastian Burrows a child. Declan O'Hara had been more man than anyone you'd met, and it was hard to ignore. 

The way his voice carried around the office. It was earthy, his vowels were long and soft, but there was a flatness that gave it roots. You'd come accustomed to it, echoing around the building the more he tested Lord Baddingham and Cameron Cook. 

It had been New Year's Eve the first time the two of you had spoken. You were leaving early for the day, hoping to get a table at your favorite restaurant before going back to your humble abode. 

You entered the elevator turning around to press the lobby button only to be met with the front of Declan O'hara's chest. 

Taking a quick step back before you crashed straight into him, he crowded your space, pushing you farther into the elevator. 

"Floor." His voice was harsh, as it hummed in your ears. The look on his face was stern and impatient. 

"Excuse me?" You asked in confusion. 

His face relaxed and his voice softened. "Which floor, love?"

oh! "Lobby." You said quickly, stepping to the side, creating more space between the two of you.

The ride down felt awkwardly long, the tension lingering. You anxiously stood next to him. Fixing the strap of the bag slung over your shoulder and adjusting the jacket folded across your arm. 

His gaze, not leaving you as the elevator continued its descent. You definitely could feel the way his eyes shamelessly gawked at your figure. The buttons on your blouse became tighter, and the length of your skirt suddenly felt too short. 

"Declan." His name broke the silence, causing you to look over at him. His hand was stretched out toward you, waiting for your own. 

You hesitated before reaching out, and when your fingers brushed, shocks shot through your hand. You mewled out your name, followed by a "...nice to meet you".

With a nod of his head, you bitterly slipped your hand from his, letting it fall back to your side. 

Casually eyeing you up and down. His gaze raking over you, his eyes seem to betray a mixture of desire and restlessness. 

There was something so enticing about you and the more he looked at you, the more his interest piqued. All this time he'd been working here and he hadn't noticed a woman like you walking around. 

The silence dragged, and he felt the words build on his tongue. "Are you going somewhere?" He asked.

"What?" You answered, surprised he was still speaking to you. 

He chuckled deeply at your tone, leaning his shoulder against the wall, getting closer. His head turned in your direction, his gaze fixed intently upon you. 

"For New Year's, are you going somewhere?" He repeated slowly, his eyes never leaving yours once as he waited for a response. 

The lilt of his voice made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The Irish was thick and sultry on his tongue, his accent like rolling thunder.

"I was going to dinner." You answered hesitantly, unsure why he was even asking. In the soft light of the elevator, he took in the details of your face, the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you fidgeted nervously. 

You were a quiet one, most women he'd come in contact with had done anything to gain his attention. Yet you stayed quiet, reserved, shy. A woman so beautiful, so… alluring, could have easily caught his eye, yet he'd never even noticed you. "Was?"

"I'm afraid I've waited too long, missed the reservation window." You told him, and he chuckled again. That earthy sound that seemed to completely fill the space. 

Taking in a deep breath, you were suddenly encompassed by his scent, a mix of musk, and tobacco, something manly. You'd never known a man to have such a presence, the way he filled the room made you feel so small next to him. 

"Pity." He hummed, the corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile, his gaze roaming your face slowly, taking in every fine feature. "You should come by my wife's party tonight, then. She's invited the whole office, you're welcome to join." 

"Thank you, Declan. That's very kind of you." You said quietly, your eyes falling down to the floor. The butterflies in your stomach were fluttering around in a panic. 

Did he just invite you to his house for New Year's?

Your mind was still racing, unsure of how to respond. You had just met the man, but the way he was looking at you made your head feel fuzzy, and you couldn't bring yourself to say no. 

The thought of spending an evening in his presence was both thrilling and terrifying. "Of course..." You stuttered, trying to keep your voice steady. "...I'll try and make it."

As soon as the words left your lips, a satisfied smile spread across his face. "The party starts at eight o'clock." He spoke, tilting his head. 

The elevator dinged loudly, signaling that you'd reached the lobby. The doors opened slowly and Declan stepped out of the lift. "I hope to see you there." His accent seemed to make his words sound almost teasing as he said his farewell, and you felt a blush creep up on your cheeks. 

I hope to see you there…

The words echoed through your mind like a mantra.

The doors started to close, blocking him from sight, and it brought you back to reality. You quickly shot your arm out to stop them from shutting and stepped into the lobby, taking a deep breath. 

The party was in full swing, and you arrived in the midst of it all. It was a typical extravagant upper-class party, the house was lit with an array of colorful, sparkling lights. The house was filled, everywhere you looked there was a person.

You caught glimpses of unfamiliar faces, all blending together into a sea of strangers. You took a moment to look around the room, in search of that familiar head of dark chestnut hair. 

The warm ambiance of the room helped ease the tension in your shoulders, and you couldn't help but hope, looking for any sign of Declan, he wasn't a hard man to miss.

Despite the crowd, it didn't seem like Declan was anywhere to be found. You couldn't help but wonder where he was, the thought of spending the night searching for him made you anxious. 

Across the room, leaning against the wall beside his daughter's, was Declan; his arms crossed over his chest as he scanned the room with a watchful eye. His gaze roamed over your figure shamelessly, taking in the way your dress clung to you. 

Your petite frame, the way your skirt hung around your thighs, the length of your hair. There was a shyness, something timid and he fixated on your body, the way your eyes darted around the room.

A loud commotion caused everyone to turn their heads in the direction of the entrance to the living-room. A woman dressed in a bright green dress entered, riding in on a camel?! 

"Jesus christ." Declan said, the sound of his voice drawing you to him.

He stood a few feet away, dressed handsomely, his dark hair slicked back, and a hint of a five o'clock shadow on his jaw. He was wearing a crisp, tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, and a pair of trousers that hugged his muscular legs. The sight of him was almost intoxicating.

The crowd of guests parted as the woman in the vibrant green dress dismounted from the camel. Cheers erupted throughout the room as she stood there victoriously. You watched as people congratulated and welcomed her. 

Your eyes went to Declan, seeing his gaze had already made it back to you. Standing solely amongst the crowd, looking like a mouse in the center of a lion's den. 

He almost looked embarrassed, Declan could feel his shoulders tense in annoyance, a scoff escaping his lips. He hated when Maud did things like this, rightfully so when he was the one paying for it. It was one thing that had initially attracted Declan to her, but now, it felt like an old pony trick. 

He'd never understood her need for attention. There was no doubt in Declan's mind that this party was more for her than it was for their son. She was thriving off it, soaking up every last bit. He clenched his jaw, frustration building within him. 

The night pressed on. The room slowly returned to its normal pace as people continued with their conversations, drinks in hand. 

The guests now mingling together comfortably, the music softer, more gentle. The lights were dimmer now, allowing for a much more intimate setting. 

Declan, stood among the others, and his eyes caught sight of you once more. 

You were sitting on the couch, legs tucked up underneath you. A soft smile appeared on his face as he watched you, unable to take his eyes away. 

You looked up, your eyes meeting his as he approached. "Having fun?" He asked, his deep voice, gravelly and laced with whiskey. 

He gives you a charming smile as he steps closer, his gaze drifting down your figure, pausing at the low plunge of your dress before returning to your face.

Taking a seat next to you, he leaned back, his body turned towards you; his eyes drifting over your figure. 

A sly smile tugged at his lips as he watched you blush under his intense stare. He chuckled gruffly, finding your reaction endearing. The way you tried to hide your bashfulness, but couldn't help the way your body betrayed you.

He noticed the way you fidgeted nervously. It made his heart swell in his chest. He couldn't help but enjoy the effect he had on you, as your cheeks flushing an attractive shade of pink. 

The tips of your ears burned when you realized just how close he was. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on him while resisting the urge to look away.

Why the hell was he looking at you like that?

He was older than you, a man of authority and power, and yet, right now he made you feel like a shy schoolgirl with a crush. You couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at you this way, like you were the only person in the room

"I'm glad you decided to come tonight." He spoke low enough that nobody else could hear him but you. His voice rumbled in your ears, and sent a shudder through your body.

His gaze drifted down to your neck, a soft smirk forming on his lips as he watched the chill run down your spine. 

"So am I. Thank you, for inviting me ...and for the booze." 

He continued to look at you, his gaze roaming over you openly without any shame or reservation. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving your face. You were a sight to behold in this light, soft skin, wide eyes, it was almost hypnotizing. 

"You look lovely." He hummed, his eyes still wandering over you. His gaze was intense, his voice deep, and velvety. 

You thanked him softly, your breath catching in your throat when you noticed the desire in his burning gaze. His body was pressed up against you; his thighs touching yours, you could feel each breath with the rise and fall of his chest against your arm. 

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, the tension in the air thick. You tried to distract yourself, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes that made you feel like a bird trapped in a cage. 

Your heart rate quickening, and a warmth spreading through your chest. His gaze felt like a physical touch, making your skin tingle. His deep voice rolling off his tongue, the sound was like a low rumble, making your body hum with something you'd never felt before.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He asked, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, quiet, meant just for you. 

"Y-yes." You managed to stutter, your heart racing. "Quite."

"You looked a bit lost earlier." He chuckled in reply, his eyes never straying.

"Not lost." You confessed, your voice small in the presence of his dominating aura.

His eyes narrowed as he leaned closer, his body almost pressed flush against your shoulder. "Then what?" He asked, his voice now a mere whisper, deep and seductive  

His hand reached out, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, his touch linger for a moment longer than necessary. His fingertips were rough but warm, as he gently brushed the hair behind your ear.

You could feel his hot breath against your neck, his eyes fixed upon you intently, like a man possessed. You tried to maintain a sense of composure, but it was difficult when he was this close to you, his face was inches away from yours.

He was close enough that you could make out every small detail; the indentations in his lips, the faint shadow of stubble around his jawline, the way his eyes seemed to darken with each passing minute.

"I've noticed you've spent most of your evening alone." He began, his lips almost brushing your ear. 

His fingers still playing with the loose locks of your hair, his knuckles just barely grazing your skin. You felt your heart skip a beat at his touch. His hand lingered on your cheek for a moment too long, leaving your skin buzzing with electricity. 

He leaned back, his demeanor calm and collected, but a hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I haven’t been a very good host, have I?" He said softly, taking a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on you.

For a moment, the room around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in this secluded little corner. The sounds of chatter and laughter felt distant, as the world seemed to slow to a halt. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as you looked back at him. He was watching you again, his eyes boring into yours, drinking you in. Your body was alive, your skin burned where it touched his. 

He was older, more experienced, and had a presence that demanded attention. There was something dangerous about him, like a predator stalking its prey. Yet, he was charming and smooth, and there was an undeniable attraction pulling you to him. 

"Declan..." You stuttered, feeling your nerves kicking in.  

His eyes scanned your face, pausing briefly on your lips. His dark eyes seemed to look right through you, and you found yourself unable to pull away from him.

"Just hear me out..." He rushed, his hands getting comfortable as they slid down your hips, but the glimmer of his wedding band on his finger made your stomach sink. 

You stood up quickly, stumbling as your legs adjusted to the amount of alcohol you'd consumed. "No... I-I don't... you're married, Declan."

Declan watched as you stumbled, a look of surprise etched on his features. He stood up quickly, reaching out to catch you, his hands gripping your waist for stability.

He held you like that for a moment, your eyes filled a mix of fear and contemplation. His fingers tightened involuntarily against the softness of your hip. The heat from his touch burned through the fabric of your dress.

"Wait-" He spoke, his voice a deep grumble, almost primal, that made your hairs stand on end.

"Let me go..." You muttered breathlessly, trying to break free from his firm grasp. He held you tighter, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip.

He paused for a moment, his jaw clenching, his eyes flickering down to your trembling lips. He slowly let go of your waist, his hands lingering for a moment before they fell.

He still had you trapped, a few feet from the nearest group of people, the only way out was through him. His breathing was uneven, hot against your face, and the only thing you could hear was your heart thudding loudly in your ears.

"Can we just go somewhere quiet …to talk." His voice was commanding, but laced with desperation. 

You swallowed hard, the thought of being alone with him made your heart skip a beat. 

You gave him a slight nod, and his body turned, angling away from the crowd.

He slowly began making his way through the crowd, his hand resting on your lower back, gently guiding you. 

Everywhere his skin met yours left you burning, his touch sending a wave of fire through you. He led you through the room and into a hallway.

The music and chatter faded as you turned the corner, and suddenly it was just the two of you. 

Declan pushed a door open at the end of the hallway, guiding you into what appeared to be his office. You stood awkwardly for a moment, the room was small but cozy, a desk and a chair were positioned in the corner along with a leather couch.  

The glow of a lone desk lamp illuminated the room, casting dancing shadows across the walls - which were covered in framed pictures; various awards, certificates, and one lined in bookshelves.

He leaned his back against the door, and for a long moment he stayed silent, watching you. His eyes were sharp underneath the dim light, his lips parted slightly, before his jaw clenched.

He couldn't keep the desire hidden, he let his eyes roam up and down your body. The way the dress hung on your hips, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath, the way your hair fell around your face. It was enough to drive him mad. 

He looked relaxed yet on edge. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath. This time there was something different in his eyes, something you couldn't quite place. Still a mixture of desire, and frustration, but something else. 

"You're right. I'm married." He said, his voice firm, almost cold. "And I'm not trying to pretend otherwise." He began, his eyes fixated on your face.

He stepped closer, his body pressing against yours as he spoke. His hands reach out towards you again. He touched your chin, gently tilting your head back, forcing you to look at him. Your breath shuddered as his touch sent a shiver down your spine. 

Declan's brow was low, making him look almost intimidating, but his eyes remained soft, almost pleading. "I'll just say one thing?"

"It's …complicated ...bird." He spoke slowly, his voice a low rumble. "I can't tell you it's perfect ...but I'll be damned if I don't admit that I want you."

The look in his eyes was fierce, possessive almost. His eyes watched every minute reaction your body had to the way his hands held you. 

He wanted to keep you close, the way you leaned into him made his pulse race. His fingers moved from your hip, slowly trailing down the side of your exposed thigh, his touch was hot.

Your breath caught in your throat as his hand glided down your skin, leaving a trail of fire on your flesh. His words echoed in your mind, confusing you and sending your heart racing. You should be outraged, you should be pushing him away. 

Declan's mouth dropped open as you forcibly shoved him away. Your hand sting as it connected with his cheek. 

He stood there for a moment, heart hammering against his chest. His fingers brushing the red mark appearing on his cheek where you'd just struck him.

He looked at you, brow furrowed as his wild eyes searched your face, trying to gauge the situation.

Finally, he spoke from behind his hand. His voice low, almost a whisper. "I'm sorry."

The room was deadly silent, the only thing you could hear was the faint hum of music as your heart pounded heavily in your ears. 

"You're sorry?" You repeated, your voice trembling as you spoke. "You're married, and that's all you have to say?" You said incredulously, your voice shaky. "You're sorry?"

Declan's eyes are glued to yours, a mix of regret, shock and pain etched across his face. He looked almost guilty, his eyes falling to the floor.

Your breathing was heavy, your chest rising and falling quickly, a mix of anger and attraction coursing through you.

This man, this married man, had just told you that he wanted you, had just touched you in a way no man should ever touch a woman who's not his wife, and it sent pleasure through your entire being. 

He winced as you spoke, his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth. He looked at you with a mixture of remorse and hurt, you knew better, he didn't deserve your sympathy. 

Declan took a deep breath, his eyes flickering back to you. "It's not…" He paused, his voice low and rough. "…that simple." Even still, something about the way he looked at you, the way he spoke, it tugged at something deep inside your chest. 

He wearily took a step forwards, reaching ever so slowly to hold you. Only you backed away quickly, trying to put distance between the two of you. 

"That's what they all say." The words come out harsher than you intended, and you watch a flicker of pain in his eyes. 

You stumbled back against the wall as he quickly closed the distance between you. "For god's sake …it's the truth." He breathed, his pleading eyes never straying from yours. 

It was a strange feeling, to feel pity for a man who had just confessed his feelings for you. 

Yet, watching his pained expression, and the way his eyes seemed to implore you, it made your stomach twist. "That's a bit unfair, don't you think?"

Declan's body pressed against yours, trapping you against him. "Fair?" His accent thick as he spoke in a low rumble under his breath, almost like a growl. "You think I give a fuck about fair?"

Declan made the space between you completely non-existent. One hand rested on the wall beside your head, his face inches away from yours. His other moved up to your cheek, fingers tracing the side, before cupping your jaw. 

He could see the hurt, the fear, the confusion. Yet, underneath it all, he could see the heat, the want, the need in your eyes. 

He leaned forwards, his lips hovering just above yours. You swallowed hard, your mind racing. You knew he was wrong, you knew this was wrong, your body betraying you as you fought against yourself. 

His kiss made you feel unsteady. The way his hand tangled in your hair, his arm wrapped around your back kept you close to him, and his firm hold on your hip made your head fuzzy.

You breathed him in, and the soft sound of vanquish that escaped your lips filled him with pride as he savored the flavor of you for the first time.

With a hand pressed firmly against his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. The other, clutched at the wrist of his that had drawn you into him.

"You know what's unfair? How much you torture me in this dress. How I've had to hold myself back from pulling you into the nearest room just to rip it off of you ...and you want to talk about being fair?"

Declan gently turned you around, guiding you a few steps backwards until your lower back met the surface of his desk. His lips kept you quiet as you wrestled with the realization of what was happening.

Suddenly, he took you by the shoulders, spun you around, and bent you over the wooden surface. With your arms down at your sides, you felt his presence looming over you, his hands gliding down your back and across your hips.

Standing on your tiptoes, barely grazing the floor, as he pressed himself against you from behind.

You could feel him everywhere; tangling through your hair, delivering a playful smack to your backside that made you gasp, humping against your core as your skirt rose higher and higher.

"There ...now we're even." He hummed teasingly, soothing the sting by gently massaging your heated skin.

You let out a scoff, subconsciously rocking into him. A smirk played on his lips as he slowly sank to his knees.

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your skirt, his strong hands parted your thighs before he pressed his warm mouth against your panty-clad center.

You gasped his name, your back arching as you shot up from the table. Your feet nearly slip out from beneath you, threatening to send you tumbling face-first into the desk.

He stood back up quickly, keeping you from moving anymore. His face crowded your senses, his mouth was wet and hot as he buried it into your cheek.

His hand gripped the nape of your neck, as he swept your disheveled hair to one side. "You like that, birdie? You want my mouth on you, is that it? Need to get off on my tongue before you're wet enough to slip my cock into, hmm?"

Your eyes closed as you tried to take a breath, only that was a mistake.

The subtle scent of alcohol mixed with desire enveloped you; he smelt like sex and temptation.The image of him leaning in to kiss his wife goodnight, the lingering taste of you on his lips, was undeniably provocative. Scandalous and enticing, and yet you felt yourself become even wetter at the thought.

He gently pushed you back down, laying you flat on his desk, the cool wood contrasting with the warmth of your flushed cheek.

He pressed another kiss to your neck, his lips lingering, before capturing your hands and guiding them to rest beside your thighs at the table's edge.

"Sit still." He whispered softly while trailing down your body, eventually finding himself back on his knees.

His fingers danced along the edge of your panties before gently pulling them aside. Your hips fell limp against the edge of his desk, your knees buckling beneath you. His hot breath fanned across your soaked core.

His slick tongue flattened, delivering a long, tantalizing stroke, before enveloping your cunt with his mouth. His mustache rough against the tender skin of your supple thighs, igniting a searing heat that flowed like molten lava, feeding into the deep ache in your belly.

"ohmygod..." You shrieked, a hand shooting out to grip onto his hair. "Declan!"

You bit down on your lip, trying to suppress the moans that threatened to escape as he eagerly devoured every inch of you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair; you began to tug his mouth off of you, as the overstimulation became almost too much to bear.

He yanked your hands away, pinning them down, crossing your wrist over your lower back, before you felt the slip of his fingers part your wet folds. He pressing them into your entrance.

The combination of both, his fingering and his tongue prodding you open quickly sent you over the edge, and you shuttered against his parted lips. "Please, Declan ...don't stop.”

You cried out his name, as his tongue drank up the mess you made all over his mouth- which remained attentive but gentle, even once your body stopped convulsing, and you could only shiver at the overstimulation.

Standing up as quickly you could on fawn-legs, you spun around to face him. His lips met yours, as his hands found their way to your hips. Bunching up your skirt, he laid you out over his desk.

He pushed you back, his strong hands reaching up, peeling your dress off your shoulders and chest, gripping at every new part of your soft skin he exposed.

Pinning you in place by your neck, he reached down. The pinching and snapping of flimsy fabric felt raw, carnal, against your skin as he tore your panties from your body. "You like it when I'm rough with you, don't you birdie?"

His hand reached down to undo his belt, you squirmed beneath him, pulling your arms the rest of the way out of your dress. You reach for the buttons of his shirt, despite the anxious shake of your hands, meeting him half-way, after he'd rid himself of his tie.

You pushed his pants down just enough to reach inside and pull out his aching cock, swollen and eager, leaking pearls of translucent pre-cum. Gently thumbing at the tip of him, red hot and slick in your grasp as you coated him in his own release.

His hands reached for you, gripping your hips to help line himself up with your entrance, before taking your face gently in his other. A gasp escaped your lips, as the tip of him brushed against your sensitive clit while he parted your swollen cunt.

He pushed into you eagerly, and the stretch of him filling up you was thrilling. Declan caged you between him and the sturdy desk, his body like a furnace against your skin.

Your hands fell to his chest, dragging the nails of one over his shoulder, and latching onto his muscular back.

A shaky moan slipped from your lips as he delved even deeper, his tip igniting a spot you'd never been able to reach. You could feel every vein and ridge as he pulled back slowly, then dove back in forcefully.

It was tight, the sheer size of him had you second guessing your confidence, yet as the tip of his head grazed your cervix it eased the ache in your lower abdomen. Your heart races at the realization that he has completely ruined you for anyone else.

You flushed, the feeling of his body against yours was too much; the smell of his skin, the way his chest hummed against yours with every groan he released against the crease of your neck, his breath a cloud of spiced whiskey and you.

The hand gripping your hip, tangled in your hair, gently cradling the back of your head as he pressed his wet lips against yours. The pressure of his kiss and the warmth of his breath pulled the air from your lungs, instinctively parting your lips and allowing his tongue to lick into your eager mouth.

The coarse hair of his pelvis brushed against your clit, causing your eyebrows to furrow in delight. "Declan!" His name, a prayer on your lips as he leaned his forehead against yours.

"Shh, Shh, Shh..." You could feel him in your throat. Each thrust was forceful, causing the desk to shake with every merciful connection of your hips.

"Jesus ...you feel so good, birdy. Gripping me so tight, such a good girl." He mumbled breathlessly against your skin.

He couldn't stop himself from gripping onto you tighter, his nails digging into the soft flesh as his hips rut into you over and over, continuing their own steady rhythm, perfectly meeting every one of your thrusts.

The sensation is overwhelmingly intoxicating; it’s a perfect blend of pleasure and pain. You’ve never experienced anything quite like this, intertwining soft cries of bliss with whimpers of overstimulation, creating the most beautiful symphony of pleasure.

Your hands grip onto his shoulders, anchoring you as you fell apart in his hands, your hips moving eagerly, chasing that sweet moment of release.

"You're so well behaved when you finally get some cock in you."You flutter around him, his tongue teasingly tracing your pulse, your walls gripping him tightly too helpless to reply.

A gasp of delight escaped your lips as he, as he continued to abuse your sensitive cunt.

"So warm, and tight ...so good to me when you're getting what you want." He breathed heavily, his thrust remained unwavering.

"Declan, please..."

"What? What is it birdy, use your words." Declan playfully taunted, gently nibbling on your lower lip.

"P-please-oh god! Please d-don't stop ...please, I'm gonna cum."

Your hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, fingers weaving through his tousled strands as you drew him down for a searing kiss.

He silenced your moans of pleasure, your cries for him fading away as your body writhed beneath him.

It only took a few moments before he joined you. With a firm grip on your hip, he pulled you closer to him. His body stilled, pumping you full of his seed while your tongues danced together in tandem until his shoulders sagged and you began to tremble.

"You're mine now, birdy ...y'understand that."

© ladywuvly please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

[araybiaaa]

declan finds himself pining after cameron, unable to get her and their salacious tryst out of his mind despite his efforts. cameron relinquishes control as her mind wanders on declan.

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pairing: declan o’hara x cameron cook

fandom: rivals (2024)

tags: emotional cheating, fingering, jerking off, vulgarity.

notes: this is part two of in vain. whether there’ll be a part three is undecided at the moment. and here’s why: but enjoy nonetheless!

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He tries to stop thinking about her.

But his efforts are proven futile as she seemingly invaded his mind to the point where she’s all that he thinks about. He doesn’t know how it got to this point; how his infatuation and attraction became this deep, to where he can’t function properly without reminiscing on their salacious tryst.

The memory mockingly taunts him especially at night when he’s laid fully awake in bed — almost a prisoner to his insomnia and the only thing that distracts him from his troubles are the vivid memories of Cameron. Of how he felt inside of her, at how her cunt accommodated perfectly to the girth of him as he stretched her open, at the pretty little noises that she made every time he fucked all eight inches of himself inside of her, at how perfect she is. 

He found himself enticed by her; not only by her ethereal beauty but by her brazen personality. From their very first introduction, Declan was mesmerized by her — completely captivated at how strong-willed and unapologetic she was. He had never encountered someone like her; someone that frustrated him but also piqued his interest. 

She was also fucking stubborn and often made brash decisions without a seconds thought of the repercussions. But she was great at her job and possibly one of the best producers he’s ever worked with. She told him to forget about their hookup, but how could he possibly do that when she was the only thing that occupied his mind?

He groaned, palming his hands over his face as he chided himself for his petulant-like crush. It was ridiculous, pining over someone else when he should’ve been putting forth this kind of effort in repairing his marriage, especially since he knew that Cameron was still emotionally unavailable. 

But he couldn’t help it. 

He’d gotten a taste of her and immediately became addicted. Declan sighed deeply as he stared vacantly at the ceiling — usually in occasions like this when he couldn’t sleep, he’d wake Maud with a hand between her thighs and his mouth kissing feverishly at her neck. And they’d fuck slowly against the mattress until Declan exhausted himself and he was able to sleep again. 

His mind wasn’t on Maud nor was he mourning the loss of her touch that usually offered him comfort in this type of situation. It was on Cameron, always on Cameron. He murmured a low curse of frustration as he lowered his eyes to his lap where he feels the swelling of his cock twitching against the fabric of his briefs.

Was it appropriate to jerk off to thoughts of your coworker? No. But he was so fucking horny and he felt his cock aching desperately in pain for relief that he absentmindedly disregarded the moralities of his actions and roughy tugged his briefs over his hips before wrapping a hand around his cock. 

He feels weak as he succumbs to his sexual frustration but he decides that he’ll deal with that after he’s satiated his libido.

Declan licks his lips, palming his turgid cock in his hands. He brushes his thumb over the tip smearing together the precum and using it as a lubricant to slick himself up. His chest heaves in spasms, breaths come out rugged and labored through his flared nostrils, eyes squeeze shut as he firmly wrapped his fingers around the engorged flesh and tugged his hand upward in a fluid motion.

He shudders, murmuring a low “fuck,” underneath his breath as he twisted his wrist and continued the fluid tugs.

He allows his mind to wander on Cameron; imagining that it was her hands that were jerking him off instead of his own, imagining how vocal and filthy she would be as she engaged in teasing him. Declan’s hips rolled in tandem against his hands as he tugged with vigor — he pictures Cameron’s succulent pink lips around his cock sucking him until he’s completely boneless and milked dry. 

Declan’s jaw clenched as his jerking movements hastened. He spreads his legs further open, giving himself more space as he twisted and tugged at his cock. Parts of him wants to delay his orgasm so that he could keep indulging in his thoughts of Cameron but his body is desperate for a release — with him already feeling it creeping up on him in the way his abdomen clenched and toes curled in the fabric of his socks. “Cameron,” He grunts, biting so harshly on his lower lip that he tasted the salty bitterness of blood stinting from the bruise.

He stifles his moan behind pursed lips, wary of inadvertently waking his daughters who were only feet away down the hallway. He cums messily, the milky fluid skeets over his stomach and thighs and even spills a bit on the bedsheets. His body goes lax as it releases; his pulse slows and his breathing steadies as he laid there in the filth of his fluids.

…

What was Declan’s issue?

Why did he feel the need to insert himself and his unwanted opinion about her relationship with Tony? Sure, there were times where she questioned the logic behind her loyalty to him too but that didn’t give Declan the right to speak on something that he didn’t know.

She’s had enough of people doing that and usually whenever someone made an offhanded remark about it she would either disregard it with insouciance, not even bothering to respond or she would curse them out to the point where they’d cower away and refrain from ever speaking about it again.

She wasn’t embarrassed that everyone at the office knew about them, she just preferred that her business remained private. She already dealt with the struggles of maintaining space in a predominantly white and male oriented career, she didn’t need anyone making assumptions about her acquiring her position because of a man. She knows the truth of how hard she worked to get to the position of where she’s at and that she didn’t need to prove her worth to anyone. 

But for some reason, she found herself caring about Declan’s opinion. She has always respected him — even when she first met him and he made the foolish mistake of assuming she was his assistant instead of the head producer. Declan O’Hara had made a name for himself in television journalism in a way that Cameron idolized and she found herself excited that he came to their network to further it. 

Maybe that’s why she was offended when he referred to her as naive. She wasn’t naive; she knew the terms of their situation and accepted it as such. (Okay, maybe she wanted more from him — like not being limited to hotel rooms every time she wanted to go out on a date with him but still — she knew there was only so much she could get from Tony.)

Declan doesn’t know Tony. 

Not like she does. 

He cares about her and their relationship is sacred to him as it is to her. It’s important and real — and she doesn’t even know why she’s so insistent on trying to rationalize this as if his opinion changed anything. She needed to stop thinking about it, about him. 

What happened that day in the bathroom had become a distant memory. Sure, it was undeniably the best sex that she’s ever had but she knows that it would only remain as such because Declan had a wife and despite his brief moment of infidelity, she could tell that he still loved her.

But the harder she attempted to resist the more she thought about it. She sighed, turning her head as she looked over at Tony who lay sprawled out on the mattress beside her. He had fallen asleep as soon as they finished — snoring loudly in his post coital bliss.

She bit her lip as guilt ridden thoughts surfaced. When they were having sex, she found her mind wandering on Declan. 

Maybe it wasn’t fair to compare but she noticed that Tony’s kisses were different from Declan’s; not having the same vigor to where she felt breathless and weak kneed whenever he kissed her. She attempted to convince herself that it was because she was familiar to Tony’s touch so her being with someone new heightened new realizations that she wasn’t aware of. 

But even when he reached down and slid his finger over her clothed cunt — she didn’t feel the same throb of excitement that spread through her and sent avid shivers down her spine like it did that day in the bathroom when Declan touched her.

Cameron ignored the void of his touch and continued to kiss and grind against the thickness of his fingers; hoping that her arousal would begin to come. But there was this feeling of irritation that emerged instead; his fingers felt wrong. They were too callused and the pressure of his fingers irritated her skin, and he didn’t curl them deep enough to where she actually felt any stimulation.

“Let’s just get in bed,” She suggested warily after growing exasperated from her prolonged arousal, already shimmying her thong over her hips and down her thighs.

She undressed herself wanting to hasten the process.

Tony attempted foreplay — he kissed the inside of her thighs, bit at her neck and fondled her nipples until they become stout and erect. It was unceremonious when he slid his cock inside of her; there was a faint pain that spread when he stretched inside of her but that pain immediately subsided. He grabbed her by the hips, aligning their pelvises and then stroked himself inside of her in a fluid thrust.

And as Cameron laid there listening to the rugged pants of his breath against her ear, she wondered if sex with Tony was always this bad or had Declan set some unfair precedent that he had failed to meet? Whatever the answer was she knows that sex wasn’t supposed to be like this — to where she was inwardly waiting for it to be over so he could pull out of her and crawl off of her.

Tony came thick and messy and his body shivered on top of her as he panted loudly against her hair. “That was amazing,” He murmured, chuckling as he brushed her hair out of her face so that he was able to look down at her.

Cameron only nodded, pursing her lips in a tight feeble smile knowing that if she responded verbally that he would’ve been able to hear the lie in her voice.

She didn’t even cum. 

He left her frustrated and dry, inconsiderate of reciprocating the pleasure. 

(Declan would never do that.

He made sure she came twice, even encouraged it to the point of desperation.) 

Fuck. 

Why was she thinking about him again?

She needed to stop — 

She knows that she needs to. 

But then she feels herself ache at the memory of Declan being inside of her. At how full she felt at the thickness of his cock penetrating her, at now attentive and caring he was as he held her, and how he had her cuming so hard that her body trembled from the exertion.

Cameron breathed softly through her parted lips as she squeezed her thighs together, hoping that it would relieve the ache. But then she throbs and she’s choking out a soft sob at the stimulation. She looks over at Tony again, assuring that he was still in his deep slumber. 

She curses out loud, scolding at her lack of self preservation as she slides her hand underneath the elastic waistband of her underwear, descending lower until she reached the slickness of her cunt.

Her body trembles uncontrollably against the gentlest brush of her fingers against the sensitive flesh. She bites back a whimper, squeezing her eyes shut and grinds her hips against her two arousal fingers that puckered inside of her. Needing more — she reaches a hand up and palmed her breast; teasing her thumb over the flaccid skin until it swells from her touch. She’s overwhelmed by stimulation of her fingers fucking herself and the feeling of her sore breasts against her hands. 

And she moans louder, despite her efforts, when she thinks about Declan’s hands being in her place. Her pussy clenches tightly around her fingers, swallowing them whole. She’s thrusting so hard that the mattress creaks beneath her — and her earlier trepidation about not waking Tony is lost in the void as her only focus is cuming. Her back arches, mouth falls agape as she feels it pool out of her.

Her cunt flutters from the sensitivity.

She removes her hand from her underwear and releases her grip on her breast as she attempts to steady her breathing. 

Tony stirs next to her, sinking his head further against the pillow as he found himself succumbing to his exhaustion again; completely oblivious to the fact that Declan had given her the orgasm she’s been seeking all night. 

[stellamarielu]

we shouldn't

declan o'hara x female reader

summary: you probably shouldn't be stealing glances at your best friend's dad. but you DEFINITELY shouldn't be sitting on a kitchen table with him between your legs.

content: nsfw, 18+, smutty smut smut smut, age gap, best friend's dad just hits different i'm sorry

author's note: i saw a comment that said declan definitely talks you through it and i couldn't agree more. so here we are!

-------------------------------------------------------

You sit stirring the cup of tea in front of you in an effort to keep your hands busy. You had found yourself in your best friend’s kitchen on a Saturday night only she wasn’t home. So instead of spending your evening with her, you were now having a cup of tea with her incredibly dreamy father. Although this was a scenario you had dreamt about, you hadn’t come over here expecting to see Declan.

You were here because Taggie had once marveled over the local produce available at the farmer’s market held in town so you grabbed some earlier that morning with the intention of dropping it at the Priory for her. You knew going into town was a bit of a drive for the O’hara’s and you lived a block away from the market, so it was an easy task for you. You showed up at her front door expecting to hand her a bag full of veggies and were instead met by her brutally handsome father.

You hadn’t lived in town long but from the second you and Taggie met there was an unspoken friendship solidified between the two of you. The bond was most likely due to the fact that you were both twenty-something year old girls in a town full of middle-aged married couples. Nonetheless you enjoyed each other’s company. She taught you how to bake blueberry muffins from scratch and you helped her take a step back from her responsibilities and let loose from time to time. It was a win-win. 

What Taggie didn’t know was that you and her father had been shamelessly flirting with each other for weeks. 

It started with stolen glances at Declan when he would walk around the house shirtless. His broad shoulders and hair covered chest had you in a trance, so much so that it took you a minute to notice when he caught you staring. Wearing a smug expression he threw you a quick wink before walking out of the room, his small chuckle echoed in his absence and you knew you were fucked. 

Ever since that day the two of you shared many coy smirks, crude jokes and light brushes of the hands but nothing beyond that. You couldn’t deny how badly you wanted him. You knew it was wrong to think that way about your best friend’s dad. You knew it but you kept thinking about what he would be like in bed. God- you were such a bad friend. 

So now you were sitting in the kitchen of the Priory without Taggie. She had failed to mention that she had a job catering one of Valerie Jones’ parties tonight. Of course, when you realized she wasn’t home you offered to leave the groceries and head back home but Declan insisted on you staying for a cup of tea. You joined him in the kitchen watching his large hands fumble with mugs and tea bags and thinking about other places his rough hands would work well. Jesus you couldn’t even let the man perform a simple task without drooling over him. It would have been ridiculous if it weren’t for the way his lips turned up into a cheeky smile knowing you were watching his every move. The smug bastard knew the ways you thought about him and he relished in it.

“Taggie normally tells me when she has a gig.” You state still stirring your tea.

“This came up last minute” Declan stood at the kitchen counter sipping whiskey, he wasn’t much of a tea guy.

“Even I was surprised. She hasn’t been workin’ weekends as much since you’ve come into the picture” He finishes speaking taking another swig of his drink.

“You’ve somehow done the impossible task of gettin’ that girl out of the house and enjoyin’ her life on Saturday nights. I’ll forever be grateful to you for that.” He raises his drink to you causing a small laugh to leave your lips.

“Yeah well, Taggie’s a good time. I don’t think you give her enough credit” You finally stop messing with the spoon in your hand and take a small sip of the tea in front of you.

“While that may be true, I think you help her come out of her shell. You’re just so-“ he stops and just stares at you for a moment like he’s trying to think of the word he wants to say. 

“lively.” He finally says.

you smile at the adjective. 

“And vibrant and captivating” He abruptly sets his glass on the countertop and begins slowly walking in your direction.

“You’re absolutely stunnin’, you know that?”

You feel your heart begin to race as he comes to stand in front of you. 

“I keep tryin’ to push away the way you make me feel.”

“But it’s impossible to ignore when I walk into a room and immediately feel your presence. So bright and mesmerizing.”

You feel frozen by his words. You’ve played out this exact moment in your head every single night but never imagined it would come to fruition. Now Declan is standing just inches away, the tension palpable.

“Not to mention you’re always fuckin' here.” He waves his hands gesturing to the massive home you’ve both found yourself alone in tonight. “Always around remindin’ me of what I can’t have” 

The words barely come out of his mouth before you’re on your feet slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him down to you. His lips crash onto yours and he wastes no time savoring the taste of your lips. His kiss is hungry and methodical, and you think you might melt. 

He breaks away for a split second,

“We shouldn’t” he says breathless but then his lips are back on yours in an instant, showing no signs of stopping. 

“Declan. Please” You practically beg him to keep kissing you.

It must be the way you say his name because he throws any restraint he previously had out the window. Picking you up and sitting you on the kitchen table in one swift movement.

His hands find their way up your skirt lightly gripping your thighs, his fingertips drawing lazy circles on your skin just inches away from where you really wanted him to touch you. 

He leans in close whispering coarsely in your ear

“I’ve dreamt about this.” 

The attention of his lips shifts from a soft whisper to a gentle kiss right below your ear. 

“Me too” you admit.

Your voice is breathless as he continues placing kisses down your neck every now and again nipping and suckling at the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. 

“Tell me love, what is it you think about?” He says sending sweet vibrations into the crook of your neck.

“Do you think about me touchin’ ya?”

He runs his hands roughly up and down your thighs pushing your skirt up so that it’s bunched at your hips.

“Do you think about how good I could make you feel hmm?”

The words coming out of his mouth have you all but dripping between your thighs. His hands find the hem of your underwear, playing with the material between his fingertips he tugs them down your legs at a painfully slow pace. 

He pulls away so his gaze is on yours. Your foreheads meet as his hands find their way back to your thighs, carefully spreading them open just a bit more. 

“I think about it constantly” 

He takes his time trailing his fingertips up your inner thighs, so gently that the featherlight touch makes you shiver. The corner of his mouth curls into a smile knowing the effect he has on you. 

You almost squeal when you feel his pointer finger circling your entrance. He keeps it there, taunting you with anticipation.

“How your cunt would feel wrapped around my fingers” 

He lets his digit sink inside you with the slightest pressure. The gentleness of his touch contradicting his dirty words. 

Your eyes fall shut and you let out a soft moan of relief. 

The sound of pleasure causes him to add another finger. He curls them in just the right way making you grab at his forearm and whimper his name. He keeps playing at the spot that elicited such a strong response from you causing you to squirm in pleasure. 

“God you feel s’good. Your pretty little cunt squeezin’ my fingers like that. Can’t imagine how you’d feel on my cock”

You bite back a groan at his words. If he kept talking to you like this, you might cum in record time. 

He picks up the pace of his fingers, moving them at a deliciously perfect rhythm. You squeeze your eyes shut focusing on the pressure building in your abdomen. 

“Look at me love, I wanna see ya.” His voice is low and rough.

You open your eyes and it takes everything in you not to come undone at the sight. His curls falling in his face, his jaw slack, and his eyes clouded with lust.

“That’s it, s’pretty for me” 

You’re putty in his hands at this point, sitting on his kitchen table, legs spread wide, One of his hands on the back of your neck holding you steady the other inside of you. 

As if the carefully arched thrusts of his fingers weren’t enough to push you over the edge, he begins gliding his thumb over your clit. The added sensation makes your body jolt and you fight to keep your eyes open.  

His movements work together like a perfectly timed symphony and you find yourself reeling closer to the edge of ecstasy. You moan Declan’s name again, an indulgent praise, and he groans in response. You’re so close, the tension in your body is looking for release causing your thighs to clench around Declan. 

The fullness of his fingers inside of you and the constant attention on the bundle of nerves between your legs has you seeing stars. But it’s the filthy words he speaks to you that finally finish the job.

“Atta girl.”

“You’re doing s’good”

“Let go for me”

With those words you feel the tightness in your core come undone and let out one final drawn out sound of pleasure. You’re clenching and dripping and heaving and Declan is just staring. Forehead still resting on yours, breathing heavy, he softly smiles and places a gentle kiss on your lips. 

It takes a few moments for you to regain some sort of composure and then you finally speak,

“We’re fucked”

“We are so so so fucked, I can’t believe how fucked we are.” You allow your internal dialogue to spill out. 

Declan just chuckles darkly. 

“Perhaps we are.” He toys with your skirt still gathered at your hips.

“But if we’re goin’ down we might as well have a little more fun.” Chuckling through his words he picks you up off the table so your legs are wrapped around him and begins carrying you upstairs.

“If you thought I was done with ya love, you are sorely mistaken”  

my masterlist

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 1

summary: Cassie Jones thought she had it all figured out—a career built on exposing the truth, a reputation for digging where others wouldn’t, and a burning drive to make the world listen. But after a fallout with her station, the looming shadow of Crawford’s FM... She’s left with nothing but unanswered calls and a shrinking list of allies. Enter Declan O’Hara, a man she’s admired from a distance but never spoken to until now. As he steps into her life, his presence ignites more questions than answers.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension

w.c: 16k

[prologue], [here], [chapter two], [chapter three]

o1. But we could be safer, just for one day

The morning was biting, the kind of cold that seeped through layers and clung stubbornly to the skin. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and the remnants of an early frost that had yet to burn away under the pale winter sun. Cassie stepped out of the station, her boots scraping against the worn stone steps, each movement deliberate, as though bracing herself for the gauntlet that awaited.

Cassie squinted against the glare of the weak sunlight reflecting off the windows of parked cars. The cold was biting, but the sharp light stung her eyes more than the chill ever could. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, the fabric worn but comforting, even as the weight of the morning pressed down on her shoulders.

Every exhale fogged in the cold air, each one a fleeting reminder of how little control she had over the situation.

The street outside looked deceptively calm at first glance—just another morning in Rutshire. Yet, the moment she stepped outside, everything shifted.

The sound of murmurs started low but quickly grew, swelling into a wave as if the whole town had been holding its breath and now it was released all at once. Cameras snapped into focus, their lenses swinging toward her with mechanical precision. She froze for half a second, her fingers tightening reflexively around the strap of her bag.

It wasn’t fear, exactly, but… Complicated , something complicated lodging itself deep in her gut.

The flash of cameras disoriented her, each click and whirr slicing through the air like a small, deliberate insult. The noise built up, crashing into her like an ocean, drowning out everything else. Her breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively wanting to shrink, to step back, but she couldn’t. She forced herself to keep moving, step by step, as though the very act of walking could outrun their focus, could break free from the suffocating weight of their gaze.

The worst of it wasn’t the flashes of light. It wasn’t the blinding intensity of the cameras, each burst of light cutting through the air like a sharp, unwelcome reminder of her visibility. No, the worst of it was how their eyes turned toward her, narrowing like daggers, gleaming with hunger, tracking her every movement.

She could feel them at her back, their stares pressing into her skin, each one sharper than the last, more invasive. It was as if they were waiting—waiting for her to make a mistake, to falter, to give them the moment they’d been thirsting for.

Cassie could almost feel the weight of their stares like knives against her body. She tried not to imagine what would happen if she turned and met one of their eyes, if she dared to look into the crowd. She feared the pain of the blade they would drive into her, the sensation of being pierced by their judgment, their expectations, their need for her to fall apart in front of them.

She didn’t look. She wouldn’t. Instead, her focus remained ahead, her breath shallow, pulse hammering in her ears. Her feet moved forward, one step at a time, as though the act of walking could carry her away from them, from their questions, from the crushing weight of their gaze.

“Miss Jones! Do you have a statement on Crawford’s allegations?”

The voice rang out sharp, pulling her back from the thickening fog in her mind. Another flash, bright and blinding, and she flinched, her grip on her bag tightening until her knuckles ached. She forced her gaze forward, locking it on a single point—just ahead, a cracked tile on the sidewalk.

The cracked edge of it grounded her, something to hold onto in the mess of the moment, something familiar enough to cling to as she willed herself not to crumble.

“Was locking yourself in the studio worth it?”

Another voice, another flash. It felt like the cameras were multiplying, the sounds of shutters clicking so close that she could barely hear herself think. Focus, she told herself. Focus.

Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her mind. Five things you can see.

She squinted, trying to block out the flashes, trying to center herself.

Five things you can see.

The cracked pavement beneath her feet, the chipped paint on the nearest lamppost, the red scarf fluttering against the side of a woman’s coat, the white tips of her breath fogging in the cold air, the green of Freddie’s car ahead, parked just beyond the throng of reporters.

“Do you think your career is over after this?”

Cassie’s chest tightened further at the question, the implication looming over her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. Her throat constricted, her jaw clenching with the effort to hold it all in. She couldn't stop walking, couldn’t let herself falter even as the questions piled on.

Four things you can touch.

Think. Think .

Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles burned. The rough fabric of her coat rubbed against her arms with each step, a small reminder of the layers between herself and the world pressing in on her. The cold bite of the winter air sliced through the fabric of her clothing, its sharpness grounding her even as it threatened to freeze her in place. The faint warmth rising from her own breath, visible in the air, was a fragile comfort—an acknowledgment that she was still here, still breathing.

The crowd pressed in tighter. The noise only grew louder, more insistent. The cameras closed the distance, their flashes blinding. Eyes trained on her with hungry precision, demanding something from her, something she didn’t know if she could give.

Three things you can hear.

The flash of cameras was constant, a sharp rhythm that pounded against her skull. The voices, though—those were the worst. The questions, the demands, the judgment—they cut through the air like daggers.

“Miss Jones, is this the end of your time at Crawford’s FM?”

“Do you regret your actions of yesterday?”

“Aren't you the daughter of Matthew Jones?”

The noise, overwhelming, disorienting, built to a wave that crashed into her with each step she took. Every flash felt like it was aimed directly at her, a blinding light that numbed the world and forced her to squint, to retreat further within herself. It wasn’t just the flashes, though. It was the voices, the questions, the insistent demand for something from her.

She could feel it— they wanted her. They wanted her to crumble, to break down, to make a spectacle of herself. But she had nothing left to give. Nothing more to offer.

She felt herself drowning in it, the pressure to answer, to be something for them, something they could consume, a story they could shape and sell. But there was no way out. No safe place. She wasn’t a person to them. She was just a story—a body, walking through their storm of flashing lights and sharp words, an object to dissect, to feed on.

The truth, her truth, was being drowned in the noise.

Two things you can smell.

She tried to focus on something, anything, that would pull her back from the whirlpool of anxiety that threatened to swallow her whole. Focus, Cassie. You can do this.

The cold, biting air around her was sharp and raw, its chill sinking through her coat, its edge cutting deeper than it should. It was a reminder of the world outside the press—of the tangible, of reality.

But even it felt foreign now, distorted by everything else around her. The faint scent of gasoline mingled with the exhaust from the parked cars, the smell of something mechanical, something that didn’t belong to her. But it wasn’t just the smell of the cars—it was the smell of the crowd, too.

Sweat, metal, cold breath—the scent of people packed too closely, their energy seeping into her, their anxiety feeding into her own. There was something else, though, something unfamiliar that made her feel like the air itself was pressing in too tightly around her. Something suffocating, almost as if the weight of their gaze had become a physical force in the air.

One thing you can taste.

Her body reacted, a reflex that she couldn’t control, couldn’t stop. The taste in her mouth was dry, metallic, like blood, like copper. It wasn’t from any injury—no physical wound—but from the panic, from the rush of fear and overwhelm that surged in her chest and settled like a lead weight in her stomach.

It was the taste of her body’s fight-or-flight response. Her mouth was dry, and the bitter, coppery sensation settled on her tongue, warning her, something’s wrong .

But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t falter now, not with Freddie’s car just ahead. One more step, she thought. Just one more step.

And then— there it was.

The green of Freddie’s car, parked at the curb just ahead, a solid anchor in the chaos. The outline of Freddie leaning against it, arms casually crossed, waiting. His posture was relaxed, but Cassie could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes followed her.

He didn’t move toward her just yet—he knew better than that. But she could feel the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet readiness to step in if she needed him.

Freddie had always been that way. Even in moments like this—when the whole world seemed to close in around her, when every click of a camera or harsh question from the press felt like it was driving her deeper into a corner—he knew how to stay calm. He wasn’t a man who panicked, not for himself and certainly not for her.

And Cassie? She could almost feel the pull of his calmness, the way it anchored her, made the world outside his car feel distant, less suffocating.

Everytime she found themselves in those situations, she wondered if he didn’t give her these first minutes so she could try to stand her ground herself.

Perhaps the time she had screamed at him as a child when he tried to help her walk through a park truly traumatized him.

She kept her eyes on him, letting the sight of him be the only constant in the storm. She could tell he was waiting for her to reach him, not pushing, not rushing, but keeping his distance just enough to give her space to breathe. He knew the look on her face—the exhaustion, the determination not to break. He’d seen it in her before.

She wasn’t sure if it was the heaviness of the day or the sheer relief of seeing him, but the tension in her chest eased just slightly. One more step. One more.

As she neared the car, Freddie moved toward her, stepping into her path to shield her from the press that was pressing in too closely. His hand lightly touched her elbow as if to guide her, but not to hurry her.

It was almost written in his face: See? You could do it, I didn’t want to risk and get punched again.

“You good?” he asked, not so much a question but more a reassurance. He’d seen her more stressed than this, but it didn’t make seeing her like this any easier.

Cassie looked at him for a moment, her breath shallow but steadying, and she nodded, though the tightness in her chest hadn’t entirely gone. She couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she appreciated the simplicity of his gesture.

He wasn’t making her talk. He wasn’t pushing her. He just... Knew.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said quietly, as they navigated through the last of the reporters. His voice was calm, not dismissive, just steady—almost like a shield that kept the world from closing in.

When they reached the car, Freddie opened the door for her with a quiet gentleness that was far removed from the scene around them. Cassie didn’t hesitate. She slipped inside, letting the car’s quiet hum swallow the noise outside. Freddie followed her, shutting the door behind him with a definitive sound that felt like the end of something—of the chaos, of the pressure.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine was the first real sound that felt like it belonged to her world again.

Freddie kept his hands on the wheel, his grip firm but relaxed, as the quiet rumble of the car engine filled the space between them. The steady hum felt comforting, a far cry from the chaos they’d just left behind. Cassie stared out the window, watching the blur of streets pass by, the world outside still moving while hers had felt like it had frozen in place.

She was aware of the pressure building up again in her chest, that familiar uncertainty, the questions she hadn’t yet answered echoing in her mind.

The soft click of the blinker was the only interruption to the silence. Freddie glanced at her quickly, his gaze steady, his voice almost too calm.

“What was the one thing I asked you not to do?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared out the window, biting the inside of her cheek as she replayed the conversation he was referring to in her mind.

“To not blow this up?” she said, her voice reluctant.

Freddie nodded slowly, his eyes back on the road. He didn’t sound angry—just... Resigned. Like he had been expecting this.

“And what did you do?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the door. She didn’t have the energy to lie, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to face the truth, either.

She shifted uncomfortably, leaning her head back against the headrest.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” She asked back.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he gave a little grunt, his focus unwavering as they passed the familiar landmarks of the town.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again, his tone gentle but with that firm edge she knew too well.

“You know,” he started, letting the words sit for a moment before continuing, “this could’ve been a lot easier if you'd just listened. You could've avoided this whole thing.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Easier?” she repeated quietly, “You know I couldn’t just sit there and let them sweep everything I had done under the rug, Uncle. Not after what happened.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze flicked to her, then back to the road.

The hum of the tires on the road became a steady rhythm, grounding Cassie even as her thoughts threatened to spiral.

She glanced out the window again, the passing scenery blurring into a canvas of muted colors. She recognized the landmarks of Rutshire, the same streets she’d walked as a kid, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to someone else’s story.

Freddie sighed, a low sound that seemed to carry his unspoken concerns. His hands on the wheel tightened briefly before relaxing again.

“I get it,” he said, his tone softer now, “I do . But it doesn’t make it any easier. And now you’ve got to deal with the fallout. The press is going to keep circling, and you’re not going to be able to outrun them.”

Cassie’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag, the worn leather grounding her in a way she desperately needed.

“I know," she said, her voice quieter but resolute, "But I won’t just lie down and take it. If they want to turn me into a headline, fine. I just want it to be the truth.”

Freddie glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable.

“So what happens now?” he asked after a beat, his tone quieter but still steady, “What’s your plan?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of the question.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t allowed herself to. The last 24 hours had been a blur of adrenaline and consequence. She couldn’t see past the next few steps, and even those felt like quicksand.

She hesitated, her throat tightening, “I just… I don’t want Mom to know. Not yet. Please.”

Freddie let out another sigh, heavier this time.

“Cassie—she’s going to find out sooner or later. You can’t keep this from her.”

“I know,” Cassie snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling slowly before continuing, “But I need time to figure it out. I need some space.”

Freddie’s gaze softened slightly as he glanced at her again, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Please, Uncle Freddie,” she asked, “She’ll just… Freak out. I can’t deal with that right now.”

He didn’t respond immediately. The quiet in the car felt almost oppressive, the unspoken tension between them stretching thin.

“Fine,” he said, sighing one more time, “I won’t tell her. But this thing, it’s not going away. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later.”

“I know,” Cassie whispered, her words barely audible, “But not yet.”

The conversation lulled, the hum of the tires filling the space again. Cassie leaned back in her seat, her body heavy with exhaustion. The familiar sight of her father’s house came into view, and for a moment, a wave of nostalgia and grief washed over her.

It had been years since she’d been back—since it had been anything but a memory she tried to keep at arm’s length. But now, it was all she had left for a couple of months.

Freddie pulled into the driveway, the car slowing to a stop. Cassie glanced over at him, his jaw tight, his expression set in that familiar way that reminded her of how he’d always been: protective, steady, the kind of presence she could rely on even when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

“Thanks for bailing me out,” she said, her voice softer now.

Freddie’s lips twitched into a small smile, but his eyes were still focused ahead.

“You’re lucky I was already there and the one who got the call, kid. If it had been your mom, you’d be locked down tighter than Fort Knox for the next week.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, though the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ll take my chances with you.”

Freddie shut off the engine and leaned back in his seat, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, let’s just hope the next ‘incident’ doesn’t involve a higher bail, alright?” he lifted his brows, a funny smile adorning his face, “For now, let’s get you inside.”

The click of the car doors broke the stillness, and Cassie stepped out, her boots crunching against the gravel. The air was crisp and sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp earth from the recent rain. She tugged her coat closer, her breath visible in the chilly morning light as she took in the surroundings.

The house looked much the same as it had for the past few months since she’d moved in—though a little too neat now, suspiciously so .

The front porch, which had once been stacked with deliveries and odds and ends she hadn’t yet unpacked, was clear. The flowerbeds on either side of the walkway, previously overrun with weeds she hadn’t bothered to tackle, had been trimmed and tidied, the soil freshly turned. Even the small patch of grass in front of the house, which she had ignored in favor of her work, had been cut with a precision she could never have mustered.

Her little witch house , how Bas liked so much of calling it, was a witch house no more.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in.

“Wait a second,” she followed Freddie toward the door, “You’ve been here, haven’t you?”

“I might’ve stopped by,” he said nonchalantly, “Didn’t think you’d want to come home to a mess.”

Cassie’s gaze darted to the freshly swept porch and then back to him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant gratitude. He wasn’t wrong—coming home to overgrown chaos would’ve made the day feel even worse. It was already getting her nervous: the chaos and her lack of time to take care of it.

Now that she was unemployed, time wouldn’t be lacking! Ha-ha!

“You’re right,” she admitted begrudgingly, crossing her arms, “But still…” She let the words trail off, “How thorough were you? Please tell me you didn’t drag her into this.”

Freddie turned to face her fully this time, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

“Her?” he asked, his tone deliberately teasing.

Cassie groaned, her arms tightening across her chest.

“You know who,” she replied, her voice dry, “If I walk in and find that wife of yours, I’m kicking you both out. No offense, but I really don’t like her. What’s the problem with eating—”

She stopped mid-sentence as she unlocked the front door and opened it, her words dying on her lips. Standing in the living room, a teacup balanced effortlessly in one hand, was Lizzie Vereker.

Lizzie’s presence filled the room effortlessly, as it always did.

She had a certain poise that was hard to define—an air of effortless elegance mixed with sharp wit. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place, and her fitted jacket and boots suggested she had walked straight out of a glossy magazine but didn’t care enough to admit it.

“Cassie,” Lizzie raised her teacup in greeting, “Welcome home.”

Cassie blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before her expression softened into a wide smile. The tension in her shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

“Oh, Lizzie!” she exclaimed, her tone immediately warmer, “So good to see you!”

Lizzie stepped forward gracefully, her movements fluid, as if the chaos of the world outside the house couldn’t touch her. She stopped just short of Cassie, her eyes flickering with humor as she surveyed her.

“And you,” Lizzie replied, her voice carrying that natural lilt of amusement Cassie had always liked about her, “Though I imagine this isn’t the time, I must say, I loved everything you said yesterday. It takes some courage, that’s for sure.”

Cassie’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of the day creeping back into her mind. She opened her mouth to respond, but Freddie cut in from the doorway, where he leaned with arms crossed, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Oh, don’t encourage her, Lizzie,” Freddie said with a grin, “She’ll think storming a studio and locking herself in was part of some grand plan.”

Cassie turned, raising an eyebrow at him, grinning herself, “And wasn’t it?”

Freddie snorted, shaking his head.

“If by ‘plan,’ you mean dragging me out of bed at some ungodly hour to try to intercept you,” Freddie said, his voice tinged with dry humor, “Failing spectacularly , and then having to bail you out— sure , let’s call it that.”

Lizzie chuckled, her eyes darting between them as if she were watching a particularly entertaining play. She took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk growing.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but unmistakably sharp, “if it was a plan, I’d say it worked. You’ve certainly got people talking.”

Cassie groaned softly, raking a hand through her hair, the tension in her body apparent.

“Yeah, talking about whether I’ve completely lost my mind.”

Lizzie didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she turned gracefully and gestured toward the living room.

“Come on, then,” she said, moving toward the small table set with a teapot and two extra cups, “Let’s get off our feet. You both look like you could use this more than me.”

Freddie followed without hesitation, while Cassie lingered for a moment, watching Lizzie’s movements. She was always so effortless, so deliberate in everything she did, as though every small gesture had its own purpose.

By the time Cassie joined them, Lizzie had already poured tea into the two remaining cups. She handed Freddie his first, then turned to Cassie, pressing the warm porcelain into her hands with a small smile.

“Drink,” she said, raising her own teacup slightly, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

Cassie took a cautious sip, the warmth of the tea spreading through her palms and easing the edge of the cold still clinging to her. She watched as Lizzie raised her cup again, her movements almost ceremonial.

“A touch of madness is underrated, Cassie,” Lizzie said, her voice quieter now, but no less confident, “It’s the predictable ones no one remembers.”

Cassie paused, letting the words settle in her mind. There was something about the way Lizzie said them, the precision and ease in her delivery, that made them linger.

It wasn’t just what she said but how she said it—measured and deliberate, like a writer crafting her lines with the kind of care that made them stick.

Of course, Lizzie was a writer. That’s why she could sway people so effortlessly, why her words carried weight even when they came wrapped in a smirk. It wasn’t lost on Cassie how Lizzie’s confidence seemed to fill the room, not overwhelming it but grounding it, drawing others in without demanding their attention.

The thought brought Cassie a small, unexpected comfort, easing the tension in her chest just slightly. Lizzie’s presence had a way of making things feel less chaotic, less overwhelming, as though the storm outside the house couldn’t touch them here.

It was good to see her like this, Cassie realized, enjoying the side of Lizzie that was unburdened by her husband’s presence. If anyone asked her, Cassie would have no problem saying it: Lizzie and Freddie were undoubtedly bound by their shared taste in... Less-than-ideal partners.

For the first time that morning, Cassie allowed herself to let go of her guard. She looked directly at Lizzie, meeting her gaze fully. It wasn’t something she often did—eye contact always felt like a risk, like it would slice her in a half.

But now, the act felt steadying, reassuring in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She smiled, small but genuine, the warmth from the teacup in her hands spreading to her chest. Lizzie noticed, of course—she always noticed—but said nothing, simply tilting her head slightly in acknowledgment before taking another sip of tea.

“Then they say I’m the one talented with words,” Cassie said, her voice tinged with a trace of irony. She darted her gaze away, focusing on the warm tea in her hands, using the cup as a shield from the thoughts still swirling in her mind.

“And you are,” Lizzie said, the smile never leaving her lips, “You could write a book if you wanted. People would read it.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head as she leaned back, letting the softness of the moment wrap around her like a warm blanket.

“Doubt it would sell,” she muttered.

In the corner of the room, the rotary phone began to ring, its sharp, persistent tone cutting through the warmth of their conversation. Cassie’s gaze flicked to it briefly before returning to the scattered papers on the table—notes from interviews that felt like relics of a past life.

The ringing persisted, the sound grating and insistent, like an accusation she couldn’t ignore.

“Crawford’s plan is working, though,” Cassie continued, her voice trailing off as the unease in her stomach twisted again, “He’s made sure anyone who could help me—anyone who might’ve given me a shot—they’re already turned away. Every single one of the people I had planned to interview…”

Her words faltered as her hand gestured vaguely toward the table.

Lizzie leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, her expression softening. The room, warm with the aroma of tea and faint lavender, seemed to hold its breath as she spoke.

“You’re giving Crawford too much credit,” her tone measured, as though she were trying to pull Cassie back from her spiraling thoughts, “He’s powerful, sure. But he’s not omnipotent.”

Cassie’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more a bitter acknowledgment.

The phone’s ringing continued, cutting through the air like a blade.

“You think I’m being paranoid?” Cassie asked, her voice carrying a weary edge as her eyes darted between Lizzie and Freddie.

Freddie, who had been quietly nursing his own cup of tea, leaned forward. The leather of his chair creaked softly under the shift of his weight. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands clasped loosely as he regarded her with a steady, thoughtful gaze.

“No,” Freddie said plainly, his voice steady but not unkind, “I think you’re being too negative.”

The silence that followed seemed to settle heavily over the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the radiator. Cassie’s frown deepened as she thought more and more about what had happened, what she had done.

Freddie pushed himself up from his chair, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight, a sound that seemed louder in the tense quiet. He stopped at the rotary phone, his gaze falling on the answering machine beside it.

“You want to talk about Crawford’s plan?” he said, resting his hand lightly on the edge of the machine, “Let’s hear it for ourselves.”

Cassie stiffened in her chair, her lips parting as though to protest, “Freddie, don’t—”

“Might as well,” Lizzie interrupted, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms, “If you’re convinced everyone’s turned their back on you, let’s see if that’s true.”

Cassie shook her head, her hands gripping the bloody teacup.

“I don’t need to hear it. I already know what they’ll say.”

“Do you?” Freddie asked, his calm tone challenging her resolve.

Cassie opened her mouth to protest, but Freddie was quicker. His fingers moved with purpose, pressing the button on the answering machine. The mechanical click echoed through the quiet room, a sound that, despite its ordinariness, seemed to sharpen the tension in the air.

Her fingers held firmly around the edges of her teacup, her knuckles pale against the porcelain as the words from the machine filled the room.

“Cassandra,” the first voice said, clipped and urgent, “This is Alan Withers. I’ve heard about the stunt you pulled, and while I understand you’re passionate, I cannot afford to be seen associated with... Good luck. ”

Cassie’s eyes dropped to her lap, the cold porcelain of the teacup doing nothing to help her. The air around her felt thinner, as if it were trying to suffocate the storm swirling inside her.

Alan . Now, a closed door.

His rejection felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. It was just the world she had chosen to be a part of.

But now, standing in the wake of that decision, it didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Lizzie shifted slightly, the soft clink of her teacup against the saucer as she adjusted her position. She spoke, but her words felt distant, as if they were just part of the atmosphere and not quite meant for Cassie.

“Well, that’s one way to say nothing,” she muttered under her breath, trying to lighten the moment, but the words fell flat, like a poorly thrown stone.

Cassie didn’t respond, her mind spinning with the implications of Alan’s words. She wanted to argue, to tell herself that this didn’t matter—that she was right, that she wasn’t the problem—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

She shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the teacup. The warm porcelain against her fingertips should have been comforting, but her thoughts were miles away, swirling in a mix of frustration and helplessness.

The machine beeped again, and Cassie’s stomach churned with the anticipation of what might come next.

“Cassie, it’s David from Insight Weekly . I’m sorry, but after everything that’s happened, we’ve decided to shelve the feature. It’s just... Too hot right now. I wish you the best.”

Her chest tightened further at the sound of his voice. She had relied on David—trusted him as one of the few allies who might have helped her navigate the politics of this world.

But now, even he has backed away. She knew it wasn’t personal, again , she knew that—she knew it was the nature of the beast they were all a part of— but it felt personal. No matter how she tried to convince herself it wasn’t.

Every time one of them backed away, it felt like another piece of herself was chipped away.

“See?” she said softly, almost to herself, “This is exactly what Crawford wanted. He’s cut me off from everything.”

Freddie stood silently, his gaze focused on the machine, but he didn’t speak immediately. Cassie wanted to say something—wanted to ask him to turn it off. But she couldn’t find the words.

Her throat was dry, a knot in her chest, and the room felt smaller than it had just moments before.

“Cassie,” a familiar, softer voice began, “It’s Nathan. I think I might’ve found more documents you’d want to see. I can meet this weekend. Let me know.”

Cassie’s focus snapped back to the speaker, and the suddenness of the words made her pause.

Nathan’s voice brought with it a reminder of everything she had worked for—the construction scandal, the faulty materials, the cover-up that had been buried beneath corporate lies. All in his own workplace.

She remembered the late nights, the piles of documents strewn across her desk, the adrenaline of uncovering something that could actually make a difference. But those days felt distant now, like something just out of reach.

Lizzie watched her closely, a quiet acknowledgment of Cassie’s internal shift. Always reading her mind.

“See, not everyone’s written you off,” she said gently.

Cassie didn’t respond right away, lost in the recollections of what Nathan had told her. She had started this, but now the world seemed too big to handle alone. Every part of her wanted to follow through, to pick up the pieces, but the reality of being on her own—the consequences of defying Crawford—had set in. She had nothing to rely on now.

Then, another voice came through.

“Cassie,” the machine crackled, “It’s Sarah Halverson. You talked to me about the water issues near the factory. I—I’m scared. They’ve been sending people to my house, and I don’t know what to do. Please, if you’re still working on this, call me.”

Cassie stood frozen for a moment.

She remembered Sarah clearly—her face, her quiet fear as they sat together and discussed the dangers surrounding the factory. Cassie had promised Sarah she’d do everything she could to get the truth out.

But now, with everything falling apart, it felt like Sarah’s voice was just one more reminder of how far she had fallen.

For a moment, the room felt unbearably quiet, the hum of the radiator and Lizzie’s tea cup returning to her hands. Everything felt so irrelevant.

Her mind pulled her back to the interview with Sarah, her trembling hands clutching a cheap plastic cup of tea. Cassie had promised her, “I’ll make sure they hear your story.” But now?

Now Sarah was being threatened, and Cassie had no platform left to fight for her. The silence stretched on until Freddie cleared his throat, his voice breaking through her haze.

“This woman believes in you, Cassie,” he said quietly, nodding toward the phone, “She’s terrified, and she still called you. That means something.”

But Freddie’s words didn’t reach her—not fully.

"Depending on me?" she muttered, her voice barely audible.

She crossed her arms tightly, her teacup long forgotten—pacing toward the window. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains did little to soften the storm raging inside her.

"How am I supposed to help anyone?" The words burst out of her, "I don’t have a platform, Uncle. Crawford made sure of that. No one will hire me—not after what I’ve done. I’ve got nothing."

Her fingers tightened against the window frame, the cold biting at her skin. She tried to steady her breathing, but the thought of Sarah—alone, frightened—twisted in her chest like a knife.

"I promised her I’d help," she whispered, almost to herself, "But what can I even do anymore? There’s no one left to listen."

The next message began, not giving time for Freddie or Lizzie to try arguing. Instead, both of them exchanged a look.

Cassie steeled herself. She wasn’t sure if she could handle more disappointment.

“Cassie,” came the familiar voice of her mother, chirpy and unaware. Despite everything, Cassie tried to embrace herself, but more disappointment would come for sure , “Sweetie, I miss you! How are you there? How’s your job? You do know if anything goes south, you can always come back here and I’ll help you find a good husband. Just please, give me some updates about how you’re doing there!”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. Her mother’s words stabbed at her, each one a reminder of how far removed her family was from her world. To her mother, Cassie’s career was just a phase—a way to delay the inevitable: s ettling down, giving up .

The gulf between their worlds had never seemed so wide.

She was exhausted—exhausted in a way that went beyond sleepless nights and long days. It was a bone-deep weariness, the kind that came from constantly trying to explain herself to people who never seemed to understand. How could they?

She had left Chicago for a reason, though even now, it felt like no one really got why. It wasn’t just about escaping the predictable future her mother envisioned for her—a housewife with a perfect smile and a carefully curated life. It was more than that.

Cassie wanted to matter.

She wanted to take the tools she had—the sharp instincts, the knack for seeing what others missed—and do something with them. The world was covered in layers of polished lies, a pristine rug under which powerful men swept their sins. She wanted to rip that rug away, to expose what lay beneath: the stolen innocence, the squandered money, the lives destroyed by greed and neglect.

And yet, no one else seemed to understand.

To her mother, ambition was just a stepping stone to disappointment. To her peers, it was easier to keep their heads down, to avoid making waves…

The loneliness of it all dragged her down, but the spark inside her refused to die. If no one else saw it, if no one else believed in it, then she would . She had to. Because if she didn’t, who would?

“Can we be done already?”

The words slipped from her lips, soft and fractured, as if she’d spoken them into a void. Cassie wasn’t talking to Lizzie or Freddie; she was talking to the storm in her head, to the endless loop of thoughts that kept dragging her under.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he moved with deliberate calm, stepping over to the phone and turning it off, silencing missed calls. The absence of sound was deafening, the stillness thick and unyielding.

Then, he finally dared to ask, “You’re still against the idea of joining, aren’t you?”

Cassie stopped mid-step, her pulse quickening as her shoulders stiffened. She didn’t need him to say it. The meaning hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken but unmistakable . Her gaze dropped to the floor, as though meeting his eyes might shatter whatever fragile resolve she had left.

“ I can’t ,” she said, her voice trembling under the weight of her own admission. She straightened her posture, trying to steady herself, but the words felt like glass in her throat, “ I wasn’t made for that. I can’t have my face on a screen, Freddie. It’s not who I am. ”

The silence that followed felt sharper than any argument, heavier than any rebuke. She wished, desperately, that she was wrong. That she could be the person Freddie seemed to think she could be.

How much easier would everything be if she had been born with a stronger spine. If her voice didn’t falter when too many eyes turned her way…

The thought of stepping in front of a camera made her stomach churn, her pulse thrum erratically in her ears.

The idea of Venturer had been lingering for weeks now—a chance to join her uncle’s project, to have a platform big enough to amplify voices like Sarah’s and Nathan’s. It was everything she had ever wanted, yet it felt wrong , suffocating in ways she couldn’t put into words.

The thought of facing an audience, of staring into cold, unblinking cameras instead of speaking from the safety of her anonymity, made her chest tighten painfully. She shook her head as nausea crept up, sharp and relentless.

“ How would I even do it? ” she whispered, almost to herself.

Cassie looked away, fixing her gaze on the far wall as if it might anchor her.

I can barely look someone in the eyes without my nerves turning on me. How could I put myself on a screen for all of them to see? For all of them to judge?

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had stories to tell—a cause worth fighting for. But could she sacrifice herself, her sense of safety, to make it happen?

The unease settled in deeper as her thoughts spiraled further, pulling her into darker considerations. Freddie had spent weeks trying to bring her into Venturer, his work on the project tethered to his closest friends.

But in Rutshire, nothing came without opposition, and Venturer had its rival: Tony Baddingham’s empire…

Goddamnit , she had almost forgotten about that bastard.

“Do you think that maniac, Tony Baddingham, knows anything about this yet? My... Stunt? ” Cassie’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet the concern was clear in her tone.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, her calm demeanor not faltering.

“Probably doesn’t even know you exist,” she tried to brush the tension aside.

But Freddie’s reaction was different. His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth tightening as his thoughts drifted to darker possibilities.

“I’ve kept my word," he said after a pause, his voice steadier than his expression, “I haven’t mentioned you to anyone in the circles you wanted to avoid. That includes Tony.”

Cassie exhaled, relief washing over her in brief, fleeting waves. But the fear lingered, shadowy and persistent.

What if they were wrong?

Her connection to Freddie had always been something she kept at arm’s length, knowing full well the consequences if someone like Baddingham found out. Her uncle had warned her countless times about the man’s ruthlessness, his uncanny ability to weaponize even the smallest vulnerabilities.

Tony Baddingham would do anything to destroy Venturer, without hesitation, and if he found out she was part of it—Freddie’s niece—she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use her against them.

Freddie stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His touch was grounding, a small gesture meant to steady her as her thoughts threatened to spiral out of control again.

“Hey,” he said softly, “It won’t happen. You’re too careful. There’s no way for him to make the connection—not unless you want him to.”

His confidence was reassuring, but Cassie couldn’t ignore the tightness in his jaw, the unspoken acknowledgment that even Freddie couldn’t control every variable.

“We’re resilient,” he added, his hand giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “If it comes to it, we’ll figure it out. But this?” He gestured faintly toward her, toward the doubt clouding her features, “You can’t let it paralyze you.”

Cassie nodded slowly, though the storm inside her was far from over. Still, Freddie’s presence gave her something to hold onto—a flicker of possibility in the chaos. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the next step forward.

“I don’t know, Uncle,” she darted her aways between him and Lizzie, “I don’t know how to help these people anymore, I don’t have a platform to do that. No radio station will hire me, and I won’t go back to Chicago.”

Freddie’s gaze held steady, his voice unwavering.

“You don’t need a platform handed to you, Cassie. You’ve always found your own way. You didn’t start because someone gave you a microphone—you started because you couldn’t stay quiet.”

Cassie’s shoulders tensed at his words, how they pondered in her mind. She leaned forward, running a hand through her hair, frustrated by the constant loop of helpless thoughts swirling in her mind.

“But that was different,” she replied, her voice strained. She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the headache that seemed to pulse with each word, “This isn’t some blog or local tip-off. Sarah needs real help. Nathan’s risking his neck with those documents… And there is for sure more people where they came from. They need more than someone shouting into the void.”

The room seemed to close in around her as the words left her mouth, the air heavy with the unsaid. She wasn’t just talking about Sarah and Nathan anymore. She was talking about herself, the fight she had started that now felt like it was slipping out of her control.

The frustration simmered beneath her skin, making her restless.

Lizzie, who had been sitting across the table, leaned back in her chair with a slight, knowing smile. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a sharpness to it that Cassie couldn’t ignore.

"You make it sound like shouting into the void is nothing," Lizzie said, carrying an edge that cut through the fog in Cassie’s mind, "Maybe you forgot, but you’ve been shouting into the void for years—and people listened. That’s why you’re here."

Cassie shot Lizzie a look, but didn’t respond.

She knew Lizzie was right. Deep down, she knew it. But that didn’t make the doubt fade.

It didn’t make the uncertainty about whether she had anything left to give vanish.

She’d always believed that stories could change the world—that her voice could make the difference. But lately? Lately, it felt like all she was doing was chasing her own tail, stuck in a cycle of frustration and failure. There was too much at stake now. The fight wasn’t just hers anymore.

Her eyes wandered across the room, lingering on the mess of papers scattered on the table. Her unfinished work. Her unspoken promises. And through it all, that suffocating feeling—the one that told her she was running out of time to make any of it count.

Cassie swallowed hard, trying to push the tightness in her throat down, but it wouldn’t go.

“I don’t know if I can do it anymore,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of them.

Freddie sighed, but kept himself quiet. He could hear it in her voice—the uncertainty, the defeat she was too proud to admit. His jaw clenched briefly before he exhaled, shifting in his seat.

“Cassie, you’ve been through worse, and you’ve always come out the other side. This is no different.”

Freddie’s voice was steady, but there was something in the way he said it—something that held the weight of their shared history. She met his eyes despite the internal pain it caused, yet her gaze quickly faltered, unable to hold the connection.

His belief in her was palpable, but it only made the doubt gnaw at her harder.

“I’ve never been silenced like this before,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She turned away slightly, her back to him, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. The room was suddenly too small, the air too thick with the pressure of his expectations.

Cassie knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking that if she accepted his offer, everything could change. She’d have a platform, a voice loud enough to make a difference. It was the opportunity she’d always dreamed of, a step up in her career. She had always prided herself on being someone who didn’t wait for opportunities to come to her—she made them.

But this? This felt different.

Her mind raced, but it wouldn’t let her consider it fully. She could see it, clear as day—the image of her face, her name, broadcasted across every screen in Rutshire, in every household. Everyone would know her. Everyone would see who she really was, the woman behind the words, the person who had always kept her distance from the limelight.

It wasn’t about the career boost. She knew this was the kind of exposure that would propel her forward, that could change everything for her. But it came with a price. The idea of being that exposed, of having every part of her life scrutinized by people who would never understand, made her stomach twist.

Would they care about the stories she told? Or would they focus on what she wore, how she stood, whether her words matched her image? She wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of being picked apart in that way, of everyone trying to dissect her every move.

She’d always been better off behind the scenes, in the shadows where she could move unnoticed, a voice without a face.

Cassie turned back to Freddie, her hands clenched at her sides.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” she said, her voice small, “To be seen. To be exposed.”

Freddie didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He understood what she meant, even if he didn’t fully understand how deep was her turmoil.

He had his own demons, his own vulnerabilities. But Cassie wasn’t him. She wasn’t built for the spotlight in the way he might’ve been.

“I get it,” Freddie said quietly after a moment, “You don’t have to make the decision right now. But you’ve never backed down before. You’ve always had the courage to stand up and face it. This... This could be another one of those times. Just think about it, Cass.”

The words felt both comforting and suffocating. The encouragement was there, but so was the unspoken pressure, the weight of an opportunity that might slip through her fingers if she didn’t take it now. It wasn’t just about the decision anymore—it was about whether or not she had the courage to step into the unknown and face everything that would come with it.

She didn’t want to disappoint him, or herself. But this wasn’t just another story to chase. This was her life, her identity, everything she’d built and protected slipping away in an instant. And the scariest part? She didn’t know if she was ready to give that up. Not yet.

Lizzie and Freddie had been gone for about an hour, but it felt like the day had stretched into an eternity. The silence in the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the constant buzz of the phone calls and conversations that had been filling her life just days ago. Cassie leaned back in her chair, the worn wood creaking under her, as her eyes fixed on the rotary phone in the corner of the room.

The phone, once a lifeline, now seemed like an enemy. Its presence mocked her, a reminder of the calls she had ignored—the people reaching out for help, for answers. Every missed call, every voicemail, was a reminder of her failure to provide what they needed.

The truth. Justice. Their voices. Now, she was unable to even summon the will to pick up the receiver.

Her mind ran in circles.

They’re all waiting for me, and I can’t even give them the time of day, she thought bitterly.

How could she help them when she couldn’t help herself? How could she expose the corruption, the lies when she didn’t have a platform to stand on? Without the station, without any means to broadcast what she knew, the truth seemed so much more distant.

What good were all the documents, all the testimonials, if no one would listen to them? No one would care?

The fear twisted inside her, sharp and suffocating.

What am I going to do? she wondered, staring at the receiver.

She thought back to the last time she’d seen Bas, how worried he had looked when she left the bar with only one goal in mind. She hadn’t known then just how wrong things would go—how horribly everything would spiral.

All she had wanted was to make things right, to take down the people who’d been abusing their power for years. But now, what did she have left?

Nothing but the wreckage of a failed mission, the remnants of a career she’d spent years building, now in ruins.

How did it all go so wrong?

Her fingers hovered over the fabric of her sweater, fear gripping her. Every number in her contacts list felt like a mountain too high to climb. What would they think of me now?

Her father’s name, Jones—what a curse it felt like now. He had built his own reputation, a notorious one, but would it help her now if she attempted to use it in her favor now? Could it?

It was a thought that had crossed her mind more than once. If she could just use his legacy—his connections—maybe there would be a way to turn things around. Once, the mere thought of it would have hurt her dignity, but now ? She was desperate enough to consider it.

If anyone would take a chance on me now, they wouldn’t be doing it for me. They’d be doing it for my father’s name, she realized.

But was her father’s name enough to erase the stain she’d just inherited from her failed career at Crawford’s?

Her mind countered: What if it works? Then, what?

Cassie pulled a piece of paper from the pile beside her and began scribbling down names—contacts from her past stories, the ones she had been able to trust, all who had once worked with Charles Crawford. Some of them were still working at other stations. Others had long since been fired, discarded by Crawford and the network for not fitting the mold, no other stations willing to hire them.

Fired employees, they knew the dirt. Perhaps, more than her even. They could help her to tear down the last brick of Crawford’s empire.

If he wanted to tear her name apart, then, she would return the favor.

She stared at the list in front of her, wondering if any of them would be willing to talk to her now, knowing that she was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed. And so fucked up as most of them were.

It would be a long shot, and she knew it. How far using her father’s name would let her go?

But even as the thought flickered in her mind, the reality of it hit her like a wave: I don’t have anything left to work with. If no one will hire me, all of this is meaningless.

All of it.

She stared at the list again, the names swimming in her vision, and then her eyes shifted to the window. Outside, the world was moving, indifferent to her turmoil. The thought of picking up the phone and calling any of these people felt like a weight she couldn’t bear.

Would any of them be willing to talk to her? A girl with a reputation her father had left behind—a reputation I don’t even want to be a part of anymore. But, suddenly is ready to take upon what he had started?

Would they even take her seriously?

She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake the doubt from her mind. If only she could find someone who would listen to her for who she was and not who her father was… But that wasn’t how the world worked, if she wanted someone to still see some spark in her, she would have to play dirty and use her father’s name.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Her heart jumped into her throat, her hands tightening around her sweater as her mind scrambled to make sense of it.

Who could that be?

She stood, her legs shaky, and made her way to the door, still holding into the edges of the damn sweater as if her life depended on it. If it was another reporter again, she didn’t know if she would be strong enough to shove them off.

For a moment, she just… Stood there, really . Her fingers moving only to hover over the knob, waiting for something—anything—to give her the clarity she needed.

"Who is it?" she called out, her voice sounding small and weak in the vast emptiness of the house.

There was a brief pause, and then the response came.

"Ahm, Declan O'Hara."

Declan O’Hara? The Declan Fucking O’Hara?

She had never spoken to him—not directly, not since she moved to Rutshire. But his name… She knew it well . It had come up in nearly every conversation with Bas, with her uncle, even Lizzie.

The man who had made a career of being sharp, ruthless, and always in control of the room.

She wasn’t sure why he would be here, at her door, now of all times .

What does he want with me? She thought, a flash of unease running through her.

Cassie’s mind raced through the stories she had heard about him—the interviews that made headlines, the scandals that had followed him like shadows, the way people either loved or hated him, but never ignored him. She had followed his career almost from the beginning, admiring the boldness in his approach, the way he could dissect a situation with just a few well-chosen words.

It was exactly what she had once wanted for herself, when she first dreamed of being a journalist. Back in Chicago.

Yet here he was, standing at her door, a reality she never could have predicted.

Why now?

Cassie stared at the door as though willing it to explain itself. Declan O’Hara—her thoughts were still tripping over the impossibility of his presence here. It didn’t make sense. Why would someone like him, a man whose name carried both weight and controversy, show up unannounced at her door?

Taking a steadying breath, she pulled the door open.

And there was he.

Declan O’Hara stood on her doorstep, casual yet undeniably present, the kind of man who didn’t knock on doors unless he already knew they’d be opened.

His features were sharper in person than in the photographs or on television—his jawline more defined, the stubble catching the dim light. His dark eyes, shadowed but piercing, seemed to size her up in an instant, taking in every detail without giving much away. The lines at the corners of his mouth hinted at a man who’d seen enough to be cynical but wore charm like a second skin instead, a disarming weapon as much as a choice.

And then, of course, there was the mustache, impeccably trimmed, adding an air of polish to someone who seemed never rushed, never flustered, and entirely too aware of the presence he carried with himself.

Cassie’s breath caught in her chest, and she wondered, not for the first time that morning, if she was still asleep and dreaming up the absurdity of it all.

“Miss Jones,” his voice even, the faint trace of a Dublin lilt giving his words an edge. He regarded her with quiet interest, his eyes scanning her face like a puzzle.

“Mr. O’Hara,” she managed, her tone steady despite the racing in her chest.

He tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Cassie frowned, unsure how to answer. Was he joking? Interrupting what—her ongoing existential crisis?

God , he could have interrupted it anytime he preferred, really. She wouldn’t complain.

“You’ve certainly caught me off guard,” she admitted instead, her fingers tightening on the knob.

“Good,” he said simply, as though that had been his goal all along.

Cassie blinked at him, her world spinning a bit too fast. She wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or intrigued by his audacity. The air felt heavier, charged with an energy that hadn’t been there moments before.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t just a man standing at her door; he was a presence . A gravitational force pulling her in despite every instinct screaming to guard herself.

That was how his guests felt? That's why they continued in their seats even when he crossed the line?

“I heard your broadcast,” he said, the trace of an Irish lilt softening his words, “It made an impression.”

“An impression,” Cassie repeated, frowning, “I assume you’re here to tell me it was a bad one.”

Declan’s mustache twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if he was suppressing a smile or a retort.

“Not quite,” he said, his voice hinting at something more than polite interest.

His dark eyes settled back on hers, unflinching and steady. There was something in his gaze, as though he were testing her, waiting to see how she’d react to his scrutiny.

It hurt her to look away, but the force of it was too much. She glanced toward the floor, the slight chill of the open doorway creeping up her spine.

Declan didn’t move, obviously

Seeing him on television was one thing—his charisma contained within the screen, his sharp words cutting through interviews like a scalpel. But here, standing in front of her, he was... Different. He wasn’t just a personality, a face attached to the stories she’d watched from a distance.

He was real . And his presence wasn’t something she’d prepared herself for.

There was a magnetic quality to him, the kind of charm that wasn’t loud or forced but instead lingered in the way he carried himself, in the deliberate cadence of his words. It unsettled her, this awareness of him.

She tried to lock the thought away before it could take root. The last thing she needed was to feel self-conscious about Declan O’Hara.

“Then what exactly are you here to tell me?” she asked, forcing her voice into a steadiness she didn’t entirely feel.

Declan’s lips curved ever so slightly, his expression one of quiet amusement.

“I’d say it’s less about telling and more about asking,” he said, his tone dropping, the lilt wrapping around each syllable with an ease that felt entirely unfair.

“Asking what ?” she pressed, her brows drawing together in suspicion.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted past her, sweeping over the interior of her home with the same sharpness he had directed at her moments ago. The soft yellow glow from the hallway lamps cast long shadows against the worn wallpaper and the scattered mess of papers on the table just visible in the background.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the space behind her. The neutrality of his tone made the question feel less like a request and more like a formality.

Cassie hesitated. For a moment, she considered shutting the door in his face, but the calm, unhurried way he stood there made her pause. Declan O’Hara didn’t knock on doors without a reason, and whatever he wanted to say, she had a feeling it wasn’t something she could afford to ignore.

She stepped back reluctantly, gesturing for him to enter.

“You’ve come this far,” she said, her voice filled with dry humor, “I suppose it would be rude to leave you standing in the cold.”

Declan’s eyes flicked back to hers, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. She could feel his gaze over her, the way it seemed to cut through her walls without effort, slashing her insides.

There was nothing overt in the way he looked at her—no smirk, no lingering stare—but the intensity of his gaze was unsettling all the same. It wasn’t something she could pin down, and that only made it harder to shake.

That was the Declan O’Hara effect, she guessed.

“Generous of you,” he murmured, stepping inside with an ease that suggested he was no stranger to navigating unfamiliar spaces. His coat shifted as he moved, the dark fabric catching the light as he turned to take in the room.

Cassie shut the door behind him, the sound of it closing grounding her slightly. She leaned against the frame for a moment, her eyes instinctively following his movements as he took in the room.

He didn’t linger on any one thing, yet it felt as though nothing escaped his notice—the scattered papers on the table, the crumpled throw on the couch, the worn edges of the armchair by the window…

Everything felt suddenly too intimate, too exposed under his quiet scrutiny, as though her home had unwittingly laid bare the corners of her mind.

And then, he moved. Just a slight shift as he turned, the muted light catching on the sharp line of his jaw, casting shadows along his cheekbones. His coat hung open, revealing the crisp lines of his shirt beneath, the gleam of a watch peeking out from under his sleeve. The shadows softened the severity of his features, but the intensity remained, resting in the sharp focus of his dark eyes.

For a brief moment, Cassie wondered what it would be like to see him somewhere else, as a stranger in some bar—a thought she quickly pushed aside. Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone you invited to drink, in this case, her specifically .

There was no world where she would be in a bar, sat by his side, drinking and laughing about drunk jokes.

“Not what I expected,” he said, his voice breaking the silence. He didn’t elaborate, but there was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity.

Cassie raised an eyebrow, masking her unease with a wry smile.

“What were you expecting? A newsroom?”

He glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, his mustache twitched with what might have been amusement, “Something a little more... Guarded.”

“Well, that was my father’s place,” she shrugged, “I didn’t change anything since I moved in, it still has his face and personality.”

Declan’s head inclined ever so slightly, his gaze not trembling as it traced the room’s quiet details. The soft lamplight cast long shadows over the cluttered surfaces, the books stacked unevenly on the table, the photograph frames turned just slightly askew.

If he found anything notable, he didn’t show it; his face remained unreadable, save for the slightest narrowing of his eyes, as though he were cataloging each element of her space.

“It feels lived in,” he said, his voice measured, a step back from casual but not quite formal.

Cassie stilled, her weight shifting onto one foot as though to anchor herself. The idea of this place—the remnants of someone else’s life—feeling lived in was strange, almost laughable. Especially by her. It wasn’t hers, for starters.

“Borrowed,” she corrected, “It’s borrowed.”

Declan’s mouth curved weakly—not quite a smile, more of a quiet acknowledgment. He said nothing at first, letting the moment breathe. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence, a sound she hadn’t noticed until now.

“What brings you here, Mr. O’Hara?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Her words came sharper now, an effort to push through the strange atmosphere he seemed to carry with him. The air felt electrical in his presence, as though the room itself had to adjust to accommodate him.

“I told you,” he replied, meeting her eyes with a calm intensity, “Your broadcast made an impression.”

The way he said it gave her pause.

Cassie felt his gaze settle on her as though waiting to see how she’d react. She took a slow breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater.

“And that’s enough to knock on someone’s door unannounced?”

“Sometimes,” he said, with a small shrug that somehow managed not to look dismissive, “Though I’ll admit, it wasn’t just the broadcast.”

Her posture stiffened, “Then what was it?”

Declan stepped closer—not enough to invade her space, but just enough that his presence felt more immediate. The creak of the floorboards under his weight seemed louder than it should have been. His gaze flicked briefly to the papers scattered across the table, her scrawled notes forming a haphazard pile that betrayed the frantic way she’d been grasping for control.

Cassie felt his focus shift back to her. It was deliberate, calculated, and entirely unsettling. She resisted the urge to shrink back. Instead, she stayed rooted where she stood, gripping her sweater tighter.

His hesitation was subtle—so brief she might have missed it if she weren’t watching him so closely.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone who hesitated often, she imagined. That thought, more than anything, unsettled her even more.

“You’ve put yourself in a position where people are either going to admire you or come for you,” he said, his voice measured but low enough to make her lean in slightly to hear him.

“Admire me?” she asked dryly, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a humorless smile, “You think that’s likely?”

Declan’s expression didn’t shift much, but the glint in his eyes pierced as he regarded her. Standing there in the muted glow of her living room, he looked entirely at ease—his posture loose, hands slipping casually into his pockets. Yet, there was a coiled energy to him, like a predator content to observe but ready to strike when necessary.

“Admire you?” His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile but close, “They’d be foolish not to. Anyone paying attention would see you’ve got something most people don’t.”

Cassie blinked at that, thrown for a moment by the unexpected turn. The words weren’t overly complimentary. Still, there was something in how he said them—deliberate and matter-of-fact—that left her feeling exposed.

“Crawford isn’t most people,” she countered, her tone cautious, “And I’m not sure anyone else is paying attention.”

Declan tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning her face as if weighing her words against something he already knew, “Crawford’s watching you. I’d bet more people are too.”

The amusement in his voice hinted at more than what he was saying, but he didn’t elaborate.

Cassie felt a flicker of something sharp and unsettling under his gaze—like he was dissecting her, piecing her together in real time. She crossed her arms over her chest, more for herself than for him, and forced out a brittle laugh to deflect.

“That’s a poetic way of telling me I’ve already lost.”

Declan’s gaze drifted briefly around the room again, his expression unreadable. The warmth of the space contrasted with the calculated intensity he carried with him, making her feel simultaneously guarded and cornered.

When his eyes found her figure again, his voice softened, though it didn’t lose its power.

“You haven’t lost,” he said simply, “but making Crawford an enemy wasn’t smart.”

“Don’t you say it,” Cassie chuckled, “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet,” he said, his tone as even as ever, “you don’t seem the type to let obvious risks stop you.”

Cassie exhaled sharply, darting her gaze toward the notes scattered across the table—a deliberate escape from the way his presence seemed to charge the air between them.

“Obvious risks don’t bother me,” she replied, “Obvious consequences do.”

His head tilted slightly, the movement small but deliberate, ���Is that why you haven’t made the calls yet?”

Her head snapped up, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes.

“You’ve been here for all of five minutes, and you think you’ve got me figured out?”

Declan didn’t rise to the bait, his expression remaining frustratingly composed. He let the question linger for a beat before answering.

“I don’t need to figure you out,” he said plainly, “It’s written all over you. You’ve gone through every word you’d say, rehearsed every answer they might give, but the phone’s still on the table.”

Cassie stiffened, her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“And if it is?” she shot back, her tone defensive but softer, hesitant. Doubt , maybe.

“Then it tells me you’re not ready to decide what matters most,” Declan said, his voice dangerously low, if she wasn’t looking at his feet, she would be sure he had whispered in her ear.

Cassie felt the words hit their mark before she could deflect. It wasn’t just what he said but the way he said it, like he wasn’t trying to convince her of anything, merely stating the obvious. The restraint in his tone grated at her more than a lecture ever could.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she shot back, but the bite in her words was dulled by hesitation, “I didn’t ask you to come here and give me advice last time I checked.”

Declan didn’t step back. If anything, his presence seemed more focused, more intentional. He had a way of occupying space without crowding it, though it didn’t stop Cassie from feeling scrutinized under his gaze. His fingers brushed the edge of another page on the table, the smallest of gestures, yet it felt charged.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, the hint of a shrug in his shoulders, “But you’re the one who put your voice out there for the world to hear. That’s not the move of someone afraid to make a decision.”

Her chest tightened at the subtle jab, even though she knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel. Cassie uncrossed her arms, only to realize she had no idea what to do with her hands. They hovered awkwardly for a moment before she shoved them into the pockets of her sweater.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she muttered, her gaze dropping to the scrawled notes on the table, “It was either speak up or keep quiet and let him win.”

“I noticed,” Declan said, his voice cutting through the air with deliberate clarity, “And for what it’s worth—you didn’t waste a single word. Your broadcast wasn’t just speaking up. It was precision. You wielded those words like a scalpel, cutting exactly where it needed to hurt.”

There was something in the way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—that made her dizzy. The sincerity in his tone was disarming, but there was weight to it that felt impossible to carry. Her breath hitched involuntarily, her fingers curling deeper into the fabric of her sweater as though she could steady herself against it.

“You make it sound like I had thought about what I would say before I broke in Dan’s show. Maybe in my shows, yes, but not yesterday,” she muttered, her voice quiet, “ It wasn’t. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

Declan didn’t look away, his attention anchored to her with unnerving steadiness.

“Maybe not consciously,” he allowed, leaning back slightly but still holding her in his focus, “But it’s in how you speak—every pause, every shift in tone. It’s not accidental. It’s instinct, you have a gift.”

Cassie felt the words swirl in her chest, a strange mixture of unease and something she couldn’t quite name. Gratitude? Validation? She wasn’t sure, but it unsettled her all the same.

She huffed quietly, her eyes darting toward the window. The sheer curtains filtered the outside light, casting soft patterns on the walls. It was the kind of view that might have once soothed her, but right now, the delicate glow did nothing to ease the unease thrumming beneath her skin.

“You say that like it’s so simple,” she muttered, her voice tight, “Like gifts or instincts are enough to untangle all of this.”

Declan didn’t rush to respond, his silence deliberate. It wasn’t a silence that pressed or demanded—it allowed her words to sit. He moved, finally, his hand brushing against her notes scattered haphazardly, almost grasping at them.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he said, “You didn’t just call out Crawford. You made people listen. That’s what scares him, or anyone really.”

Cassie’s fingers twitched at his words, biting her cheeks. She didn’t want to meet his eyes, but her gaze betrayed her, flicking up to find him watching her with that unrelenting steadiness.

Soon, she looked away again.

“I wasn’t trying to scare anyone,” she murmured, barely audible, “I just… Couldn’t let him get away with it.”

Declan’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Exactly,” he said, “And that’s the kind of drive we need on Venturer.”

Her breath caught, and the tension in her chest tightened like a coil.

That was what he had come to ask.

Cassie’s hands tightened into fists against her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The air in the room felt dense, not from the warmth of the radiator or the faint aroma of tea and ink, but from Declan’s words lingering in the air like a challenge she wasn’t ready to face.

“I can’t,” she said quickly, shaking her head, “I’m not made for that. I already told my uncle—”

“Freddie understands,” Declan interjected smoothly, “But I don’t think you do.”

Cassie stiffened, her shoulders rising defensively.

“I know exactly what I can and can’t do,” she snapped, “And I’m telling you: I can’t do that .”

Declan’s presence felt suffocating in its quiet intensity. The room seemed smaller with him in it, every detail sharper and more vivid under his gaze. The cold wind blowing, the soft tick of the clock on the wall—it all pressed against her, amplifying doubts swirling inside her.

How could she explain it to him, this bone-deep dread that came with the idea of being seen? Not just seen, but scrutinized, judged .

Being a voice on the airwaves had given her a layer of protection—a wall between herself and the people who listened. They could hear her passion, her anger, her conviction, but they couldn’t see the fear that sometimes gripped her chest like a vice.

They couldn’t look at her eyes and see what she truly was: a young woman afraid of every step she took.

The thought of standing in front of a camera, her face projected into thousands of homes, made her stomach churn. Every slip of the tongue, every stutter or hesitation, would be magnified a hundredfold. She wasn’t built for that kind of exposure.

“I can’t,” she said again, though her voice sounded weaker this time, frayed at the edges.

Declan didn’t move, didn’t blink. His stillness was maddening.

“Why not?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and that bloody sharpness again, something that cut straight to the heart of her defenses.

Cassie inhaled deeply, trying to quell the rising panic that threatened to choke her. Her gaze flickered across the room, seeking an escape, but there was none—not from him, not from the truth he was pushing her to confront.

“You don’t get it, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “It’s not about not wanting recognition or having people listen to me. It’s about...” She trailed off, searching for the words that always seemed to slip through her fingers when she needed them most, “It’s about what happens when they don’t like what they see.”

Declan frowned, leaning forward, “What do you mean?”

Her chest ached as she struggled to articulate the knot of fear and self-doubt that had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember.

“You think it’s just about standing in front of a camera and telling the truth,” she said bitterly, her eyes hardening as she looked at the points of his shoes, “But it’s not . It’s about what happens afterward—when they pick apart every word you said, every expression you made, every tiny flaw you didn’t even realize you had. When they decide who you are based on nothing but a frozen image on a screen.”

Declan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through them.

“Cassie,” he said, his voice quieter now, “You’ve already faced that. Every time you went on air, every time you published a story. The only difference is, you couldn’t see it happening.”

Cassie’s heart pounded in her chest as Declan’s words hung in the air, each one heavy with intent. He spoke with a calm certainty that made her defenses feel paper-thin.

“I read about your work,” he began, his tone carefully measured, “I’ve listened to the records of your broadcasts. I’ve read the pieces you wrote in Chicago. And I know one thing for certain: you’re not the kind of person who hides behind a mic because she’s afraid. You do it because it’s efficient. Effective .”

Cassie stared at him immediately, her breath catching as the implication of his statement hit her. Her lips parted to respond, but no words came. She felt a strange dizziness, as if the walls of the room had tilted slightly, throwing her off balance.

How?

How could he have done all that in the span of a day ?

He had to have sought out recordings, dug through archives, tracked down articles she hadn’t thought about in years. From yesterday to now, he had made it his mission to know her, to understand her work, her voice.

It was unsettling.

It was…

“Every single one of them had one thing in common,” Declan continued, his tone softening, though his intensity never wavered.

Cassie raised her head, her brow furrowing as she finally managed to find her voice, “What’s that?”

“ You ,” he said, leaning forward again, his eyes never leaving her figure, constantly searching for her eyes, “Your voice, your perspective. You didn’t just report the facts—you made people care about them. You made them feel it. That’s not something everyone can do.”

The sincerity in his tone cut through her like a knife, carving through the doubt she had clung to for so long. She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

Her fingers, still restless, searched for shelter in the fabric of her sweater. The tension in her body refused to ease, the heat creeping up her neck to her cheeks as she processed his gaze—so unwavering, so certain.

“You think being in front of a camera changes that?” he asked, his gaze unwavering, “It doesn’t. If anything, it amplifies it. People don’t connect to perfection—they connect to authenticity. And you, Cassie, are as authentic as it gets.”

The heat crept up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. She could feel it—a flush that she couldn’t suppress, a reaction she couldn’t control. She wanted to blame the intensity of the conversation, but deep down, she knew it was more than that.

There was something in the way he looked at her—unwavering, searching. His eyes, dark and steady, seemed to hold a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place. Admiration? Curiosity?

The corners of his lips lifted, not into a full smile, but a subtle quirk that softened the sharpness of his features. He was close—closer than he needed to be—and she couldn’t decide if it was intentional or just a consequence of his presence.

Her hands fidgeted in the fabric of her sweater again, twisting it as she fought to regain her composure.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I don’t think I am,” Declan replied, “If anything, I’m not giving you enough.”

The words struck her like a blow, cutting through the haze of self-doubt that had wrapped itself around her once and for all. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.

The air between them felt charged, electric in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. Cassie couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her like this—not with flattery, but with belief.

Her gaze darted to the window again. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains softened the room's edges but did nothing to dull the sharp edge of Declan’s words. Outside, the distant sound of birdsong felt muted against the tension humming in the room.

Her mind raced, spiraling as it tried to keep up with the emotions swirling inside her. The compliments, the conviction in his voice—it was too much, too fast. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to jump or cling to the safety of the ground beneath her feet.

“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Not really.”

“I know that you’re holding yourself back,” Declan countered.

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You make it sound so easy,” she muttered, “Like all I have to do is step in front of a camera and everything will fall into place.”

Declan’s expression shifted, softening in a way that made her chest tighten.

“It’s not about it being easy,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle, “It’s about it being worth it.”

Cassie blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of his response.

“I’ve been where you are,” Declan continued, “Afraid of what people might see, what they might say. But here’s the thing: it’s not about you. It’s about the story. It’s about what you’re trying to show them, the truth you’re trying to tell.”

His words landed heavily, resonating with something deep inside her. She faltered, her gaze dropping back to her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clenched them back to her sweater to steady herself.

“You’re talented, Cassie,” Declan said, his voice gaining a firmer edge, “You’re good . You have a way of making people listen—not just to the facts, but to what they mean. We could give you a show, a platform where you can do exactly what you said yesterday: pull back the rug and show people what’s been swept under it.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, “But if you’re not ready to take that jump, then tell me— what do you want to do next? ”

Cassie’s heart hammered in her chest. His words pressed against her like the weight of the world, a challenge, an invitation, all rolled into one. Beneath the pressure, there was a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility. It was a thought she couldn't shake—the idea of not just telling the truth, but having the power to shape the conversation, to expose the darkness hiding in plain sight.

What would she do next ?

For the first time, the idea didn’t feel impossible. It felt terrifying, yes , but there was a spark of curiosity beneath the fear—a small, stubborn part of her that wanted to know if she could.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at Declan, his gaze steady. Not leaving her sight, not for once.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she took the courage to say it out loud.

Declan’s lips curved into a smile, one that didn’t feel triumphant but rather understanding.

“I’ll wait,” he said, and she believed in him.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater as a new thought occurred to her. She glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”.

“Of course,” he replied immediately.

“Why me?” she asked, her words laced with genuine confusion, “There are dozens of people out there trying to make noise, trying to be heard. What was so special about what I did yesterday?”

Declan’s smile deepened, but there was something else in his expression—a flicker of something warm, almost unspoken.

“It wasn’t just what you did yesterday,” he said, his tone quieter now, more intimate, “It was the way you did it. The way you made people stop and listen. You didn’t just speak—you cut through . You made them care. That’s not something you see every day.”

His gaze lingered on hers, steady and searching, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between them charged with something she couldn’t name.

But, despite it feeling small… That was one of the few times that looking into someone’s eyes didn’t make her feel like drowning. Not in a hurtful way.

“You’re different, Cassie,” Declan continued, “And that scares people like Crawford. It’s also what makes you impossible to ignore. I had heard today some people are already calling you ‘Bloody Harrier’, and I don’t disagree with them, you are a harrier.”

Cassie swallowed hard, her thoughts swirling like a storm. She didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say. All she could do was nod, his words settling heavily in her chest as she tried to make sense of the possibilities now laid before her.

"That’s kind coming from someone like you,” Cassie muttered, her voice laced with skepticism, “But I don’t feel like a harrier .”

Declan’s eyes softened, a quiet understanding passing between them, “That’s because you don’t see yourself the way others do.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as his words lingered in the space between them.

Outside, the breeze rustled the leaves against the windowpane, its soft whisper contrasting with the quiet tension in the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was waiting, expectant, as if the world was on pause, waiting for Cassie to choose whether to step forward or remain where she was.

Cassie’s gaze flickered back to him, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. And in that moment, she became acutely aware of how close he was. His presence, which had always been intense since he had knocked at her door, now felt almost overwhelming.

She noticed the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his lips were slightly parted as he spoke, the faintest trace of stubble that caught the light. The dim afternoon glow from the window washed over his features, softening them in a way that made everything about him seem impossibly magnetic.

It was a fleeting moment, but she felt it, that subtle charge in the air. Something unspoken, something she couldn't put into words, hanging there between them.

For a moment, Declan didn’t speak. He stood still, his gaze steady, as if he too was aware of the proximity. The air seemed to crackle, the space between them shrinking, until finally, with a slight but noticeable shift in his posture, Declan took a step back, breaking the tension.

His eyes never left hers, though, and the understanding between them lingered in the silence.

"Do you really believe that?" Cassie asked, her voice smaller, almost a whisper.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?” Declan asked her back.

The room felt heavy after Declan’s words, his presence an anchor pulling at Cassie’s thoughts. She didn’t know what to say, and for once, she didn’t try to fill the silence. It stretched between them, thick and charged, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater in a futile attempt to ground herself.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on her. It wasn’t harsh or prying, but steady, as though he were trying to understand something about her that she hadn’t figured out herself. That quiet intensity unsettled her, a reminder of the kind of man he was—one who didn’t miss the small things, who didn’t let truths slip away unnoticed.

“I should go,” he said, breaking the silence himself. His voice low, almost hesitant, as if leaving wasn’t entirely what he wanted.

Cassie widened her eyes, startled by the shift in the moment. She stepped back slightly, creating a sliver of space between them, though it did nothing to untangle the knot tightening in her chest.

“Right,” she replied, the word coming out too quickly, sharper than she intended, “ Of course. ”

Declan moved toward the door, his steps well measured. He didn’t rush, as though each movement was a chance to reconsider something left unsaid. The air between them felt different now, lighter in some ways but heavy with the lingering weight of their exchange.

When he reached the door, he paused. He turned back, his posture relaxed but his expression still thoughtful.

The dim light coming through the window outlined the sharp edges of his features perfectly, it made him seem less imposing, more human .

“It was good meeting you,” he said, “I wish it had happened sooner.”

His words weren’t dramatic, but they hit somewhere deep, somewhere she didn’t know was vulnerable until now. For a moment, she didn’t respond, unsure of what to say or how to untangle the emotions his presence had stirred.

“Yeah,” she said, her words almost fragile, as if they could break in any second, “Me too.”

Declan’s lips curved into a smile—not the polished, performative kind she’d seen on screens, but something smaller, more genuine.

“Maybe it would’ve made things… Simpler,” he added, his tone light, though his words carried more meaning than they seemed to.

Cassie nodded, unsure how to respond to that . Her thoughts felt tangled, a mess of emotions she didn’t want to unravel just yet.

The least she could do was open the door for him, letting the cold evening air rush in. It swept past her, bracing and sharp, clearing the fog in her mind just enough to remind her where she was. She stepped closer to the doorway, watching as he descended the steps with the same calm confidence he carried everywhere.

At the edge of the porch, he turned back briefly. His dark coat blended with the gray evening, but his eyes caught hers one last time.

“Take care of yourself, Cassie,” he said, his voice warm and familiar, as though he had always known her.

“You too,” she replied, the words barely audible but sincere, “Mr. O’Hara.”

“Please,“ his smile widened, “Call me Declan.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she nodded, her fingers gripping the door for balance.

“Declan ,” she said, the name feeling foreign on her tongue, heavier than it should have been.

The moment lingered settled between them, neither of them seeming in a hurry to break it. Cassie could feel his gaze, the way it softened now, lacking the intensity he’d carried earlier. It made her chest feel tight, but not in the way she was used to.

This wasn’t the suffocating pressure of fear or failure—it was something else, something unfamiliar and unsettling.

Declan glanced past her, his eyes briefly scanning the quiet house behind her. The mess of papers on the table, the dim glow of the single lamp in the corner—it was all so distinctly her, chaotic yet purposeful.

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as though he was about to say more, but then he stepped back, the moment slipping away.

“Goodbye,” he said one more time.

She stayed in the doorway as he walked to his car. The gravel crunched softly under his feet, the sound carrying in the quiet dusk. He opened the driver’s side door, pausing for just a moment before getting in. The headlights flared to life, cutting through the fading light as he started the engine.

Cassie watched as he pulled out of the driveway, the rumble of the car fading as he disappeared down the road. She stayed there long after he was gone, the cold creeping up her arms, her heart still beating a little faster than normal.

When she finally stepped back inside, the warmth of the house felt strange, as though she’d been away for longer than just a moment. She leaned against the door, letting out a slow breath, her thoughts still circling the man who had just left.

Her eyes drifted to the phone on the corner of the room. The list of names was still on her table, waiting for her to take the next step.

For a brief moment, she considered picking up the receiver, calling Sarah, or anyone on that list. But the weight of the decision held her back, the fear of failure keeping her frozen in place.

Declan���s words echoed in her mind: “You made people care.”

She didn’t know if she believed it. Not yet. But the thought lingered, and for now, that was enough.

Enough for her to go to the damn rotary phone and start making her calls.

Rutshire Gazette

Local Radio Dispute Sparks Drama at Crawford’s FM

By Edward Hill

In an unexpected twist during yesterday’s live broadcast, Cassandra Jones, a presenter at Crawford’s FM, took to the airwaves with allegations against station owner Charles Crawford.

Ms. Jones, who recently returned to Rutshire after spending much of her career in Chicago, accused Mr. Crawford of suppressing critical stories in favor of lighter, more commercially viable programming.

Eyewitnesses claim Ms. Jones refused to vacate the studio, reportedly locking herself in for nearly an hour before the police intervened. Sources close to the station describe the incident as “disruptive” and “unprofessional,” with one staff member alleging that Ms. Jones acted “erratically.”

Speaking to the Gazette, Mr. Crawford condemned the incident as a “stunt,” stating: “It’s unfortunate that Ms. Jones felt the need to air grievances in such an inflammatory manner, particularly when we’ve always encouraged an open-door policy for our team. Crawford’s FM prides itself on being a reliable source of entertainment and community news—values clearly lost in Ms. Jones’ actions.”

The details of Ms. Jones’ grievances remain unclear, though snippets from the broadcast suggest dissatisfaction with editorial decisions and claims of mismanagement. The station has confirmed they are pursuing legal action for trespassing and property damage.

Ms. Jones, who was arrested at the scene, declined to comment when approached outside the police station early this morning. However, her outburst has sparked debate among listeners, some of whom have voiced their support. One caller, who wished to remain anonymous, told the Gazette:

"She’s got guts. What she said about the council funds was true. But no one wants to touch it because it’s messy. I say good for her, we need more bloody harriers around here!"

Others, however, have expressed concern over Ms. Jones’ approach, questioning whether such public defiance undermines the credibility of her claims.

For now, the fate of Ms. Jones’ career remains uncertain, with many in the industry speculating whether this incident marks the end of her tenure at Crawford’s FM—or the beginning of something far more contentious.

[rivalsispunk]

When We’re Alone moodboard

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Author’s note: had wayyyyy too much fun making this. Just a lil’ moodboard to keep you guys fed until Chapter 2 of When We’re Alone is ready.

Read Chapter 1: The Interview here.

[rivalsispunk]

TEASER: Beneath The Surface (Chapter 2 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

A/N: just a taste of what's to come...

You toe off your wellies, perched on the edge of the hot tub. Muscles zip up the back of your leg when you peel off your socks, and Declan has to force himself to look away when the hem of your sweater — no, his sweater, one of many Taggie had stolen away — rides dangerously high on your thighs as you swing your legs over the lip of the heated pool. He’s thankful that only one of the lights below the surface is in working order because his prick rouses when a satisfied hum seeps from you as your feet kiss the warm surface. Declan’s jaw ticks. The devil on his shoulder probes that you’re purposely torturing him and his conscious bites back that he’s a sleazy bastard for thinking as much. You’re not doing anything. You’re just here.

Get a grip on yourself, O’Hara, he scolds, and chases it with a swig of whiskey he only hopes will burn away the filthy thoughts you manage to conjure for him.

Full chapter coming soon! In the meantime, read Chapter 1: The Interview here.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

You would hit BELIEVE how happy I am that you’re writing fics for Declan O’Hara he’s my new DILF obsession!!! Also it was so well-written and in-character, oh my goodness!

I was wondering if I could request a fic where Declan and female!reader are having an affair, and she’s super nervous because she’s Taggie’s best friend. She meets Declan one night in his car, and he calms her down and, obviously, they have car sex.

Ending this with a huge I LOVE YOUR WORK

Shut Up and Drive.

It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The one person who riles you up the most is also the only person that can calm you down.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. age gap. cheating. declan and his dirty mouth. one use of the c word. overuse of the nickname sweetheart.

word count - 3k

authors note - the minute he put that baby blue t shirt on… I was suddenly on my knees. funny how that happens. can’t and won’t stop with the fics for this man. I am riding the rivals train to the ends of the earth, baby. thanks for being so sweet, anon <3

masterlist. inbox.

The phone is shaking in your trembling hand, cord all tangled where you keep twisting it around your finger nervously.

“Hello?”

You almost drop the receiver at the sound of that familiar Irish accent, despite the fact that you were the one that rang him. It has your stomach churning, in a different way than usual.

“H-hi,” you barely whisper, before clearing your throat and trying again. “Hi. It’s me.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” he breathes, as if it’s the first time he’s taken a lungful of air all day.

“I, um… I’m sorry to call you on the house phone. I know it’s not how we do things usually.”

“It’s alright. What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I just, uh… I called to say that I can’t do this anymore.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I would have told you in person, but I didn’t know when I was going to see you next, so.”

“Can we-” he begins, before lowering his voice so as not to be overheard, “-can we talk about this properly? Please?”

“We can’t. I can’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Sweetheart, I’m beggin’ ya. One conversation. You’re not ending this in a quick phone call on a Wednesday night, you hear me?”

You inhale deeply, biting at your lips. There’s pure anxiety radiating through your body, prickly and unrelenting.

“I hear you,” you murmur down the receiver. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he sighs in relief. “I’m gonna come and get ya - we’ll go for a drive, alright?”

“Sorry you have to lie,” you whisper, guilt colouring your tone.

“I’d lie for you a thousand times over.”

His words shouldn’t make you feel as giddy as they do, but alas. Here you are.

“I’ll put some shoes on.”

“And a coat. It’s cold as fuck tonight.”

You half laugh, half snort at him down the phone, dreamily imagining the grin he most likely has painted on his face listening to you.

“Yes sir,” you tease, giggling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll drive up without my headlights on. Look out for me, yeah?”

“I will.”

I always do, you think to yourself. I always do.

The line goes dead abruptly, the buzzing vibrating straight into your temples. You slip your shoes on, quickly fixing your hair and touching up your makeup in the mirror in the hallway while you’re there. You shrug your arms into your coat at Declan’s orders, knowing he’d tell you off if you turned up without it on.

You’ve almost forgotten the entire reason you called in the first place was to break things off with him.

Almost.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

True to his word, Declan drives up your road without his headlights on, slowly and with practised precision.

You’re waiting at the window for him, patiently anticipating the sight of that stupid yellow car. You’re out of the door in seconds as soon as you see him, bounding towards the passenger side and slipping in before anyone notices. He drives off quickly, not taking any time to say hello before he’s taking off out of the town and towards the rolling countryside.

You drive for a good fifteen minutes, to a spot the two of you frequent on your drives. It’s a dirt track, leading to nothing but fields for miles on end. Declan pulls the car around the bend and out of sight from the busier road, knowing that it has more than enough privacy. You’ve never been caught here before, and you don’t plan to start.

Finally turning off the engine, he turns to face you, taking in how the moonlight illuminates your features in the lowlight of the car.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi.”

You’re refusing to look at him, knowing that if you do, you’ll surge over and kiss him until you’re both dizzy. You can feel his gaze on you, though, intense and unwavering. As it always is.

His thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, forcing you to stare straight into his determined brown eyes. You’re willing yourself not to crumble, but you can feel your resolve starting to slip already.

“I missed you,” he whispers, careful not to spook you.

“I missed you too,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Shit.”

He chuckles, and the low timbre of it settles right in the pit of your stomach.

“What’s all this about then, hmm? The phone call?”

“What did you tell Taggie? Where did you say you were going?”

It’s your least favourite part about all of this, the lying. Lying to Taggie, to Patrick, to Caitlin, to Rupert, to your friends, to your family. Coming up with excuses has become second nature - something you hate about yourself now. You hate how it comes so naturally to both of you these days.

“Told her I was going to meet someone about some potential research for a show. She had evening plans anyway, she’s off out to Lizzie’s.”

You’re fiddling with your fingers, picking at your nails in a nervous habit as you chew your bottom lip. If anxiety was personified, it’d be you.

“You avoided my question. We need to talk about what you said on the phone, sweetheart.”

Taking a deep breath, you turn in your seat to face him properly, going over the speech you’ve practised in your head dozens of times.

“Okay. I’m… I’m not sure we should do this anymore. I- I just… I feel guilty. For lying to Taggie, mainly. And because you’re technically still married, but mainly for lying to Tag. She’s the closest friend I have, and I’m sleeping with her father. It makes me a terrible person, Declan. I have to put a stop to it.”

He processes your words for a moment, looking at you intently.

“Do ya want to?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to? Put a stop to things? Or do you just feel like you should? For other people.”

You want to lie, tell him exactly what you had planned out, feed him what you know will work. But you can’t. You can lie to everyone… except Declan.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper. “But I should. We should.”

“Why now? Did something happen? Did someone say something?”

“No, no. I just… Taggie said something really sweet the other day about how she was glad that she had me, because making friends here hasn’t been easy for her. And it should have made me happy, and instead, it broke my heart.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Declan cradles your face in his rough hands, resting his forehead against yours. It’s like the whole world melts away for a moment, leaving just the two of you in the tiny yellow car.

“I’m a horrible person,” you mumble. “And a horrible friend.”

“You’re speaking as if it’s just you. And it’s not, you know. There’s two of us in this affair - I’m just as guilty as you are.”

“Fine then. We’re both horrible people.”

He chuckles, breath tickling your face, and you can’t help the giggle that escapes you. His lips are brushing yours every time he speaks, meaning you can practically taste the cigarette smoke and spearmint on his tongue.

“I never claimed otherwise,” he retorts, still smiling.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit as his thumbs sweep back and forth across your cheekbones. “It’s weighing down my conscience, and I don’t want to hurt Tag. But… I can’t give you up, Declan. I need you. I need you more than anything.”

“You make me crazy. God, I think about you night and day, sweetheart. My thoughts revolve around if I’ve seen you and when I’m going to see you next.”

“So what do we do? I can’t quit this. I can’t quit you, I can’t quit us. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. I wish I had the answers… I wish I could make all your worries go away. But I can’t.”

“I don’t expect you to. I just… I thought that I could do it in one clean sweep. Get it out the way, you know? Call you, end things, be done. And then the minute I heard your voice over the phone… I knew I couldn’t do it. Because deep down, I didn’t want to.”

He leans in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, desperate to be close to you.

“Declan.”

“If I could fix it all for you, I would,” he murmurs against your skin. “You know I would.”

You pull back to put some distance in between you, watching him carefully for his reaction to what you say next.

“You should break things off.”

He flinches as if you’ve punched him in the stomach.

“What?”

“You should. I clearly can’t, so you have to be the one to do it. Do it, Declan. End things with me right here, right now. Please.”

Your tone is weak and unconvincing, as if you can’t even bring yourself to say the words with any conviction.

“I can’t,” he confesses, voice breaking on the last word. “I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling it slowly as if he’s buying himself some time. You wait patiently for him to continue, nerves frayed at the edges.

“Because I love you.”

Now it’s your turn to flinch, his admission smacking you across the face violently.

“You-”

“Yes. I love you, sweetheart. It’s taken me a while to figure all of this out, but I know it now. That’s why I’ve never been able to end this. Because it’s not just incredible sex… it’s something more. Something real.”

There are tears welling in your eyes as you look at him, watching the way he lays his heart on his sleeve in the moonlight just for you.

“I’m scared,” you confess. “I love you too and it scares me.”

You don’t miss the way his face lights up as you say it, but he’s trying to keep a careful lid on his emotions for now.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to ya. You know that.”

All you can do is nod in response, digesting everything that has happened in the last five minutes. You do know that. He’s proven time and time again that you’re not just some fleeting fling to him.

“Declan?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Now he grins like an idiot, eyes alive with adrenaline and hope.

“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard ya say.”

You tuck some hair behind his ear before leaning in to gently press your lips to his, wanting to seal the moment. He kisses you back sweetly at first, before taking control with more force, slipping his tongue into your mouth cheekily. You happily let him take the lead, sighing in contentment as you melt into him.

“C’mere.”

Climbing over onto his lap, you hinge your legs on either side of his in the drivers seat, straddling his hips. You try to straighten up but end up hitting your head on the roof of the car, which makes you both wheeze with laughter.

“This car is too fucking small,” you grumble, rubbing the spot that you smacked.

“Y’alright? Want me to kiss it better?”

You hate the way the teasing tone in his voice shoots right to your core, shaking your head in defiance.

“Fuck off,” you mumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Patronising bastard.”

“I like it when you get your claws out,” he chuckles, tracing patterns on your thighs over your jeans. “S’hot.”

You kiss him again to shut him up, biting at his bottom lip in punishment. He groans all low and slow, which makes you grind your hips into his, despite the multiple layers of clothing separating you.

“Backseat,” he whispers, pushing you off of him gently. “More room.”

You splay yourself across the wide back seat, opening your legs so Declan can slot in between them.

“You’ve got too many clothes on,” he prompts as he shrugs off his own jacket and undoes his belt.

You can’t help but chuckle at his impatience, happily taking off your coat and jumper and unbuttoning your jeans. Your breath catches in your throat when you look back up at him - he’s wearing the Venturer t shirt that hugs his biceps just right, accentuating every delicious muscle he has to offer you.

“Wore it for you,” he mutters against your lips. “Know you like me in a t shirt.”

You roll your eyes but kiss him with determination anyway, all teeth and tongue and clashing bodies. You’re clawing at his clothed shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist to buck your hips into his.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he mumbles into the skin of your neck, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “Lying awake at night thinking about your thighs, your tits, your cunt.”

All you can do is sigh, fingers digging into his biceps in desperation.

“Wish I could take my time with you like you deserve. These quick fucks just aren’t the same.”

He sounds almost upset about it, voice staying deep and low.

“Remember that time I stayed the night? And you couldn’t walk in the morning?”

You laugh breathily, thinking back fondly to that night a few months ago. You’d both orchestrated it so carefully, crafting cautious lies and fabricated stories to snatch a good sixteen hours of time together.

“Need that again soon. Might have to start sneaking ya into my house in the dark, make you climb the gutters like we’re in a film. Although, it is a bit hard to keep you quiet.”

You try valiantly to ignore the heat that flushes across your chest as he teases you, knowing that he’s right.

“Declan?”

“Yeah, baby?”

You grab his hand and shove it down your underwear, jeans trapped around your thighs. There’s very minimal room in this tiny car, but you’re both determined to make it work. He groans when he feels how wet you are, swiping through your core.

“Fuck me. Have you been like this the entire time?”

“Since this afternoon,” you whimper, trying to grind down onto his fingers. “Couldn’t stop thinking about when you ate me out on my kitchen worktop last week. My legs were shaking for two days afterwards.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, slipping a finger into you as he drops his head onto your shoulder. “I got myself off thinking about that yesterday. I swear if I concentrate, I can still taste you on my tongue.”

All you can do is whimper, desperate to have him in any way you can. The fact that you have the same effect on him that he does on you makes your head spin, dizzy with want.

“Don’t make me wait,” you beg, cradling his face so he has to look you in the eye. “Fuck me, please. Please, Declan.”

“Okay, pretty girl. I’ll give ya anything you want. Anything.”

He shuffles around so he’s sat back on his knees, pushing his jeans and underwear down just enough to free himself. You spread your legs as wide as you can, trying to give him as much room as possible. It’s not the first time you’ve found yourself in this position in this car with him - and it won’t be the last.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss you, licking across your teeth with his tongue. “Most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.”

He slides into you with ease, both of you gasping at the familiar sensation. Your nails are digging into his shoulders as he holds your hips in a bruising grip, pads of his fingertips biting into your flesh.

Declan doesn’t waste any time, setting a relentless pace that has you bouncing across the seat. The car is shaking like crazy, all the windows fogged up - anyone who passes will know exactly what’s happening inside.

The man above you can read you like a book and play you like a fiddle. He knows the exact angles of his hips that’ll have you keening, the certain spots to focus on that’ll have you seeing stars. He knows you better than anyone, in more ways than one.

“That’s it,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Atta girl. Taking it like you were made for me.”

“Maybe I was,” you breathe, tipping your head back to give him access to your neck. “Just for you.”

He groans all melted and golden like molten honey, the vibrato of it rumbling through your bones. You’re holding onto him for dear life, as if he’s the only thing tethering you to this reality. When his thumb finds your clit to rub firm, slow circles, you’re convinced you’re floating on another plane of existence.

The only word you can seem to formulate is Declan, which only pushes him closer to the finish line. He’s determined to get you there first, angling his hips upward to hit that one spot that has you gasping. When he moves one hand to your throat and gently squeezes, you fall apart instantly, taking him with you.

“I love you,” he breathes as he comes, forehead resting on yours. “My girl.”

You’re shuddering and shaking as you lie underneath him, panting like you’ve just ran ten miles. Declan collapses on top of you, laying his head on your chest comfortably. Your fingers rake through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp like you’ve done so many times before.

You both allow yourselves to close your eyes for a minute, recovering and attempting to catch your breath. You’re convinced, for a moment, that you’ll never feel more peaceful than you do right now. You breathe each other in, satiated and content.

You finally open your eyes, expecting to see nothing but fogged windows and starlit darkness. Instead, you see a man bending down, looking straight at you. Arguably the worst possible person that could see the two of you in the position you’re in.

Rupert Campbell Black.

He’s grinning like an idiot, shaking his head in disbelief.

You’re about to warn the man in your arms when Rupert opens the car door, slipping himself into the drivers seat and spinning so he’s facing you. Declan has jumped out of his skin, jolting upwards to cover you as best he can.

Rupert smirks all dirty and knowing, eyes dancing over your half naked forms.

“Well, well, well. Secrets out, lovers.”

@graceflorence @dionysus-drabbles

as aaaaaaaalways… reblogs are golden!! they’re the currency of tumblr, my loves. you reblog, and your favourite writers will write you more fics. simple as that. mwah. <3

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Your Declan fic was SO good. That’s how u discovered your account and I can’t wait for the other Rivals fics you have coming up!!!

If you are still taking requests, I would die for protective Declan O’Hara in any situation. Love your stuff!!

man of the hour.

the sexiest thing about a man is his moustache morals.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - cursing. a little violence and a quick injury description.

word count - 2k

authors note - I truly believe that one of the sexiest things about declan is the fact that he stands up for what he believes in… don’t underestimate the aphrodisiac powers of strong morals, ladies and gents. need him to stand up for me sometime🧎‍♀️‍➡️. anyway this ended up much softer than I meant it to be (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing) <3

masterlist. inbox.

“Can I get you another drink?”

You laugh as the man swings an arm around your shoulders, the heavy weight of it almost taking you down.

“You’ve asked me that four times in the last five minutes, Bas. Thank you, though.”

“Just want to make sure you’re having a good time.”

He’s yelling into your ear, both of you fighting to raise your voices above the noise of Bar Sinister.

“I’m always having a good time with you,” you tease, leaning into his side. “I’m alright, Bas. Promise.”

“You need to let loose for once in your life.”

“I’ll let loose on a day I’m not working.”

“You’re always working.”

“What can I say? He’s hard fucking work.”

You both look over to your boss, who’s currently animatedly telling Declan a story. Rupert’s gesturing so exaggeratedly that people are ducking out of the way, both men laughing and completely oblivious as beer and whiskey splash all over the floor.

Bas presses a kiss into your hair, squeezing you tightly.

“I don’t know what he’d do without you.”

“Well, he never has to find out. We’re stuck with each other,” you chuckle. “Best job I’ve ever had, surprisingly.”

“I won’t tell him you said that,” Bas winks, laughing.

The sound of multiple glasses smashing has the both of you whipping your heads around, trying to find the source of the commotion.

“Shit. I’ll see you later, darling. Come and find me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Course.”

Bas disappears into the bustling crowd, leaving you standing at the bar. It’s absolutely manic, people packed in to the rafters and bumping into each other left, right and centre.

You’re about to make your way over to Rupert when a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you backwards so hard that you stumble over your own feet. You tug your arm away, finally getting a good look at the person who’s responsible.

“Spencer?”

“Oh, so you do remember me then?”

“… What? We were together for six months, and I don’t have short term memory loss, so… yes.”

“I just meant because you’re hanging around with the elite now. The rumour is that you’re working for Rupert Campbell Black.”

“I am working for Rupert Campbell Black. It’s not a secret, Spencer. I’m his aide and assistant. I’m working for Venturer, too, helping with their public relations. And you are… what? Still pretending to work for your father when you really just spend your days drinking and betting?”

“I do work for my father.”

“Of course you do.”

He steps forward, getting into your personal space.

“What are you doing in here, Spencer? You don’t even live in Rutshire.”

“Thought I’d pop in, see if you were here. Wanted to see if there was any truth to the rumours.”

“Well, you’ve put the rumours to bed now, haven’t you?”

“Not the only thing that’s been put to bed,” he murmurs, just low enough so you only catch half of it.

“Pardon me?”

Your entire body is taut with tension, nerves alert and heart racing. You can only imagine how uncomfortable you must look, praying that someone notices sooner rather than later.

“Which one are you sleeping with, then?”

“Spencer-”

“No, come on. You finished things with me, so there must be another man. Who is it?”

“I’m finished things with you - eight months ago, mind you - because you’re an immature prick who’s so pretentious it makes you deeply unlikeable. There was no other man, I’d just rather be single than be with you.”

His chest puffs out as he starts to go red with rage, anger bubbling up in his veins. You know that you’re not completely unsafe here in this room full of people, but that doesn’t calm your anxiety in the slightest.

“Which one is it, hmm?” his voice is raising, getting louder with every passing minute. “Which one looks like your type?”

He points at Seb first, quirking an eyebrow.

“Him?”

When you don’t respond, he moves on to pointing at Patrick.

“Him?”

You shake your head almost imperceptibly, wishing that the ground would swallow you up.

“Oh my god… it’s him, isn’t it?”

His eyes have landed on Rupert, who’s still stood across the room. Your boss is looking at you, now, quickly assessing the situation you’re in.

“You’re fucking Rupert Campbell Black?!”

The entire crowd of people goes silent as he practically screams it, everyone’s heads turning to look at you.

“She’s… what?” Rupert, Declan and Bas all ask at the exact same time, hilariously in sync.

“Fucked your way up to the top, did you? Classy as always.”

Spencer goes to continue his sentence, but hits the floor suddenly with a heavy thud. You look up to see Declan shaking off his hand, chest heaving with adrenaline. Your ex boyfriend has a busted lip, blood dripping down his chin and onto his awfully unflattering shirt.

“It’s called hard work, you arrogant little prick. Not that you’d know.”

Declan’s Irish accent sounds stronger than usual, coloured with fury and aggression. Bas has dragged Spencer to his feet, both him and Rupert holding him upright.

“If I ever catch you anywhere near here again, I’ll do more than just split your fucking lip. You understand?”

Spencer nods, clearly still dizzy from the impact of the punch. He’s dragged outside before anyone can say anything else, the crowd returning back to their drinks as if nothing ever happened.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Declan links his fingers with yours before you can register what’s happening, pulling you through the bar and out of the back door. You take a seat on the brick wall, legs dangling over the edge as you kick your feet.

“You okay?” he asks as he sits down next to you, just close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”

You don’t really know how to feel, confused by the whole ordeal.

“He seems like a nice boy.”

You laugh suddenly at the bad joke, shaking your head as Declan laughs with you. It’s not a sound you hear from him all that often.

“Sorry you had to punch him.”

“I didn’t have to. Kinda wanted to, though.”

“Me too.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours, looking at you carefully.

“I didn’t just hit him for a laugh, you know. I was worried he was going to hurt ya.”

“I was too,” you whisper, vulnerability bleeding into your tone.

“I’d never of let that happen. I promise, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours again, fingers gently sliding in between yours. He rests your intertwined hands on his thigh, thumb rubbing patterns on your skin.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You sit in silence for a long moment, enjoying the way the warmth of his palm seeps slowly into yours.

“I didn’t think anyone had even noticed Spencer was there.”

“I saw as soon as he walked in, because I knew I didn’t recognise him. I tried to give you some space, thought maybe you were friends or something. Didn’t want to intervene and embarrass ya.”

“Ex boyfriend, if you haven’t already guessed. We were only together about six months all in all, about eight months ago. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. He’s fucking awful.”

“You can say that again,” he chuckles, hand squeezing yours. “Not sure what you ever saw in him.”

“Neither am I, anymore. I don’t know, maybe I just liked having someone really like me, as sad as that sounds. Dating is fun and exciting and… well, it’s supposed to be. God knows it isn’t, for me.”

Declan slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side to keep the evening chill at bay. You can hear the ruckus from inside, everyone in the bar carrying on as usual.

“I think you just keep choosing the wrong men, darlin’. Don’t swear off dating just because of a few bad apples.”

“I mean, I haven’t dated anyone since Spencer, and that finished eight months ago. I’d rather stay single than date any more of these posh boys who’ve never worked a day in their lives.”

He laughs, and the vibrations of it rumble through the both of you, settling into your bones. All you can think about is how warm he is and how good he smells and how if you leaned in an inch to your left, you could kiss him right on the cheek.

“What if it’s me?” you can’t help but ask quietly. “What if I’m the reason I can’t find someone?”

“What?”

“I mean, I work for Rupert - which I love - but my job is my life now. He’s a handful as it is, and now with all the Venturer stuff… all I do is work. And I know I’m not pretty like Taggie or powerful and bossy like Cameron but-”

“You’re beautiful.”

Declan stops you in your tracks, his interruption derailing your train of thought completely.

“I- what?”

“Sweetheart, the only reason I noticed that prat Spencer earlier was because I was already looking at you.”

“You were?”

“I always am.”

“… Why?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It’s like this… gravitational pull. You light up a room.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” you chuckle nervously.

“I wish it was.”

You don’t know what to say, so you lean further into his side, resting your head on his broad shoulder and breathing him in.

“I would have said something sooner,” he murmurs, “but Rupert would fucking kill me.”

“He’s not my keeper, Declan.”

“No, but he’s your boss. And for all intents and purposes, your big brother.”

He rests his head atop of yours, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“How’s your hand?”

“Perfectly fine,” he laughs, squeezing your thigh. “I’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank God for that.”

Declan turns his body so he can look at you properly, big hands coming up to cradle your face. Neither of you say anything, waiting with tense anticipation for the other person to move first.

You surprise yourself by leaning in and planting a kiss on his lips, chaste and testing the waters. You begin to overthink everything the minute you pull back, worried that you’ve misread his kindness. As if he can read your mind, he tangles a hand into your hair and tugs you back into him, kissing you with a passion you’ve never experienced before.

His tongue slips into your mouth cheekily as you let him take the lead, happy to surrender the control to him. You’ve dreamt about this, late nights in bed spent wondering if the real thing would live up to your imagination. It definitely does.

Eventually, you both pull away, panting and flushed. You can no longer feel the chill in the air, the warmth of Declan keeping the cold at bay.

“Don’t tell Rupert,” he whispers, dirty smirk written across his face.

You can’t help but laugh, giddy off of the weight of the moment. Before tonight, you’d begun to accept that you might have been slightly delusional when it came to Declan - reading into his fingers brushing yours when you handed him something, him winking at you across the room, his palm pressing into your back as he walked past. Now you know - it wasn’t delusion. They were signals.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Secret’s safe with me.”

He pecks your lips again quickly before standing up, outstretching his hands for you to grab so he can pull you with him.

“You wanna go back inside?”

“No, think I’m done for the night.”

“Will you let me walk you home?”

You look at him smiling down at you all soft and sweet, and realise instantly that you’re in trouble. This isn’t something either of you are going to be able to just brush past. This’ll be haunting both of your memories every single day until it happens again.

“I’d like that.”

“Come on then, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

Declan links his fingers with yours, happy to let you steer him in the right direction. Neither of you say much. You don’t need to.

The way his palm fits perfectly against yours tells you both everything you need to know.

@lostinthefandoms11 @prettycoolgirl @buzzcutlip

don’t make me give the reblogs are invaluable to your writers speech again… i’ve given it one too many times… but you know the deal… reblog if you enjoyed and I shall write more for you <3

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Erm Declan with a breeding kink thank you and goodnight 😌

a quick and filthy declan blurb/drabble for your sunday evening. you’re welcome. smut warning !!

“It’s a shame,” he murmurs, hand pressing down on your lower stomach where he can feel himself. “We’ve been so careful. So cautious.”

His other hand bends your legs back even further so they’re practically tucked against your chest, folded in half by his effortless strength.

“Now everybody will know about us.”

You’re so confused, not understanding what he’s getting at with his point. It’s dizzying - his hips slowly grinding into yours, the weight of his body pinning you down, his breath in your ear tickling your skin. Your head is spinning.

“Why?” you breathe out, whining.

He smirks all wicked and devious, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Well, we can’t exactly be a secret if you’re pregnant, can we?”

You’re gasping, both at his words and at his thumb rubbing circles on your clit suddenly.

“You’ll look so pretty when you’re showing,” he teases, kissing along your jaw. “We won’t be able to hide it anymore. Everyone will know you’re mine.”

You’re coming unexpectedly, clenching around him so tightly that he can’t help but groan. Declan’s still pressing you down into the mattress, not even allowing your back to arch off of the bed.

“That’s it, there we go. Atta girl. Few more of those just to make sure, yeah? Gotta make sure it takes when I fill you up.”

All you can do is pant his name, stars clouding your vision as he presses a kiss to your forehead before picking up his rhythm even more brutal than before.

“You were made for me, sweetheart. And now everyone will finally know it.”

[araybiaaa]

declan’s drowning out the sorrows of his marriage when he runs into someone that has him succumbing to temptation and questioning the stability of his relationship.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

pairing: declan o’hara x cameron cook

fandom: rivals (2024)

tags: infidelity, drinking, cunnilingus, fingering, vulgar language.

notes: hiiiiii, i wrote this after briefly watching the season and falling in love with their dynamic. i didn’t watch the whole thing, just their scenes, nor have i read the book(s?) so i don’t know anything about them except that they do have an affair 🤭. but this was written based off of as limited knowledge about the show as possible!

link to chapter two!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He’s slouched in one of the stools at the pub’s counter — his fingers loosely grip the handle on the mug of beer that he’d been babysitting for half of the night that he’s sure had become disgustingly lukewarm as it sat there nearly forgotten.

He drowns out the rancorous noise that ricochets throughout the room; sulking deeper in his melancholy as he absentmindedly thumbed his wedding band around his finger. A heavy sigh passes through his lips as he rubbed a weary hand against his forehead — frustration, confusion and exasperation tense deeply in his bones causing his jaw to gnash and hands to clench.

It’s only been a few weeks since Maud’s departure and all he’s been able to think about since then were her parting accusations of him being emotionally detached and distracted from her and their marriage recently. And it infuriated him every time he thought about it because she knew how important it’s been for him to rebuild his image after leaving Corinium and how pivotal it was to ensure Venturer’s success. Maybe his attention had been slightly thwarted, but it surely didn’t warrant her leaving him and the girls behind to pursue her nearly forgotten career.

He still hadn’t told Caitlin about what happened; though she pondered the truth behind her mother’s egress every day. Both Caitlin and Taggie were old enough to understand the tribulations that come along with marriage — they’ve witnessed enough arguments (and reconciliations) between their parents to know that their relationship had been anything but perfect. But there was still apart of Declan that wanted to shield his daughter from this part; to keep her naive to his inadvertent fuck up that made their mother leave.

He attempted to seek out contact with Maud, to check in and offer another sheepish apology for his neglect. But she declined every one, always using one of her friends as a mediator and telling him to leave a message for her instead. And all Declan could think about was how petulant Maud’s antics were. Here he was desperate in his efforts of reconciliation just for her to only avoid him in return.

If anything, he should be the one that’s upset.

Ever since they arrived to Rutshire her attitude’s been nothing but negative. He’s been trying to make this place a home for them. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, uprooting her life for this taboo environment, but he hoped that she would show support for him and this new change that he was pursuing.

But it’s been antithetical of that.

And even so, Declan still remained hopeful in her and their love for one another.

(Maybe that’s the problem.)

He scoffs, feeling his jaw go rigid against his cheek. Bringing the mug up to his parted lips, Declan chugs down some of the drink and nearly gags at the frothiness that chisels down his throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” He murmurs, absentmindedly pushing the mug aside before he pats his pockets in search for his carton of cigarettes.

He was supposed to be staving off the horrid addiction. It was a promise that he made months ago to Taggie who had vocalized her concerns to him about the vice — reciting facts of their detriment to his health and he did initially intend on keeping that promise, because it had gotten to the point where he found himself smoking at least two packs throughout the day.

But here he was succumbing to his vice again; solemnly breaking the covenant as he reached inside and retrieved a cigarette from the carton. She wouldn’t have to know. He reveries, in attempts to absolve himself from the guilt that gnawed at him.

Plucking the cigarette between his parted lips, Declan then retrieves his lighter.

He retracted the baselid back and pressed down on the rivulet until an orange and red flame ignited. He hovered it over the end of the cigarette until it’s ablaze and the repugnant smell of the cigarette lingers in his nostrils. Once it’s lit, he hollows his cheeks out in a pucker as he inhales softly, the nicotine constricts against his lungs as he suspired softly into the air.

“Damn, it looks like you’ve had a day,” His attention averts as he turns his head and peers over his shoulder, seeing Cameron standing beside him. She’s dressed uncharacteristically informal; opting out of her colorful work pantsuits and tight fitted skirts in exchange for a simple sleeveless black dress that cinched her sinuous figure. Her hair’s styled in an updo coiffure, her face is primped with blush coloring her cheeks and red lipstick staining her lips.

Though it looks like she was dressed for a night intended for commemoration, her expression looked reciprocal of his somber one. He chuckled wryly, the sound’s gruff against the back of his throat as he nodded his head. “Looks like I’ve had a week is more like it,” He accents, discarding the remnants of the ash into the ashtray before he’s plucking the cigarette back into his mouth.

He reaches over and picks up his jacket, freeing the seat beside him so that she’s able to make her perch. “Thanks,” She says as she slides into the stool with a heavy sigh that has him chuckling softly in his own hubris.

“Looks like we’ve both had a day, eh?”

Cameron’s expression weens only slightly as she rolls her eyes. But there’s a smile playing on her lips that reveal her amusement at his tease. She nods, turning her head as she looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s got you so down that you’re in a pub drinking at — ” She pauses to look down at her watch before continuing, “two in the afternoon?”

Declan shags a hand through his hair.

He’s never been too particularly keen on talking about his personal life especially with people that he worked with, but Declan’s been so confused about everything that he needed an outsider’s opinion about the situation. And out of everyone, he knows that Cameron would be the least bias and most brutally honest with him. “It’s uh, me and Maud…” He begins before divulging into the details of her vocalizing his neglect and of her abrupt departure.

When he’s done talking, he pauses to gauge Cameron’s reaction trying to decipher her response. “I mean what do you think? Was I really being a shite husband?”

“Honestly?” Cameron asks, in which Declan nods his head. “I think that she used that as an excuse because she wanted to leave. She probably didn’t know how to say it or didn’t want to sound like a shitty mother so she figured it was easier to blame you instead,” She shrugs, watching as Declan’s features furrowed in contemplation. “But that’s just my opinion,” She reached past him and grabbed his mug of beer, raising her eyebrow at him in a questioning gesture.

He nods, gesturing for her to take it.

Was Cameron right?

Did Maud use their marital issues as some kind of ploy just so she could run away from the life she’s despised since their arrival?

“If you think that you’re having a bad day, I was just stood up by Tony who was supposed to meet me for lunch,” Cameron laments, licking her beer slick lips as she chugged down Declan’s drink. She lowered her eyes, almost chagrined by her confession as she tapped her fingers against the glass. “I waited two hours for him. I sat there looking so stupid,” She murmurs, swallowing thickly as she chanced a brief look at him.

She narrowed her eyes. “What?” She questions, almost accusatorially in her prose.

Declan shakes his head, “Nothing.” But then he relents, pivoting his body in his stool as he turned to face her. “You’re aware that you don’t have to sleep with him, right?” And the way he phrases it must come out terribly wrong because she’s scoffing in offense at him and her lax demeanor’s suddenly one of hostility.

“Yes, I’m aware.” She accents, “Contrary to popular belief around the office I didn’t sleep my way to my position. Tony and I started after I was already producer.”

“I didn’t mean—” Declan pauses airily, taking a brief moment to carefully heed his words. “I just meant that you’re too talented and pretty to be wasting your years of youth on the likes of someone like Tony. He’s never leaving Monica. You’re being foolishly naive if you think otherwise.”

“I’m not naive. I know exactly what the situation is; Tony gives me what I want and I give him what he wants. What we have is enough for us.”

Declan nods, muttering his disbelief. He took another drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out into the ashtray. “Right and how’s that working out for ya?”

“I don’t know. Just as good as it’s working out for you and your wife,” Cameron rebuttals, her defense stark in its abhorrence.

“You’re a bitch.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“You come up to me crying over that elf looking shite and all I do is tell you that you deserve better and somehow I’m the bad guy?” He asks, bewildered at her misdirected projection. Cameron averts her gaze, suddenly feeling chagrined by Declan’s confrontation. She pushed the now half empty mug aside and clambered to her feet.

He takes immediate notice of this and sighs wearily. He didn’t intend to upset her. He was just frustrated that she was acting so oblivious to Tony’s deception. He knows that it’s not his business of who she chooses to sleep with and she’s not his for him to harbor this kind of concern for, but he does and he wanted her to see him for who he truly is, but he realizes that it would only be futile.

“Cameron, don’t — I’m sorry, alright?” He apologizes, reaching outwardly so that he’s grabbing ahold of her wrist to halt her from leaving.

He feels her pulse quicken beneath his touch just as his own hastens in an alike staccato. He quickly withdraws his hand away from her, feeling his cheeks flush in warmth and he hurriedly reaches for his beer and swallows down the disgusting froth to hide the blush from her. He’s surprised that she’s still standing there when he turns around again. Her expression is indiscernible as he looks at her.

“I’m not stupid.”

He blinks, confused by her sudden apropos, but nods nonetheless. “I know.”

“And I’m not a little girl who’s being blinded by some kind of forbidden love. So I don’t need you or anyone else worrying about me or who I choose to fuck, got it?” She’s standing so closely to him now that he could smell the saccharine fragrance of her perfume invading his nostrils; and though her expression’s furrowed in a moue, there’s a softness that’s revealed behind her eyes that makes Declan inwardly ponder if she too questioned the logic behind her loyalty to Tony.

But he doesn’t question it.

He only nods in understanding, concurring with a reaffirming, “Got it.”

…

He truly doesn’t know how it happened.

One minutes she’s berating him and defending her secret relationship with Tony and the next minute she’s grabbing him by the hand and dragging him down the hallway towards the bathroom. His reluctance is only brief; his mind wanders on Maud, his thumb brushes over his wedding band and he’s parting his mouth to tell Cameron that he couldn’t —

He couldn’t.

They couldn’t.

But then he does.

He doesn’t know who started leaning in first: her or him. But the distance that was once between them was suddenly beginning to decimate. Declan’s neck inclines as he leans down to meet her height. He brushes his lips against her mouth in a shy, yet chaste kiss. It was bare, the contact was so faint that it nearly feels like they hadn’t kissed.

Cameron retracts away slightly, licking her lips as the needy desperation to feel his mouth against hers arose. “Kiss me again,” She avers and Declan’s avid as he complies and leans in again, seeking out her lips.

He slides his mouth over hers, tasting and ravishing in the softness of her lips. There’s a soft groan that emanates (who it came from is also unknown), that causes Cameron to tilts her head and capture his lips at a better angle. Declan’s hand reaches up and cradles her face within his grasp as he tugged her closer.

Her lips are soft and insistent as they moved in a feverish tandem against his. When Declan slacks his jaw and deepens the kiss, Cameron feels her knees nearly buckle beneath her and she has to wrap her arms around his heightened neck to keep herself from stumbling over.

His tongue traces along the outline of her bottom lip begging for entrance. Cameron’s haste to concede as she widens her mouth open, allowing him to receive better access of her lips.

His face is flushed; lips are swollen and sticky from her lipstick that had messily transferred from her lips to his. His eyes are a little dazed, awestruck as he looked at her in a profound adoration. He leans forward and captures her mouth in a feverish kiss, teasingly nudging his nose against hers while his hands squeezed at her hips. And it’s ridiculous how Declan easily finds himself needy for Cameron; how he’s already so far gone just from a few exchanged kisses — and the earlier thoughts of his trepidation (and of Maud) had ceased to exist because all he was focused on now was her.

Her lips are soft and insistent against his, tasting faintly of his beer that she consumed earlier. She kisses him with fervor; tugging her teeth over the swell of skin on his lower lip as she ravished him completely. His lungs burn, desperate to part for air, but didn’t relent as he slid his hands down her back and rounded them until he’s got a firm grip on her ass. She moans wantonly in his mouth, reciprocating the gesture as she reached in between their bodies and cupped him through his jeans.

“Make me forget,” She murmurs against his mouth as she deepens the kiss, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket as they nearly stumble into the sink.

And he doesn’t have it in him to question exactly what she wanted to forget — maybe it’s because he’s too focused on wanting to forget his own troubles of his marriage that’s still currently left in its arbitrary limbo. Or maybe it’s because he knows that after this, she’s going forget about him and go crawling back to an undeserving Tony. Either way he doesn’t question it, he only nods as he kissed her filthily and shoved his tongue down her throat.

Declan’s hands abandon their perch on her waist, lowering until they’re gripping at her thighs. His fingers are cold against her skin as he slides one hand in between the crux of her inner thighs. Cameron’s hands grip at the front of his shirt clinging onto him tightly when he brushes his thumb against her cunt.

He’s surprised when he feels that she’s wearing no underwear. His jaw clenched at the realization that she’d done that for fucking prick Tony. But he finds resolve in the fact that he didn’t receive the opportunity of having her body today, not like how Declan’s got her right now in this moment.

Without the frustrating barrier of fabric between them, he’s able to slide a finger inside of her without any qualms. He brushes through her coiled pubic hair and twists his wrist; turning it so that his palm is facing inwardly. Declan curls his forefinger and middle finger, using them to spread her open. His fingers drenches in her arousal; it’s sticky and has sweet smell that lingers in his nostrils.

“Declan,” Cameron’s body spams the moment his fingers pucker inside of her.

Her cunt clenches tightly around him; already sensitized to his touch. She spreads her legs further, allowing him more space to work his fingers inside of her. She bites on his bottom lip, still gripping at his shirt as she thrusts her hips against his fingers.

The wet squelching sounds of his fingers sliding diligently inside of her, in and out, along with their heaving labored breathing ricocheted throughout the airtight room. There’s a delicious burn that stings on his scalp when Cameron digs her fingers into his hair and tugs on it for leverage. She whimpers, fluttering her eyes close when she feels her stomach tighten in recoil. Her toes curl, her cunt throbs and envelopes a tight grip around Declan’s thick fingers.

“That’s it. C’mon,” He murmurs softly against her mouth and she’s a blubbering mess, body shaking, hips still moving to their own accord as she chases her orgasm. She’s close; he can tell from the way she flutters around him and how her breathing lulls.

But Declan wanted to selfishly prolong her orgasm. If all he would have was this one time with her, he wanted to savor every moment — wanted to taste every inch of her body, feel his cock penetrating every hole of hers.

He lowers himself to his knees on the filthy bathroom floor.

He nudged his face between her thighs, placing both of her legs over his shoulders as he adjusted himself. She’s leaking on his lips, the taste is sweet on his tongue.

“Hnn,” Cameron murmurs, tightening her legs around his head as she thrusted her hips against his face. His mustache burns against her thighs as he eats her out, but the pain of it adds a stimulation that has Cameron’s eyes stinging with tears. She runs her hands through his hair, nearly suffocating his face in her cunt as her head falls against the mirror behind her.

“D-Declan! Fuck. I’m gonna—” She stammers incoherently, averting her gaze down at him. She can see her wetness sheening and dripping messily down his chin; coating in the bristles of his mustache. The sight of it is all it takes for her to finally cum. She moans, high and loud as it spills out of her. Her legs tremble from the exertion.

He rouses to his feet and seeks her mouth out for a kiss. The taste of her passes between their tongues; sweet and salty.

“Fuck me. Now.” She avers, grabbing ahold of his waistband as she hefted herself atop of the coldness of the sink. And of course he’s willing to comply to anything that she’s asking of him. His hands are shaking with avidity as he unzipped his pants and tugged them around his ankles. His cock’s already half stout and messily leaking precum from its flushed tip.

Cameron looks up at him underneath her eyelashes, avid and ready, watching as he palmed his cock in his hand. He slicks himself with his precum, giving the half-stout flesh a few haste tugs until he’s fully hard and curled against his thigh. “Don’t cum in me.” She reprimands in forewarning, scooting herself to the edge of the sink so that he’s allotted better leverage.

Declan silenced her with a kiss.

He adjusted his position between her thighs and slid a hand underneath her as he hefted her legs around his waist. He lined himself at her opening; then in one fluid motion, slid into her with a nudging thrust. She’s so wet that he slides into her without resistance. She flutters around his cock; still sensitive and swollen from earlier.

“Jesus,” He marvels in awe at the tightness that captures around him upon his intrusion. She’s so tight and warm and she feels so fucking good around him that he nearly forgets to breathe.

There’s a delicious burn that spreads through her thighs as he penetrates her inch by inch, nudging her open until her cunt’s swallowing his cock whole. The pain subsides and is immediately replaced by pleasure. He continues to nudge until he feels the tip of his cock buried completely at the hilt as he bottoms her out.

His breath comes out in warm puffs as he sits there waiting for both of them to adjust to the stretch of his girth. It’s Cameron’s hand reached behind him and squeezing his ass that lets her know she’s adjusted to the accommodation. He leans down and kisses her slowly and sensually, sliding his tongue messily within hers as he gyrated the first thrust. He pistons a full body roll, letting his pelvis linger against hers as he fucks her slowly.

A breath catches in his throat at the tight pull her cunt captures around his cock.

Cameron’s eyes flutter and her throat clicks when he rolls his hips and fucks a long stroke back into her. Her jaw goes slack as her mouth parted open slightly ajar while she keened loudly in pleasure. Pleading whimpers and breathy moans falls off of her kiss-swollen lips as she arches her back and tosses her head back.

Her clenching cunt pulls him back in every time he slips out of her; it’s perfect the way they move in tandem, both reciprocating the emphasized gyration of their hips, fucking each other into oblivion.

They’re nose to nose, their breaths tickling each other’s face, their eyes never wavering from each other’s gazes.

He’s nearly distracted by how breathtaking she is.

He rolls his hips up into her, hitting her in her g-spot that makes her croon and nearly melt right there in his arms. Her hair is sodden with sweat. Her skin is sticky and slick; the sweat cascades down her face starting from her hairline and trickling down her torso where droplets of the salty body fluid travels between the valley of her breasts.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” He mutters, his eyes now focused on the sight of his cock extracting and reentering her, as she shifts her hips and bottomed him out completely until the tip of him prodded against her hilt again.

He thrusts into her with abandon, grabbing her ass, pulling her already working hips closer to him, pushing himself deeper.

Their heavy breaths mingle and she chokes back a sob once she feels the precipice of her orgasm creeping up on her. Declan grunts as he thrusted shallowly inside of her. She cums moments later, the saccharine milkiness of her orgasm spills from inside of her and messily coats his cock.

Declan continued to fuck her through it, milking her completely dry until she goes boneless. His hips jerk, body goes taut as he feels his own release creeping along the precipice. He pulls out; groaning gutturally as he feels his cock lurch when he cums messily all over her thighs. He falls haphazardly onto her, burying his face against her sweaty neck.

They stand there in each other’s embrace until he softens. He pulls his flaccid cock out of her, using a piece of paper towel to aide her in the post orgasm clean up. He shoved his cock back inside of his briefs before tugging them back over his hips. He runs a hand through his hair, chancing a hesitant look up at Cameron.

She avoids his gaze as she settles unsteadily to her feet. Declan reaches a hand out on her back to help her. “I’m okay,” He nods, quickly withdrawing his hand from her as he shoved them into the front of his pockets instead.

He looks at Cameron, sighing softly. “I-”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Cameron says with a shrug, pulling her dress back down over her hips and ass. Her tone was dismissively insouciant but the way she looked at him completely contradicted her words. “It was just a one time thing. An itch that we both needed to scratch.”

But Declan’s not positive that he would deduce with the same trivialization as her. Sure, maybe that’s what it started off as — a way to release the pent up frustration that had been festering for weeks because of his issues with Maud but somewhere in the middle of it he felt something…shift. Like a realization had dawned upon him, one that he’d been completely oblivious to prior to today.

“Cameron,”

“Declan,” She mimicked, causing him to sigh deeply in exasperation.

“I can’t…” When he pauses, she raises an eyebrow up at him in curiosity. “I can’t go back to pretending like things are normal between us,” Not after knowing what you feel and taste like. He could already feel himself salivating for another taste of her on his tongue, could feel his cock stirring at how her dress cups her ass.

God, he’s never been this pathetic before.

“You’ll forget all about it once your wife comes back.” She says, turning away from him so that she could do some last minute touch ups on her disheveled appearance. “Don’t try to get attached to something that we both know won’t last. I learned that a long time ago.” She reapplied another coating of her lipstick that had gotten smudged from Declan’s mouth and blotched her lips.

When she looks at him again, she gives him a sympathetic look. And her mouth fixes like she wanted to say something, but whatever thoughts wandered her mind became lost in the void because she only walks off leaving Declan standing there conflicted.

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

summary: Declan O'Hara is intrigued by Cassandra "Cassie" Jones, Freddie’s niece, who’s trying to carve her own place in the Rutshire media world. After her bold broadcast challenges the status quo, Declan finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her unapologetic spirit and the fight she's ready to wage. Will their paths collide in ways they hadn't anticipated?

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo)

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [chapter one], [chapter two], [chapter three]

oo. You know what your words can mean

The air in the radio station’s office was stagnant, thick with the mingling scents of stale coffee, damp paper, and the faint tang of cheap cleaning spray. The room was cluttered—stacks of forgotten paperwork teetered on desks, old coffee mugs lined the corners, and a dusty fan in the corner rotated half-heartedly.

A cluster of staff milled about near the break room door, chatting idly as they shuffled papers or scrolled on their phones.

Cassie stood apart, her notepad clutched tightly against her chest, a contrast to the chaos around her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stray strands framed her face. She wore a plain navy blouse and slacks that were practical but pressed, betraying her effort to maintain a professional appearance in an environment that hardly seemed to care.

Mr. Crawford sat slouched at his desk, a man whose very posture radiated disinterest. His graying mustache twitched slightly as he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, the top button of his shirt undone. He smelled faintly of sweat and cigarette smoke, with an undertone of something sharper—perhaps the remnants of last night’s whiskey.

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the desk in front of him. It was a mess of coffee-stained papers and pens chewed down to the plastic, with no sign of the kind of attention she hoped to command.

“Mr. Crawford,” she began, her voice calm but firm despite the tightness in her chest. She gestured slightly with her notepad as she spoke, “I’ve done the research. This story—about the council’s missing funds—it’s got everything. Corruption , negligence , people suffering because the money meant for community projects vanished into thin air. Listeners would eat it up.”

Crawford didn’t bother glancing at her notes or meeting her eyes. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily to the window behind her, as if the striped sunlight cutting through the blinds offered him more intrigue than the words she’d painstakingly prepared.

Cassie sighed, her grip tightening on the notepad as she shifted her weight. She watched him for a moment, taking in the deep-set lines of his face and his air of detached superiority. A pang of doubt gnawed at her resolve, but she quickly shoved it aside.

“It’s not the right fit, love,” he said finally, his words accompanied by the faint wheeze of his breath, “People don’t tune in to your show for all that doom and gloom. They want something lighter. Cheerier . Something that makes them smile while they’re making dinner.”

Cassie’s stomach churned at his words, a familiar mix of frustration and resignation settling over her. Lighter. Cheerier. The phrases clanged in her mind like hollow bells, reminders of how often her ideas had been whittled down to something palatable, something safe.

Her show—once a source of pride—had become a shadow of what she’d envisioned when she first started. She’d imagined herself uncovering stories that mattered: injustices, hidden truths, the kind of reporting that made people sit up and pay attention. Instead, her work had been boxed into a mold. Segments about bake-offs, local fairs, and feel-good community spotlights.

To her credit, she’d done her best to inject some life into it. Her voice carried a natural rhythm, a way of pulling people in even when the content was mundane. If the story was about a garden club’s latest flower show, she’d spin it into a tale of passion and rivalry. If it was a town charity event, she’d find the human angle, weaving a thread of emotion through the narrative.

Her listeners seemed to love her for it, but it wasn’t enough—not for her.

This wasn’t the kind of work that made a difference. It wasn’t the kind of work that could.

“I can make it engaging,” she said, her voice firmer now, her hands gripping the edges of her notes, “It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom. It’s about accountability, about the truth—”

“Drop it,” he interrupted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes flickering with annoyance. He rubbed his temple, as though her persistence was giving him a headache, “You stick with what you’re good at—human interest, fluff pieces. Now, for tonight, you’ll cover that story about the charity bake-off. The station promised them a mention.”

The lead weight in her chest grew heavier. Stick with what you’re good at. The words stung, a sharp reminder of how small her ambitions had been made to feel.

Her mouth opened to protest, but she hesitated. This was the game, wasn’t it? Push too far, and she’d get a reputation—difficult, too ambitious, “not a team player.” She let the words die in her throat, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise.

“May I at least drop it with you?” she asked instead, her tone even but tinged with determination. She held out her notes, “Just give it a glance before dropping the idea completely?”

Crawford didn’t even glance at her. He busied himself straightening a stack of papers with a theatrical air of importance.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, though his tone betrayed no real intention, “Leave it on my desk.”

Cassie placed the notepad down carefully, the motion deliberate, almost defiant. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind racing through every frustration she’d swallowed working here. She thought of her show—the one she’d once been so proud of.

It was supposed to be hers, a reflection of her passion for storytelling. Instead, it had been molded into something safe, toothless. Segments on community bake-offs and local fairs. Puff pieces designed to please advertisers and offend no one.

And yet, even in that confined space, she’d tried. She’d poured herself into every script, every broadcast, weaving intrigue where there was none, giving even the dullest stories a pulse. Her audience deserved that much.

But what about her?

Cassie straightened, her eyes meeting Crawford’s impassive expression one last time.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice clipped.

She turned on her heel and left the office, her pulse a mix of anger and resolve.

The studio felt colder than usual, the faint hum of the equipment doing little to fill the oppressive silence. Cassie stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. The gesture felt more like shutting herself in a cage than anything else.

Her seat creaked as she sank into it, the familiar sounds of the studio offering no comfort tonight. The charity bake-off notes were already on her desk, neatly arranged, as though mocking her with their pristine lines.

She picked them up, her hands moving on autopilot. She read through the bullet points about the local bakery donating proceeds, the heartfelt quotes from participants, the token mention of the funds going to a children’s hospital. It was the kind of story that would barely take five minutes to write, but she couldn’t bring herself to put pen to paper yet.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the control board in front of her, where the green lights flickered faintly.

This wasn’t why she’d chosen this path. Journalism had always been about chasing the truth, shining a light where others dared not look. But here she was, with her voice reduced to narrating bake-offs and community fairs, as though the world didn’t need accountability or courage—just distraction.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her mind drifted. She thought of the council’s missing funds, the questions no one else dared to ask, the answers that could have made a real difference. That story could have mattered, could have uncovered truths that changed lives.

But instead, she was here.

With a deep breath, Cassie forced her focus back to the present. She adjusted the microphone, the familiar motion grounding her.

Flipping the switch, she spoke into the void, her voice steady despite the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

“Good evening, Rutshire!” she began, her tone warm and inviting, practiced to perfection, “This is your host, Cassandra Jones, but as you all well know, you can always call me Cassie! Always bringing you the stories that make our little corner of the world shine.”

It wasn’t just words. It was how she said them, the little pauses, the way she adjusted her tempo, making it sound effortless. One time, one lady at the mall had stopped ehr when she recognized the Jones' voice, telling how listen to her voice always made her day.

And, well, her show usually started at 4 PM, so that was something.

“Tonight, I want to tell you about a community coming together for something truly special: the annual charity bake-off . Bakers from all over Rutshire have gathered to compete—and to give back. This year’s proceeds will go to the Rutshire Children’s Hospital, providing resources and care to the kids who need it most.”

Her voice filled the space with an easy warmth, the facts rolling out with a smoothness that made them seem lighter, more immediate. Even in her dissatisfaction, she knew how to shape a story, how to give it weight when needed.

“This isn’t just about the competition,” she continued, a slight shift in her tone adding a layer of sincerity, “but about the kindness and generosity that make Rutshire such a special place to call home.”

Her delivery was careful, but not forced, as though she was telling a friend a story she didn’t mind repeating. She wasn’t changing the facts—she was simply breathing life into them.

And as she knew how to do it, she continued to deliver the news, despite the anger lingering in her chest.

The streetlights flickered as Cassie drove through the quiet, familiar streets of Rutshire. The sound of the tires humming against the asphalt felt almost too loud in the silence that surrounded her. She turned the radio dial absentmindedly, tuning out the stories of community events and local happenings. She’d heard them all before—enough to make her feel like a bystander in her own life, watching the world pass her by through the windshield of her car.

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, and she glanced at the screen. It was her uncle.

“Hey, kiddo,” his voice greeted her warmly through the speaker. She smiled instantly, the sound of his voice always bringing a momentary relief, even if it couldn’t erase the tension curling in her chest.

“Hey, old man,” she replied, the words more automatic than anything else.

“You were great tonight, Cass,” Freddie said, his enthusiasm practically spilling through the phone, “I swear, you made that bake-off sound like the bloody Oscars.”

Cassie glanced at the radio, hearing her colleague's voice spill into the car. The words blurred together in a familiar, comforting hum, but something inside her had already tuned out. She wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion, the frustration, or just the monotony of it all, but she felt herself disconnecting from it all, like she was hearing it from a distance.

She responded quietly, “Thanks, Uncle Freddie,” her tone calm, but there was a touch of distance she couldn’t quite mask.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She could almost picture Freddie’s face, that half-grin of his, layered with the usual care he always tried to hide.

“I mean it, Cass. You’ve got something they don’t understand. The way you tell a story—you give it life! It’s like… You make people see the world differently.”

Cassie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. Freddie was right—she had always known how to make the smallest detail come alive, to make people care. It had been her strength, her passion, the reason she’d chosen journalism.

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

The bake-off story—it was just noise. Safe. Easy. The same thing every year.

Cheerier.

“You’re just saying that,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quickly than she intended.

“No, I mean it,” Freddie’s voice was insistent, a little softer now, “I just wish they’d give you more of a chance. You’ve got a lot more to say than just… Fluff pieces, you know? You deserve the stories that matter. You deserve to be out there, really making a difference.”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her eyes momentarily caught by the reflection of her car in the store window. The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across her face.

“I know,” she said quietly, though the words felt like a knot in her throat.

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, to herself, or to the version of her who had walked into this career full of hope. The one who still believed in making an impact. That person felt like a stranger now.

“You’ve got a future ahead of you, Cass. You’ve always been someone who stands out,” She could lsiten to his smile as he said that, it made her smile a little more too, “Don’t let them box you in. You’ve got the kind of talent that can really change things. Don’t forget that.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her hands pressing against the wheel a little harder. She could feel the familiar stirrings of something—determination, maybe, or something like it. She wanted to be the person Freddie thought she was.

She wanted to be more than this.

“Thanks,” she finally said, her voice quiet, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them, “I’ll figure it out.”

Another long pause on the other end, and then Freddie’s easy chuckle broke the silence.

“I know you will. You always do, just don't blow anything up.”

Cassie chuckled, “Yeah, I'll try. Talk to you tomorrow, Uncle.”

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

She hung up the phone, feeling the absence of his words linger in the air for a moment longer than she expected. The road ahead seemed endless, but for a fleeting second, she couldn’t help but wonder if Freddie was right. She had more to say. Maybe she always had.

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

The radio continued to chatter in the background, her colleague’s voice now a steady hum as Cassie kept her eyes on the road. She wasn’t sure how to get from here to where she wanted to be, but as the glow of Rutshire faded into the distance, she knew one thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to stop trying to figure it out. Not yet.

The bar was quiet for a Thursday morning, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft clink of glassware being set down and the low murmur of the few early risers. It wasn’t the busiest time, but it never really was. The regulars were there, still half-closed in the warm haze of sleep, some nursing their first coffee of the day, others leaning over papers or whispering in low tones, trading stories or reflecting on the night before.

The wooden floors creaked softly underfoot as Cassie made her way to the bar, the familiar sound echoing through the empty space. The air smelled faintly of old beer, with a hint of stale cigarettes lingering in the corners, mixed with the sharper scent of freshly brewed coffee. It was a blend that, for her, felt as comfortable as her own breath.

The radio filling the background quietly.

She slid onto a barstool with practiced ease, her body instinctively relaxing into the worn leather of the seat.

The lights above were dimmed just enough to give the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting shadows across the shelves stocked with bottles that had seen more than their fair share of nights like this one. Behind the bar, Bas moved with a rhythm born of years spent here, every motion fluid, like he was a part of the place itself.

She didn’t need to ask for her drink. Bas, like always, seemed to know exactly what she needed.

He set a pint of something dark in front of her, the foam just right, and it took her a second to realize how much she’d been waiting for it. She didn’t say anything, not at first. She just lifted the glass to her lips and took a long sip, the bitterness of the beer almost too fitting, like it was somehow tied to the frustration simmering beneath her skin.

She let it settle in her chest for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, but it was more to avoid looking at Bas than anything else.

He had that way of making her feel seen, even when she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

“How’s the radio business these days, darling?” Bas’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. They both knew she’d been struggling with it lately, but it was easier not to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

Cassie shrugged, swirling the beer in her glass, her fingers brushing the cold surface as she considered how to answer. Her mind was a mess, but she wasn’t about to unload it all here, not when it felt like everyone else in this room had their own things to ignore.

“Same as always,” she said, her voice flat, “Same stories. Same people. No one cares about the real stuff. It's all fluff .”

Bas didn’t respond right away, just watched her, like he could tell there was more beneath that statement. She could feel him studying her, but she refused to meet his eyes.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it—not yet. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

“People like fluff,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “It’s easy. It doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”

Cassie didn’t say anything at first, letting his words sit aside as she took a breath. The frustration inside her bubbled up, but she swallowed it down.

She didn’t need another lecture today. She didn’t need him to tell her how hard it was for everyone, or how nothing ever really changes.

“That’s the problem,” she muttered, finally meeting his gaze, “People don’t want to hear the truth. They want the easy stuff. And I’m tired of giving it to them.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass, “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation, “But I’m not gonna sit around hoping that one day someone decides I’m good enough for the stories that actually matter.”

Bas tilted his head, studying her again. He wasn’t trying to offer solutions. That wasn’t his style.

He let her say what she needed to say, and gave her space to feel frustrated. That's why he was a damn good bar owner.

“Maybe they’re just not ready for it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he wasn’t talking about her job anymore.

Cassie let out a short, bitter laugh, “And maybe I’m not waiting for them. I’m done with that.”

She tasted her words as they left her mouth, bitter . The truth was, she didn’t know what she was waiting for anymore.

Maybe she just wanted a break. Maybe she was tired of always trying to make people listen. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Not to Bas.

He leaned back, watching her carefully, his face unreadable.

“Alright. So what’s your plan?” His hand moved almost absentmindedly to the radio dial, turning it until a voice crackled through the static.

The sound was unmistakable—a voice she recognized instantly. One of her colleagues, mid-monologue, delivering the day’s take on whatever sensational headline they’d latched onto. It was faint, almost drowned by the static, but the cadence was familiar: deliberate pauses, calculated inflection, designed to hook listeners and keep them invested.

Cassie felt the prickle of discomfort at hearing it, even slightly. The words blurred together, more noise than substance, but the undertone of it all—performance, rather than authenticity—was clear to her. She tried not to let it distract her, but it was there, a quiet reminder of everything she’d been wrestling with.

She looked down at her drink, swirling the liquid in slow, thoughtful circles.

The question hung heavy between them. What was her plan?

Did she even have one? Cassie didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep doing this—circling around her own indecision, feeling like she had to apologize for wanting more.

“I don’t have one,” she admitted finally, the words coming out quieter than she’d intended, “But I’m not just gonna keep... Doing this. I can’t.”

Bas didn’t say anything for a moment, just let her have the silence. The low hum of conversation from the other side of the bar, the clink of glasses, all of it felt like a world away. Cassie’s fingers tightened around her glass, her mind racing, but somehow, she felt just a little bit lighter now that it was out in the open. Maybe it didn’t solve anything, but at least she could stop pretending.

She glanced back at her friend, meeting the pity she knew she would face. The way his lips turned up and his brows furrowed.

She hated it.

“I mean—Sometimes, I think it’s all pointless,” her voice was barely above a whisper, almost like she was talking to herself, “We keep doing the same thing over and over, pushing the same stories, and nothing really changes. It's like no one even wants to hear anything different.”

She paused, a fleeting thought crossing her mind. “What if we gave them something that actually mattered? Would they even acknowledge it?”

Bas didn't respond immediately, his focus on wiping down a glass. His hands moved methodically, as though the task required more attention than it really did. Cassie could tell he was listening, though—she could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to hold still for just a beat longer.

He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his eyes not leaving the glass as he set it down with a faint clink.

“Does it matter?” he asked, thoughtful, “You give them what they want, or you give them what you think they need. But in the end, they’ll either care, or they won’t. Can’t control that.”

“It does matter!” she answered, her voice firming with resolve, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “It’s about giving them something that goes deeper than just the surface. No more chasing headlines. No more easy, shallow stories. I’m talking about something real. Real pain. Real stories. Something they can actually connect with—something that doesn’t sound or look fake.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back slightly, clearly entertained.

“You mean like… Venturer ?” His tone was playful, but the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes wasn’t lost on her.

He had always known that Cassie had a sharp mind, a hunger for real stories—the same hunger that Freddie, Rupert, and Declan had been searching for almost a year. But Cassie had never been one to engage directly with Venturer .

She had always preferred to keep her distance from the spotlight, staying on the outside where things were quieter, less exposed—at least publicly.

A little thing in the shell , as Bas himself used to say, back when she had first come to Rutshire. She’d always been the one who stayed in the background, content to watch rather than dive into the drama.

I don't want my face in the screens , she had told him once when her uncle first brought up the possibility of her joining the team. It was a simple, firm declaration. She’d never wanted that kind of attention.

But Venturer was different. It was a project created by her uncle and his well-known friends. She’d never spoken to them directly about it, except when her uncle and Bas mentioned it.

She had been watching from afar, keeping an eye on their ideas as they slowly began to take shape and go live on TV.

“I watch it sometimes when I get the time,” she said, her tone measured, almost as if she were brushing off the question. But there was something in her voice, a subtle shift, that didn’t go unnoticed.

Bas paused, his smirk softening just a touch. The playful teasing faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity behind his eyes. He leaned back slightly, considering her words.

“You don’t just ‘watch it,’” Bas said, a knowing glint in his eye. “You’re paying attention. Venturer might not be your thing, but you’re still watching.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze but refusing to back down.

“It’s hard not to notice something that’s everywhere,” she replied, though her words were lighter now. “But I’m not exactly in the business of playing their game. It’s not my scene.”

Bas raised an eyebrow. He didn’t press her further but lingered on the point, his curiosity deepening. He knew her well enough to see that there was more beneath the surface—more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

Bas chuckled softly, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, “Now I’m curious, what do you think? You think we’re actually doing something worth watching?”

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, her mind wandering back to her uncle’s involvement in the project, the high-profile connections he had cultivated, and the way the whole thing had grown into something she hadn’t expected, “I mean, yeah. I think there’s potential. It’s raw, unfiltered... Something real.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

“And you’re just gonna keep watching from the sidelines? Not gonna get involved yourself?”

The question rang in the air, a challenge, but Cassie wasn’t ready to answer it just yet. Instead, she shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had become.

Yet, she narrowed her eyes at him, getting a glimpse of his smirk... Now it made sense why he had mentioned Venturer for starters

“I already have a job, Bas.”

“A shit one,” he pointed out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bar. His voice was calm, but the words hit with precision, “Your colleagues don’t appreciate your talent. I’ve seen the way they sideline your ideas, and I’ve heard the segments they let you do. It’s filler, Cass. They don’t take you seriously, and they never will.”

Bas leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the bar. The faint overhead light caught the edges of his smirk, giving him an almost mischievous air. He let his words linger between them, studying her reaction.

Cassie tilted her head, her brow arching slightly. She wasn’t about to let him needle her without a fight.

“And would you?” she asked sharply, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them, “TV is more misogynistic than radio, and we both know that.”

Bas didn’t flinch. He always enjoyed a challenge , Cassie remembered.

“Sure, it is,” he admitted, “But at least there’s a chance to be heard. Right now, you’re stuck spinning your wheels while everyone around you is taking credit for your work.”

The voice of her colleague on the radio grew clearer, the words breaking through the haze of static. Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t fully register it yet.

“And you think TV’s the answer? Let’s not pretend it’s any different. Bigger platforms, bigger egos—it’s the same game, Bas… A worse game.”

“Maybe,” he said simply, shrugging, “But if you’re gonna fight the fight, why not fight it somewhere familiar?”

The radio crackled again, the voice cutting through more clearly now.

“... An in-depth investigation into the council’s misallocation of funds...”

Cassie’s fingers froze on the glass, her breath catching in her throat. The words were faint, still mingled with static, but they pierced through her thoughts like a sharp knife.

Her eyes snapped to the radio, her pulse quickening. Bas followed her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly.

It couldn't be, could it? Cassie’s mind drifted back to days ago, what she had written in her notes as she listened to her colleague—Dan’s words. Each one of them felt like a stone sinking into her chest, heavy and unavoidable.

The bar suddenly felt too small. The low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music from the jukebox seemed muffled, distant, as if the world outside the static of the radio had faded to nothing.

Cassie’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the frustration swelling in her chest.  

The air around her, once familiar and warm, now felt stifling. She looked down at her glass, still in her hand, the amber liquid trembling slightly as her grip tightened. The sharp scent of beer mixed with the faint aroma of fried food coming from the kitchen, but it was all background noise to her racing thoughts.  

Bas’s voice came through the haze, low and careful.

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

Her eyes snapped to him, wide and searching. The concern etched on his face barely registered. Instead, she pointed toward the radio, her voice tight.

“Turn. That. Up .”  

Bas hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obliged, twisting the knob until the words filled the air.  

“... Our findings reveal years of systemic negligence, with ties between high-ranking officials and private contractors raising serious questions...”  

It was all there. Her angles, her research, her work . Her chest tightened painfully, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, though it felt like dragging air through a straw.

Her grip on the glass loosened, and she set it down carefully on the bar, the slight clunk louder than it should have been. She straightened, her mind a storm of disbelief and simmering rage.

Her surroundings came back into focus, but only just—the stained wood of the bar beneath her hands, the creak of an old stool shifting as someone moved nearby, the flicker of a neon beer sign casting a faint red glow over the wall.  

“That’s my story,” she said, the words escaping her lips before she even realized she had spoken.  

Bas frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of her reaction, “What are you talking about?”  

“That’s my bloody story,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time, but trembling slightly at the edges, “The council, the mismanagement, the contractors—it’s all mine. I pitched it yesterday. Crawford told me it wasn’t ‘cheerier” to air.”  

The weight of it hit her fully now. She leaned on the bar for support, her hands pressing into the smooth surface as her mind raced.

How did this happen? How had her work ended up on the air, delivered by someone else?

Bas leaned forward, his expression darkening, “You’re sure? I mean... Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

“No,” she snapped, “It’s not a coincidence, Bas. I know my work. I know every word of it.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, and Cassie shook her head, trying to clear the haze. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as though the betrayal wasn’t just professional but personal.

Cassie straightened, her jaw tightening as fury replaced the shock. She grabbed her bag in one swift motion, the strap digging into her shoulder as she turned toward the door.

Bas stood up straighter, his hands resting on the bar.

“Cass, hold on. What are you going to do?”

She paused, her hand gripping the edge of the chair she’d just abandoned.

“I’m going to the station. He doesn’t get to do this.”

“Cass, think about this—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice steely, “I’m done thinking, Bas. It’s my story, my work, and I’m not letting it slide.”

The bar’s warm light felt glaring as she strode toward the exit, each step sharp and purposeful. The cool night air hit her face like a slap, grounding her just enough to keep moving.

Bas watched her go, her sharp movements cutting through the warm haze of the bar like a blade. For a second, he considered following her, but the determination in her stride stopped him.

Instead, Bas turned toward the phone mounted on the wall behind the bar. The old rotary clattered as he picked it up, his fingers moving with practiced ease to dial the number.

He waited, glancing toward the door she had just stormed through, her words still ringing in his ears.

The line clicked after a few rings.  

“Freddie,” Bas said quickly, his voice lower than usual, tinged with urgency, “It’s me.”  

“Bas?” Freddie’s voice came through, “What’s going on?”  

Bas leaned against the counter, one hand running through his hair as he glanced toward the door again.

“It’s Cass,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, “I think you better head to Crawford's radio station right now.”

A longer pause this time, Bas guessed he had probably awoken the man, “What do you mean?”  

Bas exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

“She will probably throw a bomb and explode the place, Freddie. They had stolen her story.”

The pale morning light filtered through the windows of the station's parking lot, casting long shadows against the asphalt. Cassie pulled her car to a sharp stop, the tires crunching on loose gravel. Her pulse raced as she stepped out, the crisp morning air biting at her skin. Everything about the scene felt surreal, the stillness outside a stark contrast to the storm building within her.  

The station was already buzzing with its usual morning energy. The faint hum of muffled voices and clattering keyboards carried through the slightly ajar front door. Cassie pushed it open, her steps firm and unrelenting as she entered. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over the cluttered interior—a mess of half-empty coffee cups, stray papers, and tangled wires.  

Her boots clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she passed the break room. A few of her colleagues turned to glance at her, their expressions ranging from vague curiosity to mild discomfort. They must have sensed her fury, the way her jaw was set and her eyes burned with a fire they hadn’t seen before.  

Dan’s voice drifted faintly from the studio down the hall, calm and self-assured as always. But to Cassie, it sounded smug, taunting, every syllable dripping with betrayal.  

She reached the studio door just as the ON AIR sign flickered off, signaling a break. Her heart pounded as she pushed the door open, stepping inside to find Dan, Crawford, and a sound technician huddled together.

Crawford leaned lazily against the control panel, his disinterest palpable, while Dan adjusted his tie, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t our rising star,” Dan drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, “Come to bask in the glory of our latest hit segment?”  

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“That segment,” she said evenly, though her voice trembled with barely-contained anger, “Was my pitch. My research. My story.”  

Crawford sighed, rubbing his temple as though this confrontation was an inconvenience rather than a betrayal.

“Look, Cassie,” he began, his tone patronizing, “it’s not about ownership here. It’s about the station putting out the best possible content. Dan’s delivery works for the audience. He knows how to connect—”  

“He knows how to steal, you both do!” Cassie snapped, cutting him off, “You told me my story wasn’t good enough to air, and now suddenly it’s headline material because he’s the one presenting it?”

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, come on, Cassie. It’s not like you were going to do anything with it. Consider it a team effort.”  

Her vision blurred with rage. Every patronizing word felt like a slap, each excuse twisting the knife deeper.

“You don’t get to take credit for my work,” she said, her voice rising.  

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

“Lower your voice,” he barked, glancing toward the technician, “We’re going back on air in two minutes.”  

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

Before he could finish, Cassie moved. Her body acted before her mind could second-guess. She shoved Dan’s chair aside, ignoring his startled yelp as he stumbled. Sliding into his place, she locked the door with a sharp twist and adjusted the microphone in front of her.

“Cassie!” Crawford bellowed, pounding on the glass partition, “What the hell are you doing?”

She ignored him, her fingers flying over the console to flip the switch. The red ON AIR light blinked on.

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

One of them shook his head, panicked, “We can’t. She’s got full control of the board.”

There were two or three good things on being Freddie Jones��� niece.

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

“Good morning, Rutshire. This is Cassandra Jones, and I’ve got a story to tell you. But it’s not the one you just heard. No, this one is about the station you’re listening to right now—the lies it tells, the stories it hides, and the people it silences.”

Crawford was livid, his fists pounding against the door as he barked orders at the technicians.

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sir, we’d have to shut down the whole station.”

“And lose every listener we’ve just gained?” another technician added, pointing to the monitors that displayed the surging audience numbers.

Crawford froze, his fury replaced by a flicker of fear.

The air in the O’Hara kitchen carried the sweet warmth of butter and vanilla, the scent clinging to every corner like a comforting memory. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the marble countertops and glinting off Taggie’s delicate array of mixing bowls and utensils. She worked with precision, her hands deftly folding batter as she tested a new recipe.

The rhythmic scrape of her spatula against the bowl mingled with the faint hum of the radio in the background.

Rupert sat at the breakfast table, a picture of calculated ease, the newspaper spread before him like a shield. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes darted across the columns, though his attention seemed to wander.

Declan leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, his stance casual but his gaze sharp, fixed on nothing in particular. The radio had been little more than background noise—a familiar companion to their morning routine.

But now, the sharp edge in the voice crackling through the speakers commanded Taggie's attention.

She paused, her hand hovering over the mixing bowl, her brow furrowing as she caught a particularly biting phrase.

“Turn that up,” she said abruptly, setting down her spatula.

Rupert raised an eyebrow but complied, folding his newspaper neatly and nodding toward Declan. With an easy motion, Declan leaned over and turned the dial, the static fading to bring Cassie’s voice into sharper focus.

“...And then, they gave it to someone else,” she was saying, her tone laced with indignation and barely restrained anger, “They handed my work, my research, my hours of effort to someone who didn’t earn it. All because they thought it would sell better with his name on it, it would be more profitable if it was told by a a man.”

The room fell still, the normally comforting buzz of kitchen activity replaced by the biting truth in her words. Taggie wiped her hands on her apron, her lips pressing into a thin line as she listened intently. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his expression shifting to one of genuine interest. Declan remained by the counter, his focus sharp on it, his notes forgotten as his journalist instincts stirred to life.

The words coming from the radio didn’t just cut through the air; they lingered, deliberate, each one a carefully aimed arrow.

“Last year, we buried a story about toxic waste being dumped into local waterways—because the company responsible was a top-tier advertiser. Families got sick, kids missed school, and what did this station do? Nothing . Because money speaks louder than people’s lives here.”

Taggie paused mid-motion, her hands hanging limp as Cassie’s voice seeped into the room. She exchanged a glance with Rupert, who had set his paper down entirely now, his features tight with unspoken thoughts.

“This station silences voices,” Cassie continued, the edge in her tone palpable, “It buries stories that challenge you, stories that could make a difference. It’s not about the truth here. It’s about control—about keeping power in the hands of those who already have it.”

Rupert sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his posture tense as though her words had struck a personal chord.

“She’s playing with fire,” he muttered, his tone cautious but far from dismissive, “Crawford’s the type to hold a grudge, and he won’t forgive this. He’s too protective of his image.”

“She’s brave,” Taggie countered, her voice steady and soft, though there was no mistaking the steel underneath. She held Rupert’s gaze, her expression calm but resolute, as though daring him to dismiss her opinion, “It’s reckless, yes, but sometimes that’s what people need to hear.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t agree—not entirely, anyway—but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he let her words linger in the air, the kitchen momentarily quieter as though everyone was considering them.

If not everyone, him . His gaze lingered on her for a second too long, his smirk fading into something softer.

Declan, leaning against the counter, remained silent, his brow furrowed slightly as his focus stayed fixed on the radio. The steam from his untouched coffee curled lazily upward, but he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, still tethered to the sharpness of Cassie’s voice.

“Who is she?” he asked after a beat, his tone clipped but carrying a subtle curiosity that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Cassandra Jones,” Taggie replied, her voice quiet but sure, “Freddie’s niece. She’s been here for a few months now—moved from Chicago.”

“Oh, Bas told me about her,” Rupert chimed in, the smirk returning as he leaned back slightly in his chair, “Thought she’d be too meek for a place like this, but... Seems I underestimated her. She’s got a sharp tongue, I’ll give her that.”

Taggie’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a subtle light in her eyes as she straightened slightly.

“I listen to her show at night,” Taggie said simply, her voice steady, her eyes lingering on the now-silent radio, “It was time for everyone to listen to her. I’ve always liked her opinions. She has a way with words.”

Rupert chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he turned his gaze between Taggie and Declan.

“Well, you’ve got a knack for spotting wildflowers with potential, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone teasing but not dismissive. There was a trace of warmth in the way he looked at her, an acknowledgment of her insight even if he wasn’t quite ready to say he agreed.

He liked it when she spoke with certainty, even if it rubbed against his own instincts. And he didn’t miss the way she looked back at him, a smile creeping out of her teeth.

Declan didn’t join in the exchange, his brow furrowed as he stared at the coffee cup in his hands. His grip tightened slightly, a subconscious response as Cassie’s voice echoed in his thoughts. She’d been bold—too bold, perhaps—but her precision, the deliberate weight behind every word, lingered like a static charge.

Declan’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t take the bait. His attention stayed fixed on the now-fading voice, the static swallowing the last of Cassie’s words.

As the room settled into silence, Rupert glanced at him, one brow raised, “You’re awfully quiet, O’Hara. Something on your mind?”

Declan set his mug down, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

“She knows how to get attention,” he said simply, “That’s half the battle.”

Rupert’s smirk widened, “And the other half?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking to the window as though searching for something just out of reach.

“Making sure it’s not wasted,” he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute.

Taggie sighed, resuming her whisking, though the motion was slower, her thoughts clearly divided between the batter in her bowl and what her father had just said.

“—Let me tell you about the sponsors,” Cassie pressed on, her tone dropping into something colder, “The ones who dictate what you hear, who decide what stories matter and what gets erased. We’re not reporting the news—we’re selling it. And the price? Your trust.”

The kitchen was silent save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the faint crackle of the broadcast. Taggie moved mechanically now, her hands resuming their work with a distracted air. She caught Rupert’s eye briefly, the unspoken question hanging between them: Is Freddie’s niece insane?

Declan, still silent, felt the faintest flicker of something sharper stir in his chest. It wasn’t anger, exactly, though it wasn’t far off. It was recognition—of a battle he had seen too many times in his own career. She wasn’t just fighting a corrupt system; she was taking a wrecking ball to it, piece by piece.

“She’s naming names,” Declan muttered, almost to himself.

“And burning bridges while she’s at it,” Rupert countered, though his usual air of superiority was absent. He tapped his fingers against the table, the sound rhythmic and deliberate.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on the radio, his smirk fading as the weight of Cassie’s words settled over him. The easy posture he had held moments before shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as though bracing against the storm her voice carried. The kitchen, once bustling with the hum of morning tasks, had gone eerily quiet. Even the faint scrape of Taggie’s utensils ceased, the air heavy with the raw intensity spilling from the radio.

The cadence of Cassie’s voice had changed—deliberate now, each word like a match striking against flint. It wasn’t just anger fueling her, Declan realized. It was something deeper, sharper. Conviction.

“She is burning, for sure,” he murmured, his tone low but deliberate, “if you want people to see the light…”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, his amusement faint but present. “I didn’t peg you for being an optimist.”

“I’m not,” Declan replied, his voice clipped, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tapped absently against the counter as if keeping time with the rhythm of Cassie’s words. “But I know what it takes to shake people awake. And she’s doing it.”

On the radio, Cassie’s voice dropped, slower now, as though the weight of her decision was settling over her in real-time. The ticking clock above the stove seemed to grow louder, filling the gaps between her sentences, each tick amplifying the tension.

“I can’t stay here,” Cassie’s voice rang out, steady but carrying the weight of exhaustion, each syllable laced with unyielding defiance, “Not in a place that values profit over principle, that rewards complacency and punishes integrity. This is my last broadcast. Consider this my resignation, live on air.”

There was a brief pause, the kind of silence that felt alive, as if the entire town had stopped to hold its breath. The rustle of papers and panicked murmurs on the other side of the broadcast began to rise, chaotic and desperate.

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

The background noise crackled through the radio, growing louder as the urgency escalated. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the cacophony.

“And one last thing,” Cassie’s voice cut through the static again, this time tinged with a grim sort of triumph, “Fuck you, Charles Crawford!”

Declan’s brows shot up, amusement breaking through his otherwise unreadable expression. Rupert, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, shaking his head as though he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or exasperated.

“Crawford’s probably tearing his hair out by now,” Rupert remarked dryly, his tone carrying a trace of grudging admiration, “Can’t say I envy him.”

The tension in the room was palpable, lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Taggie, who had been meticulously smoothing the edges of her apron, paused mid-motion. Her fingers fidgeted slightly, betraying the concern that clouded her otherwise calm expression.

“Do you think they’ll arrest her?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual, hesitant.

Rupert didn’t answer, his attention briefly caught by the steady drip of a coffee pot on the counter. His silence wasn’t unusual, but the shift in his expression—an uncharacteristic tightness around his mouth—hinted at unease.

Declan’s silence, however, felt heavier. He remained still, his brow slightly furrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wasn’t ignoring the question; he was somewhere else entirely, his mind dissecting every word Cassie had spoken, the deliberate rhythm of her sentences still echoing in his ears.

She hadn’t just revealed truths. She’d weaponized them, sharpened them into blades that now hung in the air, slicing through the fragile facade of the station. He imagined the chaos unfolding on the other side of her microphone—Crawford’s voice, raw and furious, barking orders; the panicked scurrying of technicians trying and failing to regain control. It was the kind of pandemonium Declan had seen countless times in his own career, though rarely so publicly.

Publicly, people called him the 'Irish Wolfhound'. The moniker stuck for good reason—he was relentless, tenacious, and unyielding in the chase. But Cassandra? She wasn’t hunting like he did.

She was circling, sharp-eyed and calculating, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He exhaled sharply, breaking his stillness as though the weight of realization had settled more deeply over him.

Her voice wasn’t just a broadcast. Cassandra was declaring war.

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

Rupert considered the question for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though pondering a move on a chessboard.

“Oh, they’ll arrest her,” he said, his voice laced with certainty, “Crawford won’t let something like this slide. He can’t afford to.”

Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.

Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”

Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.

He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.

Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.

“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”

Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”

Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”

“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.

Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.

He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.

She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.

“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.

He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.

Talent , he corrected himself silently.

“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”

And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.

Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.

The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.

Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.

“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”

Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”

“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them  but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.

Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.

“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.

“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”

His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.

“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”

Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.

His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.

It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued . Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.

She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.

He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.

To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.

Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.

“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.

Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.

“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.

“ And you respect that ,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.

Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.

And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 2

summary: Months after Venturer's official approval, Declan O’Hara's latest broadcast takes center stage, his incisive interview style sparking reactions from viewers—and Cassie Jones. Spending the evening at Baz’s bar, Cassie finds herself caught between reluctant admiration and lingering resentment for Declan’s relentless drive.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Themes of Corruption, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension, Alcohol Use, Realism in Media Industry, Cassie is always in distress mode

w.c: 7k

[prologue], [chapter one], [here], [chapter three]

o2. But I can't get her outta my sight

Declan sat in his study, a sanctuary of muted tones and understated elegance. The polished surface of his mahogany desk reflected the faint glow of the desk lamp, its circle of light casting the rest of the room into a warm shadow. Shelves of books lined the walls, their spines forming a mosaic of knowledge and ambition accumulated over the years.

A hint of cigar smoke clung to the air.

A stack of notes lay before him, meticulously organized yet untouched. He had intended to review them for tonight’s show on Venturer, he has studied and written everything down for the past week. Yet his pen had stilled, his attention wandering far from the political breakdowns and exposés he usually found energizing.

Instead, his mind was tangled in thoughts of Cassie Jones.

The doubt in her eyes was striking—not just a fleeting hesitation, but something deeper, a quiet war between uncertainty and conviction. Yet, it was that same doubt that seemed to amplify the glow of her fierce determination, as if her fears only highlighted the brilliance of her resolve.

Her gaze, dark and willful, resisted him, darting away like a bird wary of being caught.

But in those few moments when their eyes met… It was impossible to look away. There was a rhythm to her words, calculated and unhurried, as though each syllable carried a secret she was daring him to uncover. Her voice was a melody he couldn’t quite place—familiar enough to draw him in, yet distant enough to leave him looking for more.

Her lips parted and closed with the precision of a storyteller, shaping each word in a way that made even the most banal details sound extraordinary. There was a magnetism to her presence, an energy that turned a simple conversation into something unforgettable.

Not that he stared at her lips. He hadn't. If someone asked him about them, he wouldn't know what color they were. A shade somewhere between the warmth of a dusky rose and the faint blush of autumn’s last leaves.

In short, the conversation between them that early afternoon lingered—not as a memory, but as a sensation, persistent and impossible to ignore.

It felt foolish , truly. That was the best word to describe the whole situation.

He couldn’t decide what annoyed him more: the fact that his thoughts were so easily hijacked or that he had let them linger. There were always more pressing matters to deal with—scripts to finalize, segments to tighten, the never-ending negotiations with sponsors… Venturer wasn’t just a television station; it was a warfront, the last bastion of independent media in Rutshire.

And yet, here he was , caught up in the memory of a single conversation.

What made it worse was that it wasn’t even a conversation that should have stood out. He’d met people with stronger résumés, sharper tongues, and more experience in front of a microphone.

But Cassie... She wasn’t polished , and that was the very thing that stayed with him. Her honesty felt raw, untamed—a blade still learning the strength of its edge.

Foolish. The word echoed in his head.

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. What was it about her that unsettled him?

Was it her conviction? The quiet courage hidden beneath layers of uncertainty? Or perhaps it was the vulnerability she carried so openly? The kind that didn’t ask for pity but challenged you to see it and still believe in her strength.

And yet, her resistance baffled him. How could someone so driven, so clearly destined for something bigger, shy away from a platform?

His fingers tapped absently against the desk as he tried to reconcile her fear of the screen with what he had seen in her.

In his mind’s eye, he could picture her features perfectly—the elegant line of her jaw, the soft curve of her cheekbones, the intensity in her eyes when she spoke about what mattered. He could see how the camera would frame her, how the lights would catch the warm tones in her hair, and how her expressions, so honest and unguarded, would translate to the audience.

She didn’t see it, but he did .

Her face was made for the screen, not because of perfection, but because of its authenticity. It would draw people in, hold them captive. She didn’t need to be polished; she was already compelling in a way that made the camera irrelevant.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, his voice steady despite the jumble in his head.

The door creaked open, and Taggie stepped inside, her auburn hair catching the soft light from the lamp. She was dressed casually, her apron dusted with flour, a reminder of the event she was catering later.

“Still brooding?” she teased gently, holding a letter in one hand while absently smoothing her apron with the other.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but her tone carried genuine concern.

“Brooding?” Declan repeated, his voice amused, “I prefer ‘preparing.’ ”

“For the show or something else?” she countered, stepping closer. Her gaze landed briefly on the untouched notes before flicking back to him, “You look... Distracted.”

Declan exhales, leaning back in his chair, “I visited Cassie Jones today.”

Taggie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Cassie Jones? The Cassie Jones? You mean the one from the radio?”

She stepped closer, as though proximity would confirm his words. Her tone changed, and her thoughts flickered back to the previous morning.

Yesterday, the kitchen had been filled with the sound of Cassie’s fiery monologue, her unrelenting voice cutting through the room like a razor. Rupert had leaned in, more amused than anything else, but her father—she remembered her father: he’d been completely still , eyes fixed on the radio with an intensity she hadn’t seen in months.

That explains why he hadn’t had dinner last night , Taggie wondered.

Declan nodded, his expression contemplative.

“She has potential, Taggie,” he paused, searching for the right words, “Raw, unpolished, but it’s there. I want her on Venturer.”

“You’re recruiting her?” she asked, her voice with a hint of curiosity and excitement, “I didn’t think I’d ever see the day you’d bring someone like her in. Isn’t she— well , shy?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he admitted, his voice taking on a thoughtful edge, “She’s terrified of being seen, but she’s brilliant. The way she speaks... It’s not just reporting. It’s storytelling. She makes people care.”

Taggie studied him for a moment, her head tilting as she considered his words. There was something about the way he spoke—quiet but charged with energy, a drive that hadn’t been there in a while…

Her father had always been passionate, but this was different. There was a spark, something that reminded her of the early days of Venturer, when everything was just a shot in the dark.

“You’re really invested in this,” Taggie lifted a brow, “Aren’t you?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze dropped to the scattered notes on his desk, their edges curling slightly under the soft glow of the desk lamp. His fingers tapped idly against the wood as he tried to put his thoughts into words.

 “Let’s just say,” he murmured, “It’s been a while since someone reminded me why we started Venturer in the first place.”

“It’s good to see you like this again,” Taggie’s smile widened, “You’ve never been so focused, so determined since we won the franchise approval—it’s like you’ve finally found something that excites you again.”

Declan chuckled, though the sound was tinged with self-awareness, “Don’t read too much into it, Taggie. I’m just doing my job.”

“Sure you are,” she said, a touch of mischief in her tone, “But I’m not complaining. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you looking this... Alive.”

She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Do you think she’ll accept?”

Declan’s expression grew thoughtful, his gaze distant.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “Freddie’s been trying to bring her on board since we got the franchise approval. She’s always said no. But today…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he thought back to their conversation.

“But today?” Taggie prompted, stepping closer, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“She seemed... Torn ,” Declan replied, “Like part of her wanted to say yes, even if she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’s hesitant, scared even, but she’s not someone who backs down easily. If she sees what we see in her... She’ll come around.”

Taggie studied her father again, a knowing expression in the way she furrowed her brows, “You’re really invested in this, aren’t you?”

Declan met her gaze, a flicker of something undefinable in his expression—determination, perhaps, or something even deeper.

“It’s not just about her, Taggie,” he said after a moment, “It’s about what she represents. Venturer was supposed to be about giving people like her a voice, wasn’t it? People who can make others listen, who can make them care.

“Well, I hope she sees that”, a soft smile tugged at the corners of Taggie’s lips, “And I hope she knows how lucky she’d be to work with someone like you.”

Declan chuckled again, though it was quieter this time, tinged with something almost self-deprecating.

“Don’t go turning me into a saint, Taggie. I’m just trying to do what’s right—for Venturer and for her.”

Taggie hesitated, watching him for a moment before stepping forward and placing the envelope on his desk.

“Just don’t let this drive of yours keep you from dealing with this,” she said softly, her fingers brushing the edge of the envelope.

Declan’s gaze followed her gesture, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight of the crumpled edges and the weight it seemed to carry. How it quickly changed his daughter’s humor.

“What is it?” he asked, though something in the pit of his stomach already knew the answer.

“It’s from Mum’s lawyer,” Taggie replied quietly, “The final papers.”

Declan’s breath caught, the words dripping between them like a heavy curtain. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out to take the envelope. The paper felt heavier than it should, as though the culmination of everything—months of silence, arguments, the growing distance—was contained within it.

How could she not answer any of his letters and the first one she sent to them, her family, was the divorce papers?

“I see,” he said in the silence, almost whispering, his grip on the envelope tightened.

Taggie hesitated, her eyes scanning his face as though trying to gauge his reaction, “Are you okay?”

Declan chuckled, but it was devoid of humor.

“That’s a loaded question.”

The corner of her lips twitched, but her attempt at a smile faded just as quickly.

“I know it’s not what you wanted, Dad. I know how hard you tried to hold things together.”

“Did I?” Declan asked, almost to himself. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling to the envelope in his hands, “Or did I just try to hold on to the idea of us? To what I thought we were supposed to be, instead of what we actually were?”

Taggie bit her lip, unsure of how to respond. The silence that followed wasn’t tense, but it was loaded as the question of before. There was a shared grief for something that had been unraveling for longer than either of them cared to admit.

“She made her choice,” Declan continued, his tone low, “And maybe... Maybe it’s for the best. For her. For both of us.”

“Maybe,” Taggie said softly, though she didn’t sound convinced.

Declan glanced at her, his expression softening.

“What about you? How are you handling all this?”

Taggie bit her lip, clearly taken aback by her father’s question. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering downward as though the answer might somehow be hidden in the floorboards.

“I’ve had time to process it, I guess,” she responded, her voice quieter than before. She shrugged, slipping her hands into the pockets of her apron, “It doesn’t make it hurt any less, but... I’m not angry anymore. Just… S-S—”

Her voice faltered, the word slipping from her grasp.

“Sad?” Declan offered gently, watching as her jaw tightened.

“Yes,” she said, nodding a bit too quickly, “ Sad. ”

Her struggle with the word wasn’t lost on him. It was a passing moment, brief but telling. Declan knew how Taggie’s dyslexia sometimes crept into her life in ways she didn’t expect—moments of hesitation or the occasional stumble over a word when emotions ran high.

It wasn’t something she let define her, but it was always there.

Over the past months, with Maud gone and Taggie stepping up beside him, Declan had seen more of it than he ever had before. At first, he had felt like the worst father in the world for not noticing sooner, for letting the chaos of his own life distract him from hers. It took him some time to understand—not just how it was for her, but the quiet strength with which she handled them.

It humbled him, this quiet resilience of hers.

You’ve handled it well, he wanted to say, but instead, he offered her a smile.

She looked at him, surprised by the sudden gesture. But the small, appreciative smile she gave in return told him he had done the right thing. He was still trying, and that was enough.

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the soft hum of wind and the creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. Declan found himself studying her expression, the way her eyes mirrored his own weariness but had a resilience that was unmistakably hers.

“I suppose sadness is easier to live with than resentment,” he said, more to himself than to her.

Taggie nodded, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well, I should get back to work. The buffet for Mrs. Spencer’s gala won’t prepare itself.”

Declan raised an eyebrow, “A gala? And they’ve roped you into catering for it?”

“Not roped,” she corrected, “I volunteered . Keeps me busy.”

He gave her a look, one that carried both fondness and a hint of fatherly skepticism.

“Just don’t let them take advantage of you.”

Taggie laughed softly, the sound warm but subdued.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I can handle Mrs. Spencer.”

She turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back at him. Her expression softened, the hint of concern in her eyes mirroring the quiet care she always tried to mask with humor.

“And you? Will you be okay?”

Declan offered a faint smile, “I’ve got notes to review and a show to prepare for. I’ll manage.”

Taggie nodded, staying for a moment longer before slipping out of the room.

The silence that followed her departure wasn’t empty; it was filled with the echoes of their conversation, the unspoken words that always seemed to hover between them. Declan’s gaze fell to the envelope on his desk, its stark presence a reminder of what had already unraveled. He stared at it for a long moment, his fingers brushing the sharp edges, the sensation grounding him in the heaviness of the moment.

The ache in his chest deepened, not sharp but persistent, like a bruise that refused to fade. Maud’s absence wasn’t new; it had been a constant shadow for months, haunting him at the edges of every room, every thought. He could still hear her voice in the quiet moments, see her smile in the periphery of his mind.

They had tried, hadn’t they ? Yet, here it was—the finality of a marriage reduced to paper and ink.

Declan leaned back in his chair, his head tipping slightly as he closed his eyes. The memories pressed in, uninvited but relentless. The laughter they had shared, the fights that had grown sharper over time, the silences that had said more than words ever could. He wondered, not for the first time, if there had been a point where they could have turned it around—if he could have been someone different, better , for her.

The ache tightened, and he exhaled slowly, as if trying to release it. But as his thoughts circled Maud and the void her absence left, another voice crept into his mind.

Cassie .

Her words reverberated in his memory, not as a balm to the pain but something else. The raw honesty in her tone, the conviction laced with doubt, had a way of unsettling him, of pulling his focus from the ache of what was lost to the possibilities of what could be.

That's what she usually talked about in her past broadcasts, right? In the projects she had done in Chicago? How there was always a possibility, a light in the end of the tunnel, despite people locking all your windows and doors?

He sat up straighter, his gaze falling to the notes scattered before him again. The words blurred for a moment, stubbornly refusing to take shape. But as he thought of Cassie—her eyes, her words, her fear—it was as though something clicked into place.

It wasn’t just about giving people a platform , he remembered, it was about finding the voices that mattered, the ones that could cut through the noise and make people listen.

Declan’s lips quirked into a smile, the kind that came unbidden, as he turned his attention back to his notes. The spark of inspiration she had ignited within him was enough to push the rest aside, at least for now.

There was a show to prepare for, and tonight, he felt ready.

The bar was alive in its muted way—a quiet chatter and the occasional clink of glassware against polished wood. It wasn’t the raucous energy of a weekend crowd but the steady rhythm of regulars, the kind of people who found comfort in routine. Cassie sat at her usual corner, her drink untouched, save for the condensation slipping down its sides.

The golden light from the overhead fixtures cast a soft glow on the surface of the bar, making everything look warmer than it felt.

Bas moved with the practiced ease of someone who had owned this space for years. His motions were fluid, as though the rhythm of tending bar wasn’t a job but an extension of himself.

His dark hair, perpetually tousled in a way that suggested he didn’t care—or maybe cared too much—caught the light whenever he turned. His eyes scanned the room, but they kept returning to Cassie, watching the tension in her shoulders, the tight grip she had on her glass.

“Alright, Jones,” he said, leaning over the counter with a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “You’re quieter than usual. Either someone’s died, or you’re brooding about something big… Again .”

Cassie shot him a look, one that was stabbing but softened by the weak tug at the corner of her lips.

“Always with the optimism, Bas.”

“It’s my charm,” he quipped. But the teasing in his tone didn’t mask the concern that was beneath it.

She sighed, her fingers drumming lightly against the bar’s surface, “Let’s just say it’s been a day.”

Bas’s eyebrow arched as he slid a pint across the bar to a waiting regular, his movements unhurried but precise. His attention, however, was fixed on Cassie, the practiced ease in his gaze giving way to a flicker of curiosity. The murmured conversations, the muted clatter of glasses—seemed distant, a backdrop to the conversation they were having.

“A day, huh?” Bas leaned a little closer, his lips drawing into an amused smile, “Sounds vague,” he added, lifting an eyebrow in mock challenge, “Care to elaborate, or should I start guessing?”

“You’d only guess wrong,” she replied almost immediately, a smirk curling at her lips before she took a long sip from her drink.

Bas didn’t miss a beat. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the counter, the polished wood cool beneath his hands. His teasing expression softened just a bit, the shift subtle but perceptible.

“Enlighten me, then,” he said, his voice dropping a notch.

Cassie hesitated, her gaze dropping to her glass. But her grip on the glass hardened, her thumb tracing absent patterns against the condensation. She inhaled quietly through her nose, her lips pressing into a thin line as if bracing herself.

“Declan O’Hara showed up at my door this morning.”

The words landed heavily, drawing Bas’s full attention. His playful demeanor faltered, his brow knitting together in thought.

Cassie could see the gears turning behind his eyes, his indissoluble wit piecing together implications faster than he let on. He blinked once, his lips parting as if to speak, but then he let out a low whistle, a sound of disbelief mingled with admiration.

“Well, that’s not nothing,” he said, straightening as his grin returned, this time full of intrigue, “What did the Irish Wolfhound want with you?”

Cassie’s lips twisted into a wry smile, though there was no humor in it. She shrugged, her voice tinged with weariness.

“He wants me on Venturer . Just like you and my uncle.”

Bas’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his head tilting as he considered her words.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice almost reverent. He reached for a cloth, wiping down an already spotless section of the counter as though the action would help him process the news, “One thing’s for sure—it’s not every day Declan O’Hara comes knocking at your door, specifically your door . I mean, me and Freddie? Sure. But him ?” His dark eyes narrowed slightly, “That’s big.”

He set the cloth down, his gaze steady on her, “What did you say?”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her shoulders hunching slightly.

“That I’d think about it,” she admitted, the words clipped as though they’d been dragged out of her.

Bas studied her in silence, his expression unreadable, though his brow furrowed as he watched her fidget with her glass. After a long pause, he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.

“You never seem thrilled about this,” he remarked, his tone carefully neutral, “Most people would jump at the chance of joining Venturer—especially if it was me inviting them.” His lips drawn into a lopsided grin, a flash of his usual humor breaking through.

“Yeah, well, I’m not most people,” Cassie replied, her voice sharp, the words a defensive barb.

Bas’s grin softened, the teasing edge fading as he regarded her more closely. He reached for a glass of water, taking a slow sip before setting it down with deliberate calm.

“Alright,” he said, his tone quieter but no less insistent, “Let’s hear it. What’s holding you back?”

Cassie’s fingers stilled on the rim of her glass. For a moment, she seemed to shrink into herself, her expression tightening. Her eyes darted to the counter as she wrestled with words that didn’t want to come.

“It’s not that simple,” she muttered finally, her voice low, almost to herself.

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” Bas countered.

Cassie shifted in her seat, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass again.

“I just… I don’t think it’s for me.”

Bas’s laugh was short and dry, a single puff of air that carried no mirth.

“You don’t think it’s for you? Come on, Cass. That’s not an answer. You’ve got a voice people listen to—even when they don’t want to. Hell, you made headlines just by opening your mouth. And now you’re telling me you can’t see yourself in a chair next to Declan?”

Cassie clenched her jaw, the muscles tensing in her neck. The words were there, but they felt too heavy, too real to say out loud.

Her thoughts spiraled, never giving her a rest— Could I? Be in a chair next to him?

What if I say yes and ruin everything?

The offer, the screen, the lights… It was all too much.

What if they really do see something in me that I don’t see in myself?

But that wasn’t the real issue, was it?

“I can’t do it, Bas,” she whispered, as if saying the words could keep the fear at bay.

The issue was if they saw all the mistakes that she knew that was beneath her skin, her choices and her attempts.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, leaning her elbows against the edge of the counter, her head hanging low.

It wasn’t the stage, or the lights. It wasn’t even the fear of failure.

Her mind raced with the images— the screen, the questions, the voices of people in her head, judging, scrutinizing, always waiting for her to slip.

“Why not?” he pressed, not giving up so soon over this subject.

Cassie’s breath caught, she had hoped that he would drop it , as he usually did.

Her pulse quickened, the discomfort twisting in her stomach like a knot pulling tighter with every passing second. She knew what was coming, and still, she couldn’t find the strength to articulate it.

To say the words that circled her thoughts.

Why not? Her mind repeated the question and, as if it was a broken record, it started to repeat again and again., why not? Why not?

What was holding her back?

“Cass—”

Why not?

“I can’t even look you in the eye while we’re talking, Bas,” she snapped, her voice trembling, “How the hell am I supposed to talk to a camera? To an audience?”

There it was—the rawness of the truth.

Her fear wasn’t just about the screen. It was about her inability to stand in front of anyone and not feel exposed, vulnerable. She wasn’t ready to show that side of herself, not to millions of strangers, not when she could barely face the people she cared about.

Bas’s reaction was immediate. The mischief that usually animated his features vanished and turned into something quieter, more serious. He straightened slightly, as though anchoring himself to the counter while Cassie’s turmoil unfolded in front of him.

The ambient noise of the bar—a murmur of laughter, the clinking of glasses—faded into a distant sound, no longer relevant in the charged space between them.

For a moment, Bas said nothing. His gaze held her frame—not in judgment, but in understanding. He wasn’t a man who filled silences lightly, and Cassie had come to appreciate that about him.

The absence of his voice gave hers the room to breathe, even as it quaked under the weight of her uncertainty.

“You’ve always been harder on yourself than anyone else,” he interrupted the silence once he noticed she was more at ease, “You don’t trust what people see in you, Cass, and maybe that’s part of the problem. You think you’ve got to hide everything, like people can’t handle the real you.”

She winced, her fingers hurting against the edges of her glass. Bas had an infuriating way of hitting nerves she hadn’t realized were exposed.

Her eyes flicked to the countertop, the wood grain blurring as a knot tightened in her chest.

“It’s not about hiding,” she muttered, “It’s about… Not giving them the ammunition. You don’t get it, people don’t just listen. They dissect. They pick you apart until there’s nothing left, I’ve seen it.”

“You’re right. I don’t get it—not in the way you do,” He let out a breath, rubbing a hand along his jaw, “But I’ve been in enough storms to know that people don’t waste their time picking apart someone who doesn’t matter. The fact that they’re looking at you? It means you’re already doing something worth their attention.”

Cassie shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one they’re staring at right now.”

“No,” Bas agreed, his tone too calm, “But I’ve seen what happens when someone refuses to stand up because they’re scared of the fallout. It doesn’t stop the storm—it just leaves someone else to clean up the mess.”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his figure, a spark of indignation flaring in her chest.

“So what?” she wondered, “You think I owe it to the world to put myself out there? To be ripped apart just because I have something to say?”

Bas leaned closer, resting a hand on her shoulder—not heavy, but firm enough to anchor her. His dark eyes locked onto hers, steady as ever, but there was something deeper in his expression now. Not pity, not even frustration. Just belief.

This time, Cassie tried to force herself to stare at him back, to see what he was gonna say.

“No,” he said, “I think you owe it to yourself.”

Cassie froze, his words cutting through the haze of her spiraling thoughts. They weren’t flashy or grand, but they had a quiet truth that she couldn’t ignore. For a moment, the emotions that were pressing down on her chest lightened, replaced by something that felt disarmingly close to hope.

She couldn’t stop herself before a smile creeped out of her teeth.

Cassie wanted to believe in him, she truly wanted to. Perhaps, that time she would.

Bas’s hand lingered a moment longer before he stepped back, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips in response to hers.

“Now,” he said, his voice returning to its usual easy warmth, “don’t make me pull out a soapbox, Cass. We’ve got a show to watch.”

She managed a weak laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing slowly as he reached for the remote. The television flickered to life, casting a pale glow over the bar as the opening notes of Venturer’s broadcast filled the room.

Declan O’Hara’s face appeared on the screen, his sharp, commanding presence filling the bar as the opening notes of Venturer’s broadcast faded. The backdrop was strikingly simple—sleek, modern lines contrasting with a warm palette that suggested approachability. The kind of visual balance that made the show feel personal without losing its gravitas.

Cassie leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t say a word, but Bas caught the way her fingers tapped lightly against her arm in a rhythm too calculated to be unconscious.

“You good?” he asked, keeping his tone light, though his eyes didn’t leave her face.

“Yeah,” she muttered, her gaze fixed on the screen, “Just... Curious to see how he spins it.”

Declan’s voice came into the segment seamlessly—a live interview with a city council member who had been at the center of recent housing debates. The guest looked composed, but there was a tension in his smile, the kind that came from knowing you were about to face someone who wouldn’t let a single inconsistency slide.

He was the Irish Wolfhound , after all.

“Here we go,” Bas muttered, leaning in his seat, clearly expecting fireworks.

Cassie didn’t respond, her focus on the screen unbroken. Declan’s approach was surgical, every question calibrated to draw out information without tipping into outright confrontation. His tone remained calm, professional, but there was no mistaking the intent behind his words.

He was peeling back the layers of the council member’s carefully rehearsed answers, pushing him to explain vague statements and sidestep slippery rhetoric.

“Man’s a scalpel,” Bas said under his breath, shaking his head, “Doesn’t let up, does he?”

“It’s effective,” Cassie admitted, her tone grudging. There was something fascinating about watching Declan work—how he managed to command the room without ever raising his voice, how he drew the audience into the conversation without alienating his guest.

It was a skill she recognized, even admired, though she’d never admit it aloud.

Her attention was drawn even further as Declan leaned forward, his next question landing with deliberate weight.

“As Cassie Jones accused in Dan Murphy’s broadcast at Crawford’s FM yesterday,” Declan glanced down at a note in his hand, the movement unhurried, “there are claims that the council’s housing allocations lack transparency. Specifically, that contracts were awarded to developers with personal ties to sitting council members. What’s your response?”

Cassie blinked, her body instinctively leaning a fraction closer to the screen, as though the words might hit differently if she were nearer. Hearing her name roll off his tongue in that voice—the cadence carefully deliberate, each word with the precision of a blade—was something she hadn’t prepared for.

It wasn’t just that he repeated her accusations; it was the way he positioned them as essential to the conversation, stripping away any lingering doubts about their importance.

But then there was the other thing— the truth of it all . What truly shook her in her seat.

She hadn’t been the one to say those words during Dan’s broadcast.

The story, the study, the facts—they were hers, yes . Yet Dan had been the one to voice them, stealing her moment before she arrived at the station to reclaim it. By the time she had taken control of the broadcast, the opportunity to lay out her findings in full had slipped through her fingers. All she could do then was pivot, focus on the other truth she’d uncovered.

And now? Declan O’Hara, of all people, was giving her story back to her.

Bas’s head whipped toward her, his expression part shock, part amusement.

“He’s quoting you ?”

“Looks like it,” Cassie muttered, her voice faint as her gaze remained fixed on the screen. Her chest felt a lot heavier, a strange warmth stirring in the pit of her stomach, though she tried to brush it off.

On screen, the council member’s practiced composure faltered before he recovered.

“I’m not aware of any evidence to support those claims,” he said, his tone clipped, “And I think it’s reckless to give air to accusations of a—”

“It’s not about recklessness,” Declan interrupted him, as calm as he was since the beginning of the show, “It’s about accountability. Jones provided specifics—figures, dates, patterns. If they’re inaccurate, wouldn’t it benefit the council to set the record straight?”

Cassie bit her lip, fighting back the urge to grin. For the first time in weeks, it felt like her work wasn’t just hers—just something she could keep on her shelf. No, it was out there , undeniable .

Different from Dan and Crawford, Declan O’Hara wasn’t stealing it. He was amplifying it.

Declan gave my story back to me , Cassie repeated again, as to remind herself that this day wasn’t a dream.

Bas snorted, “Looks like someone’s got a fan.”

“Shut up, Bas,” Cassie muttered, her voice threatening but there was no bite. Still, she could feel the heat creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks, a flush she didn’t dare acknowledge.

Did Bas mean that she was Declan’s fan or Declan who was her fan. Either way, both made her blush even more.

She folded her arms tighter across her chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

The council member stumbled over his response, scrambling to reframe the narrative, but Declan was relentless, pressing for specifics with a calm determination that left no room for evasion. When the segment ended, Declan delivered a closing remark that felt both pointed and perfectly impartial, a masterful capstone to the exchange.

The screen transitioned to a softer feature—a local artist creating murals across the city. The shift in tone was smooth, offering viewers a reprieve from the tension.

Cassie exhaled, her eyes fixed on the screen after a beat.

“He’s good,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Good as a presenter or a good person? Her mind asked her and, well , Cassie didn’t have an answer for that.

Bas chuckled, “That sounded dangerously close to actual praise.”

“Don’t push it,” Cassie warned, though the curve of her lips betrayed her amusement.

The bar’s energy had shifted as the night deepened.

Voices softened into murmurs, glasses clinked with lazy rhythm, and the warm glow of the overhead fixtures seemed to dim ever so vaguely, making the room feel closer, cozier. Cassie and Bas were still at their corner, both a little slouched, their earlier sharpness dulled by the hour and the lingering warmth of their drinks.

From an outsider's perspective, they might have appeared as companions deep into their cups, the way Bas’s posture had relaxed, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, his grin loose and easy. Cassie, by contrast, seemed more guarded, though the light flush across her cheeks and the way she covered her mouth mid-laugh betrayed a rare moment of vulnerability.

A laughing fit took over Cassie as Bas told her a story about a patron mistaking a bottle of soy sauce for whiskey last week. She was shaking her head, trying to compose herself, her cheeks flushed from laughter and the residual embarrassment of the earlier show.

Bas placed a hand dramatically on his chest, “I swear on King’s Ransom,” his grin wide and unapologetic.

Cassie shook her head, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress the tug of a smile.

“Right, because your horse makes you credible.”

“Don’t disrespect King’s Ransom,” Bas shot back with mock indignation, “He’s got more class than you’ll ever have.”

Cassie leaned forward, her elbow propped on the table as she took a sip of her drink. The ice clinked softly against the glass, and she watched Bas with a bemused expression, her free hand lightly tracing a circle on the tabletop.

“You know,” she said, setting the glass down, “you’d make a terrible lawyer. Your evidence is a horse , and your defense strategy is sarcasm .”

Bas grinned, leaning back in his chair as though settling into the role of a court jester.

“A lawyer? Please . Too much paperwork. I’d rather keep slinging drinks, making people laugh and playing polo.”

“Ah, here we go to the noble profession of bartending again ,” Cassie teased, raising her glass slightly in a mock toast, “Defender of soy sauce incidents and peddler of questionable anecdotes.”

“Questionable?” Bas raised an eyebrow, his hand dramatically clutching his chest again, “That story was the highlight of my week.”

“Well,” Cassie replied, her lips twitching as though fighting a laugh, “your weeks must be very uneventful .”

Bas opened his mouth to retort, but his attention shifted mid-thought. His expression stilled for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before his grin returned—sharper now, edged with mischief. He sat up a little straighter, his eyes drifting past her shoulder.

“Uh-oh,” he murmured, amused.

Cassie frowned, following his gaze halfway before stopping herself. The bar was quieter now, the conversation muted, the warm light softening the lines of every figure in the room.

She turned back to Bas, raising an eyebrow in question.

“What?” she asked, her tone half-curious, half- suspicious .

Because everything that made Bas grin was suspicious.

Yet, he didn’t answer immediately, his smirk widening as though he were savoring the moment before delivering a punchline.

“Oh,” a voice behind her said, smooth and far too familiar, “I thought Rupert would be here already.”

Cassie froze, every thought in her head stalling at once. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, the earlier warmth of laughter fleeing in the face of a sudden, overpowering heat that had nothing to do with the bar’s cozy atmosphere.

Her pulse kicked up, erratic and insistent. She didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice. That deliberate cadence, the trace of an accent—it was as unmistakable as it was infuriating.

Declan O’Hara.

Bas, unbothered and clearly enjoying himself, leaned back further in his chair.

“Rupert’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala,” Bas replied easily, his tone almost conversational, “Something about giving someone a ride.”

“Hm,” Declan mused, the sound more thoughtful than dismissive, “Taggie’s doing their buffet, isn’t she?”

Bas hummed in confirmation, the sound low and knowing. His smirk teetered on the edge of outright glee, and Cassie could feel it radiating off him like heat.

Cassie still couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Her earlier humor had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming awareness of Declan’s proximity. She could almost feel his breath against her neck, irrational as it was—however, she was sitting and he was standing .

Images flashed in her mind—his piercing gaze earlier that day, his voice echoing through her living room as he made a case for Venturer, and the way her name had rolled off his tongue during his broadcast.

In the end, what did he want with her? Truly? He had already done so much tonight—repeating her accusations, giving her the credit Dan Murphy had stolen, framing her work in a way that no one could ignore. And now, here he was, unbidden and unexpected.

A sharp thought pierced through her tangled emotions: All of this... Was it just to get her attention? For her to finally accept his offer?

If yes, then...

She swallowed hard, trying to force the thought away, but it was already there, fully formed and impossible to ignore:

Bloody hell, he was good.

Her thoughts spiraled, and though she wanted to blame it on the warmth of the room or the residual adrenaline from the broadcast, she knew better. Declan O’Hara didn’t just walk into places—he arrived , every movement perfectly calculated, every word perfectly placed.

And then, the moment she’d dreaded :

“Hi, Cassie,” Declan said, his voice taking on a lighter tone, “I imagine you saw my show tonight?”

The words were delivered almost as a challenge. And, unfortunately , for some reason, her brain was built to never ignore a challenge—so, Cassie, despite every instinct screaming at her to remain frozen, finally turned.

Her movement was hesitant, as if her body was testing each muscle before committing fully to the action. She didn’t know what she expected to see—something intimidating, perhaps, or something too familiar to handle—but the reality was worse.

Declan stood there, relaxed in a way that was almost infuriating, his suit still immaculate from the broadcast, the crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to suggest he’d taken the edge off a long day but hadn’t fully unwound. The muted lighting of the bar softened the sharpness of his features, but his presence remained undiminished.

His dark eyes found hers immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting in a wide smile. It wasn’t a smirk, not exactly—it lacked the arrogance she might have expected—but there was something inherently self-assured about it. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on her.

The kind of effect that made her unable to look away when he looked at her.

Her lungs burned from the effort of keeping her composure, but Declan didn’t press. He simply smiled, the gesture disarming in its simplicity, and waited .

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 3

summary: Cassie navigates a haze of alcohol and emotions as she confronts the weight of her past and future decisions.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Themes of Corruption, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension, Alcohol Use, Realism in Media Industry, Self-doubting

w.c: 15.7k

[prologue], [chapter one], [chapter two], [here]

o3. Never break the chain

The warmth of Bar Sinister wrapped around Declan the moment he stepped inside, a soft hum of voices and clinking glasses providing the backdrop. The place had a worn-in charm, like an old leather armchair—comfortably familiar yet quietly sophisticated. The light fixtures cast a muted, golden glow, pooling in corners and leaving enough shadows to feel discreet. It was the kind of place where people came to talk, not to be seen.

Declan’s gaze swept the room, scanning for Rupert.

His friend was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly caught up in whatever social entanglement he met in his way. Typical of him. Declan let out a quiet sigh, adjusting his cufflinks—a subconscious habit more than anything.

Then his gaze landed on Bas, comfortably sprawled at a counter near the far corner. The scene was familiar enough: Bas gesturing animatedly, the low light reflecting off the condensation of a half-empty glass at his side. His grin was wide, his loose posture exuding the kind of effortless charm Declan had come to associate with him.

Typical Bas.

At first, Declan had hoped to find Rupert with Bas, since both were joined at the hip.

Where Bas was, usually, Rupert was as well.

However, this time, next to Bas sat a woman, her back to Declan. Again, typical Bas.

At first glance, she didn’t seem remarkable. Dark brown hair, the soft curls catching the light to reveal subtle auburn undertones—spilling over her shoulders, posture relaxed, head tilted backwards as she laughed at something Bas had said to her.

Declan nearly dismissed it as just another encounter for Bas, who had a way of surrounding himself with women who were drawn to his easy humor and magnetic energy. But as the journalist stepped closer, something about the way the woman moved—a slight tilt of her head, a gesture of her hand—nagged at him.

And then her voice reached his ears, carrying over the soft background sound of the bar.

“You know,” she remarked, casually, “you’d make a terrible lawyer. Your evidence is a horse, and your defense strategy is sarcasm.”

Declan halted in his tracks.

That voice.

Recognition struck him like a sudden shock, and everything fell into place. It wasn’t just any woman sitting with Bas—it was Cassie.

Cassie Jones.

The realization sent a strange mix of emotions through him, each one colliding before he could fully process them. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he walked in, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Cassie, in this bar, with Bas—her back to him, her shoulders shaking with laughter—felt as unexpected as it was unnerving.

Declan’s gaze tunneled, focusing on her with newfound intent.

Her chestnut locks cascaded around her face in gentle waves, reflecting the soft golden light from above. Even from behind, she exuded a vibrant energy that drew the eye irresistibly. She leaned in gradually, resting her elbow on the table, her fingers loosely holding her glass as if it anchored her to the moment.

The sharp lines of her black blazer stood out against the cozy ambiance of the bar, yet it felt entirely appropriate. It complemented her persona—elegant and poised, yet with a hint of unpredictability that suggested she could burst into laughter at any moment.

He took a breath, but it didn’t quite steady him.

Bas let out a snort, struggling to suppress a laugh. The sound was unrestrained and familiar, waltzing through the bar with an undercurrent of satisfaction. He was clearly enjoying himself, reveling in the shared amusement between them.

This was Bas at his most infuriating—delightfully irreverent, effortlessly magnetic, and undeniably present. He had a knack for disarming people, creating an intimacy that felt both natural and easy.

It was a skill that Declan admired in theory, but witnessing it unfold with a young woman like Cassie left him unsettled in ways he preferred not to explore.

“A lawyer?” Bas said with another incredulous laugh, his voice loud enough to turn heads, “Please. Too much paperwork. I’d rather keep slinging drinks, making people laugh, and playing polo.”

“Ah, the noble profession of bartending again,” Cassie attempted to suppress another fit of giggles, her tone laced with playful sarcasm, “Defender of soy sauce incidents and peddler of questionable anecdotes.”

“Questionable?” Bas echoed, feigning shock as he clutched his chest, “That story was the highlight of my week.”

Cassie’s laughter rang out again—this time softer, almost reflective—and Declan felt its warmth wash over him before he could rein it in.

For a moment, Declan allowed himself to remain in that space, his eyes locked on her. There was something about the way she leaned in, her fingers lightly grazing the rim of her glass as she absorbed Bas’s reply, that felt... Out of place.

Not because she didn’t belong—if anything, she seamlessly blended into the bar's warm, lived-in ambiance—but because he hadn’t anticipated how effortlessly she could adapt to this relaxed environment.

Across from her, Bas lounged with an infuriating charm that seemed to flow from him like a second language. Declan felt a sharp pang grip him—something instinctual and unsettling. It wasn’t exactly anger; he wasn’t angry at Bas.

How could he be? Bas was simply being himself: witty, disarming, and entirely at ease in captivating an audience.

It was just… Complicated.

Declan’s chest tightened as he watched. There was no real justification for the feeling, just the disquieting realization that seeing Cassie and Bas together—sharing effortless laughter and moving in sync—had stirred something deep within him.

“Oh,” he said with a smooth tone, his voice slicing through the warm stillness of the bar as he paused beside the counter, “I thought Rupert would be here already.”

The words flowed easily, yet he couldn't shake the tightening sensation in his chest as he truly focused on her.

Cassie hadn’t even fully turned to acknowledge him, but he could sense her attention, which was more than he anticipated.

Bas leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained by the unfolding scene.

“Rupert’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala,” he answered, his tone breezy, “Something about giving someone a ride.”

Declan’s thoughts wandered for a moment. Rupert at the gala.

Mrs. Spencer’s gala was the epitome of a high-society affair—too… Perfect for Rupert. The only thing that would pique his interest was the chance to engage in flirtations with anyone present.

That thought was interrupted briefly as Declan recalled his earlier conversation with Taggie about the ride to the Spencer’s residence. She had insisted she already had a ride, that she didn’t want to disturb him and his plans.

He had assumed—perhaps naively—that Mr. Spencer himself would have come to collect her. What kind of man would allow a woman like her to navigate the night alone, especially during such an extravagant gala?

Declan’s brow furrowed, though his expression remained relaxed as he turned his attention back to the conversation. He allowed a thoughtful hum to leave his lips, careful not to let his thoughts show on his face.

“Taggie’s doing their buffet, isn’t she?” His voice was quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to them.

The casual question floated into the air between them, but Declan’s mind was elsewhere—focused on Cassie. Because why would he be thinking about her when he has Rupert to worry about?

Perhaps the one glass of whiskey he had treated himself when the show finished wasn’t hitting so well.

She was here with Bas, laughing and chatting with an ease that felt foreign to him. This vibrant side of her was a revelation, making the earlier awkwardness of their interactions fade into the background.

Bas nodded to Declan’s inquiry, which reminded him of his earlier question, a hint of satisfaction creeping into Baddingham's expression. Declan couldn't shake the sensation that he was missing out on something significant.

For the moment, he resolved to set this concern aside, leaving it for a future version of himself to figure out.

Cassie hadn’t turned completely yet, but Declan could feel the air shift the moment he entered the scene. Something was different, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was the intensity of his thoughts, or maybe it was the realization that he hadn’t anticipated how much he would want her attention at this moment.

Whatever it was, the energy between them felt charged in a way that hadn't existed before.

“Hi, Cassie,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue with an ease that belied the intent behind it, “I imagine you saw my show tonight.”

Only then, she did finally turn, the motion was cautious, almost reluctant, like she was testing each muscle before committing to the full action. For a moment, he saw her uncertainty—unspoken but undeniable—and then her eyes met his, and everything else in the room seemed to still.

Her dark eyes caught the muted glow of the bar’s lighting, making them seem deeper, more guarded than they had earlier in the day. Her expression was unreadable at first, her lips slightly parted as though she was preparing to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Declan felt something stir in his chest—a pull, faint but insistent, that made him want to take a step closer. He resisted the urge, instead letting his gaze linger, unhurried, as if taking in every detail of her.

Her blazer was sharper up close, well-fitted but rumpled, suggesting she’d thrown it on in a hurry. The fade flush in her cheeks, still warm from the bar’s heat made her seem almost vulnerable. Almost.

Because if there was something that Cassie Jones wasn’t, that was that: vulnerable. She could show vulnerability, but she wasn’t one to let it define her.

He smiled, just enough to break the edge of the silence between them. It wasn’t a smirk—he knew better than to wield arrogance here—but it was self-assured.

And there it was, that subtle shift in her gaze, the telltale sign of someone trying too hard to appear unaffected. It was temporary, but he caught it, and it sent a flicker of satisfaction through him.

She held his gaze longer than he’d expected, her expression settling into something closer to defiance than uncertainty. Declan found himself appreciating the fire there, the way she refused to back down despite the tension thickening between them.

“Yes, it was… Thorough,” she replied, dismissing the tension that had lingered in her silence until she spoke.

Declan raised an eyebrow, and although he held back his reaction, he felt the sting of her understatement. Thorough? He might have laughed if he weren't slightly offended.

“Thorough,” Declan echoed, his brow lifting as if feigning offense, “I’ll take that as your version of a compliment.”

She shrugged, “Don’t get used to it.”

Bas’s laughter cut through the moment, a snort of genuine amusement as his gaze darted between the two of them. Grinning, he turned back toward the bar and began assembling Declan’s usual drink with the ease of someone who knew the routine by heart.

“Don’t listen to her,” Bas said, handing the glass to Declan with a flourish, “You should have seen her face when you said her name on television.”

Declan raised an eyebrow, intrigued, just as Cassie snapped her head toward Bas, her eyes wide in protest.

“Shut up, will you?” she shot at him, narrowing her gaze as she pointed a finger in warning.

Bas, ever the provocateur, pouted dramatically, though his grin threatened to spill over at any second.

“Sorry, American,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I just take orders from true British.”

Declan stood silently for a beat, his drink untouched in his hand. Watching them interact, the playful rhythm of their words, the easy way they occupied the space around each other—it struck him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Don’t you dare,” Cassie shot back, leaning closer, her voice sharp with faux outrage, “I was born in London, Bas. We’ve been over this!”

When he had first entered the bar and his gaze landed on them—Cassie laughing, Bas leaning closer with that mischievous grin… Something about their ease, the natural rhythm of their interaction, had snagged in his mind for just a moment.

But now, as he watched Cassie half-climb over the counter in mock outrage, her sharp retort cutting through Bas’s exaggerated pouting, whatever thought he had felt absurd.

They weren’t flirting. It was too careless, too playful—siblings bickering over nothing at all… And anyway, of course, they weren’t. If anything, they were squabbling like siblings over a childhood rivalry, their teasing lighthearted but relentless.

Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind, refusing to fully dissipate. And even if they were?

Declan’s fingers brushed the edge of his glass, grounding himself as he let the moment play out. Whatever had crossed his mind before, it was irrelevant now. It didn’t matter. And even if it did—well, that wasn’t something he intended to examine further.

“Good to know you’ve sorted out your identity crisis,” he spoke up, trying to soothe the tension off of his shoulders.

Cassie turned her attention to him, her eyes narrowing, though the amusement still lingered in her expression. Bas, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Don’t mind Declan,” Bas said to Cassie, raising his glass in an exaggerated toast, “He’s just grumpy because he missed the part where you glared at the television like it owed you money.”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “Bas, I swear to God—”

Bas chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying the scene, but Declan’s attention was still focused on Cassie. Despite the playful banter, something about the way she held herself, the sharpness in her eyes, intrigued him. Her guard was still up, but it felt different now. More like she was sparring with them for sport, her quick wit and retorts keeping everything at arm's length.

Declan let the silence hang for a moment, watching her as she settled back into her seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t an easy thing to hold her attention—he knew that much.

He cleared his throat, his voice softer this time, though still with the weight of the question.

“So, what did you think of the show?”

Don’t say thorough again, he almost whispered to himself.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers drumming lightly against the counter, her eyes shifting to her drink before finally meeting his gaze.

“You gave me my story back,” she said quietly, her eyes darting away to the content in her glass. Yet, Declan got a glimpse of the corners of her lips lifting, “My allegations. My accusations. You didn’t just… You credited me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Declan’s mouth, though he kept it restrained. He hadn’t expected to feel this... satisfied. There was something about hearing her say it that felt more than just a professional acknowledgment. It felt personal.

The past thirty minutes—Cameron’s scolding for not telling her about the section of the interview that had been planned—seemed far less important at that moment. It was all worth it.

The satisfaction from seeing her smile, from catching the brief flicker of recognition in her eyes when she’d looked at him again? That made the whole thing feel meaningful. Real.

“It was your work, Cassie,” he said simply, “It deserved to be heard the way you intended it. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I told you, I like your work. It’s sharp. Honest. You deserve the credit.”

Cassie blinked, her gaze flickering away again, and for a brief moment, Declan wondered if he had said too much. Her fingers tightened around her glass, and then the quiet stretched out between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was different—he could feel the space between them heavier than it had been moments before.

Declan watched her, trying to read the change in her, the way she seemed to retreat inward. Her face was still, but there was a tension in her posture, a thought she hadn’t voiced yet but that she was wrestling with all the same.

Bas, ever the disruptor, broke the quiet with a grin and raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Which is exactly why you should join Venturer,” he said with ease, as though it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

Cassie widened her eyes at Bas, pausing just a moment longer than expected. For a brief second, Declan caught the glint of an unspoken question in her gaze, a hesitation she hadn’t voiced but that was plain to see. And plain it was, it wasn’t difficult to see what was storming her mind again.

Bas leaned in, his voice shifting to a more persuasive tone as he continued, “You’ve got a lot to offer, Cassie. This isn’t about diving in headfirst. It’s about giving you a platform. Venturer is where you could take the next step.”

Declan kept his focus on her as he added, “It’s not about the show or the spotlight. It’s about the stories you’ve been telling—the stories that deserve to be heard. We’re just offering the chance to help amplify them.”

Cassie’s eyes moved from one of them to the other, but she didn’t immediately respond. Declan noticed how her brows furrowed, her focus distant as she turned over their words. She wasn’t sure, not yet, but she was listening.

After a beat, she exhaled, her gaze lifting again, this time fixated on a spot behind Bas, as if she was looking for an answer elsewhere.

“What exactly would you want me to do there?” she asked quietly, as though she had already begun to weigh her options in her mind, “At Venturer?”

Declan didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward just enough to meet her eyes directly.

“I want you as my co-host,” The words slipped out before he had fully considered them.

Had he ever discussed this with anyone? He tried to remember—perhaps Freddie and Rupert, months ago, when the idea of a co-host had first come up.

They had all agreed that it would only make sense if they found someone who could match the dynamic of the show, but no one felt right. They’d searched for weeks, but no name had emerged, not one that made Declan feel this level of certainty.

He remembered Freddie saying something about making calls, but the woman he had thought of already had a job in radio—an obstacle at the time. Who would have guessed that the right person, the one he’d been unknowingly searching for, was sitting right in front of him?

The woman working at a radio, huh?

Declan’s mind shifted as he considered the situation now.

Cameron, of course, would have to sign off on this. They couldn’t move forward without her approval, and there was always the politics to manage.

Still, the thought of Cassie in that role felt more fitting than he had anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t just about the show. Maybe it was about giving her a platform, the one she deserved.

He’d handle Cameron later. He’d manage that as it came.

Declan focused back on Cassie, waiting for her response.

When she finally spoke, it was with a quiet certainty.

“I can’t be a co-host,” she said, shaking her head in a way that seemed to emphasize her decision. Her eyes briefly skimmed over his face, reading his reaction, but she didn’t hold her look too long—just enough to gauge him before continuing, “Not in a show that’s already built on your name. Your brand. That’s not where I fit.”

Declan understood, he had suspected as much, but hearing her articulate it only solidified what he had already sensed. It wasn’t about her not wanting to be a part of the show; it was about not losing herself in something that wasn’t truly hers. He admired that.

Bas, noticing the shift in the conversation, raised an eyebrow but kept quiet, waiting for Declan to respond.

Declan let the silence stretch for a moment, letting Cassie’s words sit between them. He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, her thoughts still moving beneath the surface. And when she spoke again, her voice was calmer, more considered.

“Let’s say I accept,” she said, the decision still heavy on the tip of her tongue, though she was clearly still pondering, “What I’m offering—” she gave a small pause, underscoring the seriousness of her consideration, “Is to be part of the show, but in a way that makes sense for me. Maybe a segment. A smaller part, where I can bring in the stories I’ve been chasing. The cases I’m working with. That’s where I can make the biggest difference.”

Declan absorbed her words carefully, his expression thoughtful. The idea of a segment, a piece of the show that felt more organic to her… Made sense. It wasn’t about pushing her into something that wasn’t right—it was about finding the right space for her to thrive.

His mind raced for a moment, considering how this could fit.

“A segment. We can do that,” he nodded, a slight smile playing in his lips, “Your stories. Your voice. That’s what this is about.”

Cassie’s fingers resumed their quiet drumming on the glass, her gaze lowering for a moment as she mulled over the next words. Declan observed her closely, watching the way her fingers moved—rhythmic, methodical. It wasn’t a nervous gesture, but something deliberate, as though she was laying the foundation for her next move.

The final pieces of the puzzle were clearly clicking into place in her mind, and Declan could almost hear the thoughts running through her head.

When Cassie spoke again, her voice was more casual, the tension easing from her shoulders. But even in this more relaxed tone, there was an undeniable practicality that struck him.

“And when I’m not on screen,” she said, her eyes meeting him briefly, “I want to be part of the production side. Camera work. Editing. Anything that gives me hands-on experience. I’ve got bills to pay and if I’m going to do this, I want to understand every angle.”

Declan blinked, his lips pressed in a thin line as his mind processed her words quickly. There was no hesitation now, no reluctance in her tone. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it.

Cassie wasn’t interested in just being a figurehead, a talking head for a show. She wanted to be in the trenches, learning the ropes, understanding the mechanics of the industry. The way she expressed it—so grounded, so aware of the realities—made something in Declan click.

Bas grinned, clearly impressed.

“Practical and resourceful,” His tone was light, but Declan could sense the respect in his words, “You always surprise me, Jones.”

Cassie shot Bas a small, pointed look, but it wasn’t one of amusement. The smile that had briefly touched her lips faded quickly, replaced by that same determined expression.

“If I’m doing this, I’m not just here to be a pretty face. I want to learn.”

She wasn’t the type to hide behind vague promises or false humility. She was real, grounded. She wanted to be more than a figure in front of a camera, and that was exactly why she was the right fit for what they were trying to build.

Declan studied her, taking in the quiet confidence she exuded. Her eyes weren’t just steady—they were attentive, measuring everything around her, and there was an underlying fire in them that he couldn’t ignore. She wasn’t one to settle for the obvious answers. Her posture, too, was a study in balance—leaning forward just enough to show interest, but never fully giving herself away.

It was an energy that kept him guessing, but in the best way possible.

And for someone like Declan, with his own history in this world of media and public image, he knew exactly the kind of woman she was.

Someone who didn’t rely on the glitz of the industry, but on something real. Something genuine. That was what set her apart. That’s what would make her the perfect fit for the kind of thing they were building here.

He didn’t have the words for it. He simply watched her, knowing that this was the kind of woman who always had an edge—a razor-sharp focus on the things that mattered.

There’s the fighter, he thought, and that thought brought a small, involuntary smile to his lips.

“So?” he said, his voice still calm, a subtle nudge, but with no urgency, “What’s next?”

Because, of course, a young woman like her would have a third condition.

Cassie’s eyes softened, just the smallest trace of vulnerability appearing before she masked it again, her lips pressing into a thin line. Declan saw it, but he didn’t press.

This wasn’t a moment to rush. She was measuring her response, and that was fine with him.

“Third condition,” there was no hesitation this time, but Declan noticed the way she settled into the words, almost as though she had prepared for this moment, “I want to talk to my uncle before anything final happens.”

Declan didn’t miss the subtle emphasis she put on ‘talk’—she wasn’t asking for permission, but she was looking for a conversation. And that made sense. Cassie’s relationship with her uncle was important, and he understood the need to clear things with him first.

For a second, he wouldn’t lie, he forgot she was Freddie’s niece. Yes, they had some similarities in appearances: brownish hair and brown eyes. But, despite that? Two different people entirely.

Bas glanced at Declan, and Declan gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Of course. No one’s rushing you,” Bas said, his voice filled with that easy, knowing tone.

Declan allowed himself a smile, a little quieter now.

That mattered more than he wanted to admit, it made every minute listening to Cameron’s lecture worthier than ever.

“I wish Rupert were here,” Declan chuckled as he thought about his friend, leaning back a little, “It would be nice to get his approval on this. At least then we’d know you’re already part of the team. Since, obviously, Freddie would agree.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, a touch of amusement breaking through her previously serious expression.

“You think he’d just approve it like that? Rupert?”

Declan’s grin was small but genuine. There was something apologetic in the way he held her gaze, as if admitting that… Yes, I am that confident.

“If anyone could, it’d be him. But we can wait. Just know, when you’re ready, you’ve got a place here.”

“Wait a second,” Bas said suddenly, rising from his seat and turning to rummage behind the counter.

“I didn’t even say yes,” Cassie said with a frown, watching her friend shuffle behind the bar, his movements purposeful.

After a moment, Bas emerged with a bottle, his grin wide.

“That’s the only time I’ve seen you really consider it,” he said, pulling out two glasses from behind the bar, “You know, Declan? Me and Freddie have been trying to get her to even think about this since she moved in.”

“Really?” Declan asked, his voice tinged with a mischievous as he leaned forward, never taking his eyes off Cassie.

She shot him a look, brows raised, as though silently asking if he was being serious.

He was.

And there was something about hearing Bas’s words, seeing Cassie’s expression shift just a little, that made Declan feel a sense of quiet victory.

It wasn’t just about the idea of her joining the show anymore—it was about seeing her consider it, seeing her mind working through the possibilities. To think that the things she had been working on, her stories, could have more power, more reach... He couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at the thought.

To him, her name deserved to carry weight—more weight than any of the fears she still held about the public eye. Cassie’s work deserved to be heard on a broader scale, and the possibility of that, of seeing her stories unfold the way they were meant to, made his heart settle into something easier.

Bas placed the bottle on the counter with a thud, his grin widening as he poured a generous measure into three glasses. The amber liquid caught the dim light of the bar, casting golden reflections that danced on the polished surface. Cassie watched the liquid swirl, her thoughts tangling like the intricate play of light and shadow before her.

“Here’s to bad ideas,” Bas declared, raising his glass high.

Cassie smirked, shaking her head as she reluctantly took her glass. Declan, seated across from her, mirrored Bas’s motion, though his movement was slower. His eyes strayed to her, a quiet idea strangling his thoughts.

“To bad ideas,” Declan whispered, raising his own glass.

“To bad ideas,” Cassie echoed, clinking her glass against theirs. The first sip was smooth, warm, leaving a faint burn as it settled, but the growing warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the whiskey.

The conversation drifted, light and meandering, as the three of them settled into an easy rhythm. Declan’s usual formality seemed to loosen with each drink, his laugh becoming more frequent, more unrestrained. Bas, ever the raconteur, regaled them with one ridiculous story after another, his words punctuated by grand gestures that had both Cassie and Declan chuckling into their glasses.

“You should’ve seen the look on Freddie’s face when that happened,” Bas said, his grin infectious, “He was stuck between being horrified and thoroughly impressed.”

Cassie shook her head, her laughter spilling out despite herself, “Freddie’s tolerance for you must be superhuman.”

Bas placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

“I’ll have you know, he secretly adores me. I’m the chaos he never knew he needed.”

“I’d love to see how he’d frame that argument,” Declan chuckled, his voice tinged with genuine amusement.

As the laughter died down, Bas leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. A sly thought passed though his mind as he glanced at Declan.

“Speaking of Freddie,” he began, deceptively casual, “he’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala tonight. Valerie was invited too.”

Declan’s posture stiffened imperceptibly, though his smile remained intact.

“Is that so?” he said evenly, taking another sip from his glass, “Makes sense. It’s exactly the kind of event she’d enjoy.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, his grin widening knowingly.

“And Taggie’s catering for them, isn’t she? Wonder if she’s getting a ride home from Mr. Spencer himself back to your house.”

The offhand comment hit its mark precisely, Bas ever the player.

Declan’s grip on his glass tightened, and though he let out a soft laugh, it was edged with something uneasy.

The thought was absurd, of course. Mr. Spencer was kind-hearted and unassuming—a man who wouldn’t hesitate to ensure Taggie’s evening went smoothly. Still, Bas’s remark nudged at an earlier suspicion that had already fogged Declan’s mind.

Rupert at the gala, “being someone’s ride” as Bas had mentioned—what had that even meant?

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the errant thought aside.

“I was actually thinking of swinging by,” he said, the words slipping out before he could reconsider, “If only to give her a ride home. Save her from any... Unnecessary chivalry.”

Both Cassie and Bas turned to him in unison, their expressions mirrors of surprise, though Bas’s quickly shifted into a smirk.

“Unnecessary?” Cassie’s voice was teasing lilt as she tilted her head, “Sounds like you’re volunteering yourself to rescue some damsel. Isn’t Taggie your daughter?”

Declan sighed, a tired smile tugging at his lips, “Let’s just say I prefer to ensure she gets home safe.”

Bas chuckled, pouring another round.

“Well, I’m staying put,” he said, topping off Declan’s glass before sliding it back toward him, “The bar won’t run itself. But you,” he added, nodding toward Cassie, “should definitely go. Give him some company.”

Cassie blinked, clearly caught off guard, “Me? Why me?”

Declan raised an eyebrow at Bas, mirroring Cassie’s confusion. The whiskey in his glass swirled as he considered whether two a little too drunk individuals driving to a gala was even remotely a good idea.

His logical side screamed no, but the alcohol softened that resolve.

“Are you with your car?” Declan asked Cassie directly.

She shook her head, almost sheepishly.

“No. Baz dragged me out earlier,” she said, pointing at the olive-skinned man who looked far too smug for his own good, “He’s been playing chauffeur lately. Friend of the year, clearly.”

“Only when Rupert’s not around,” Bas quipped with a grin, the comment laced with purposeful provocation.

Cassie rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bas. You’re just lucky I don’t charge you for putting up with your nonsense.”

The banter between them flowed easily, their sharp words softened by the undercurrent of camaraderie. Declan watched the exchange, bemused. There was something refreshing in their dynamic, the way Cassie’s sharp wit met Bas’s playful arrogance in a clash that was more rhythm than conflict.

As the banter went, for some reason Declan couldn’t quite understand, now they were arguing about horse riding.

British people and their fascination with horses…

“Sorry if I don’t have time for playdates with Jester and the other aristocratic ponies in the evenings,” Cassie shot back, her tone mock-serious.

“Unemployed for now,” he commented nonchalantly to his and Cassie’s banter, “Guess you’ve got all the time in the world for riding lessons for a while.”

“Piss off, you daft git,” Cassie shot back, it was hard to discern if it was faux anger or not.

Bas doubled over with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.

“Oh, now that’s rich!” he exclaimed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “Full-on British, eh? Should I even ask who corrupted you so thoroughly?”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, the glint in her eyes pure mischief, “Do you really want to know? Because yesterday, your fath—”

Before their banter could spiral further, Bas pivoted smoothly, clinking his glass against Declan’s, “So-ooo, what’s the verdict, O’Hara? Gala or no gala?”

“Coward,” she said, faking a cough, her words aimed squarely at Bas.

Bas threw his hands up dramatically, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m a bartender, love, not a chauffeur. I know where my responsibilities end.”

“Oh yes,” she muttered, swirling the remnants of her drink, “I am talking about that convenience, not the previous one.”

Declan hesitated, brushing his mustache as he thought about it, his eyes slowly and lazily moving to Cassie. The bar’s golden glow caught in her hair, illuminating the soft waves that framed her face.

She was different here—lighter, freer. It was a side of her he hadn’t quite seen yet, and for reasons he couldn’t name, he found himself drawn to it. There was something magnetic about the way she wielded her wit, sharp yet never cruel, like a blade meant for dueling, not wounding.

There was something about her presence that made the idea of the whole ride less daunting.

Or perhaps it was just his mind, in a tipsy and peculiar way, trying to justify the desire to see Cassie in a different light, in a more uplifting atmosphere.

“I will pass by,” he mumbled, “And if you’re tagging along,” he added, meeting Cassie’s eyes, “you might as well meet your uncle there.”

Cassie arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“Meet my uncle? At a gala full of pretentious twats in overpriced suits? Sounds delightful.”

Bas snorted into his drink, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If Freddie’s there, you can have your talk with him.”

Cassie groaned, dragging her hand down her face in exaggerated frustration. It wasn’t that she agreed with Bas—far from it. She simply didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. Her day had been draining enough without adding another verbal sparring match to the list.

“Fine,” she relented, “But don’t expect me to mingle. I’ll be your shadow, nothing more.”

Declan, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, allowed a small smile to break through, “Deal.”

Bas, sensing his moment, leaned forward with his glass raised high. His grin widened into something bordering on wicked mischief.

“To Cassie Jones, stepping into the lion’s den. Godspeed.”

Was he referring to going to a gala she wouldn’t even get into or Venturer? By Cassie’s face, she didn’t know which was worse.

“To the Bloody Harrier!” Declan added, lifting his glass in agreement, the nickname slipping out almost too easily.

Cassie rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

“More like dragging me into it,” she muttered as she clinked her glass against theirs.

The whiskey burned slightly less this time, the warmth spreading through her chest in a way that felt oddly comforting.

Despite her outward reluctance, resolve burned quietly beneath the surface. She had made up her mind long before they’d goaded her into it.

She tilted her glass back, finishing the last sip before setting it down with a thud. It wasn’t hesitation that had her drinking more than she should tonight; it was certainty—an attempt to drown out the anxiety that always came with choices like this.

Declan had noticed it all from the first sip. He could see the gears turning in her mind, the quiet battle she waged with herself, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he downed the rest of his drink, the burn grounding him as he rose from his seat.

“Well then,” he said, grabbing his coat and motioning toward the door, “shall we?”

Bas, still lounging comfortably in his chair, raised his glass in a mock salute.

“Try not to scare the posh ones too much if you find one of them, Harrier,” he teased, “They’re not used to someone who actually speaks their mind.”

Cassie smirked, tossing her scarf over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

“I am going there to talk with my uncle, not for the gala,” she shot over her shoulder, her tone light besides the playfulness in it, “And tell your father to not wait up.”

She also ignored the obscene gesture that Bas threw at her as she and Declan made their way out of the bar, the journalist laughing by her side.

As the bar door swung shut behind them, the crisp night air enveloped them, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the earthy tang of distant foliage. Cassie shivered, the combination of the cool breeze and the lingering warmth of whiskey creating a pleasant contradiction in her chest. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, her eyes briefly meeting Declan’s.

The night felt quieter than it should have, the distant traffic barely audible over the weight of shared laughter still hanging in the air. Declan adjusted his coat, his fingers brushing the lapels as his mind caught up to the absurdity of his idea.

Why had he thought this was a good plan? Bringing Cassie along to the gala on a whim felt reckless, even by his occasionally impulsive standards. His chest rose with a deep breath, an attempt to ground himself, but his gaze drifted toward Cassie.

Her cheeks were tinged pink, likely from both the whiskey and the chill, and her steps had that subtle looseness that hinted at her being just tipsy enough to consider something like this entertaining. Her hair, illuminated under the glow of the streetlight, framed her face in soft, tousled waves. She didn’t seem like someone who’d jump at the chance to crash a society event sober, but tonight?

Tonight, she wasn’t sober.

Declan’s lips turned up despite himself. There was something about her presence that felt grounding and yet entirely unpredictable—a combination that, oddly, made his chest relax.

He couldn’t explain it, not fully. Maybe it was the way her wit cut through his occasional self-seriousness, or perhaps it was vulnerability she didn’t bother to mask. Whatever it was, it brought a strange sense of ease to his otherwise tightly-wound existence, like an unexpected breeze cutting through a stifling room.

Still, the logical part of his brain—a singular sober cell stubbornly clinging to coherence—questioned every piece of this plan.

And yet, another part of him. Whether it was the whiskey or the strange clarity that came with her company—countered with an unapologetic, why not?

A shiver passed through Cassie, pulling him from his thoughts. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, but the chill of the night seemed persistent. Without a second thought, Declan slipped his navy coat from his shoulders—the same one he’d worn during the broadcast—and draped it over hers.

Her brows lifted immediately, surprise painted across her face. She turned to face him and opened her mouth, perhaps to reject the gesture, but before the words could form, her eyes found his and then… The moment settled around them like the hush before a storm.

Their eyes met, lingering longer than either had anticipated, as if a know was being tied between the gazes.

Her eyes held his, searching, curious, and for a fraction of a second, the air between them seemed to thrum with something unnamed. Declan felt his pulse quicken—not in the way it did during a heated debate or an impassioned broadcast, but with a subtle, disarming intensity he hadn’t anticipated.

And then Cassie looked away.

Darting her eyes downward, adjusting the coat on her shoulders as though to busy herself. The spell was broken, leaving Declan standing there.

Suddenly and inexplicably aware of his own actions.

What had possessed him to do that? It was nothing—just a small kindness in the face of the cold. Yet, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that tugged at the corners of his thoughts.

He refused to entertain the notion further. It was foolishness, plain and simple.

Cassie was Freddie’s niece, a talented journalist, someone he deeply admired professionally. There was no room for anything else, no matter how fleeting or innocent the thought.

Anything? Who had said anything? No one, of course. There wasn’t even a sign of conversation—just the rustle of the wind and the muffled hum of distant traffic.

There was nothing happening here.

No lingering tension, no unspoken understanding, no room for any of those... Passing thoughts that had crossed his mind. And certainly no reason for him to be standing there, feeling like the stillness between them was suddenly louder than it should be.

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the moment aside with the kind of practiced ease that only years of navigating sharp interviews and high-stakes debates could provide. His hand gestured toward the street ahead, the movement casual.

“Let’s go then, huh?”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately. She adjusted the coat one more time before offering him a faint, lopsided smile—one that didn’t betray whatever she might have been thinking.

“Lead the way, Declan.”

That glint in her eyes—it wasn’t mischief exactly, but it wasn’t far from it either. Whatever it was, it left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t unease, not entirely. It was curiosity.

Wasn't it?

The sound of the car engine filled the quiet moments between their words, a steady undercurrent that matched the rhythm of the tires rolling over the asphalt. Declan’s hands rested on the steering wheel with a practiced ease, though his mind was anything but still. Beside him, Cassie reclined lazily, her head tilted toward the window, the streetlights casting fleeting patterns on her face.

It was the kind of quiet he might have found calming on any other night, but tonight, it felt alive with tension—unspoken words and half-formed thoughts swirling between them.

He almost didn’t notice it at first, the faint murmur of her voice rising above the hum of the car. It wasn’t until she started mumbling along to Blondie’s War Child that he realized she was singing—or, at least, trying to.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself watch her out of the corner of his eye. She was too drunk to be coherent but not drunk enough to lose her rhythm entirely. It was... Endearing, in a way he hadn’t expected.

By the time London Calling by The Clash began to play, she had stopped singing and settled into an amused silence, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his coat.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” she said suddenly, her voice breaking through the quiet.

“What?” Declan glanced at her, catching the flicker of her eyes in the dim light.

“Driving drunk journalists around Rutshire,” she said, a sly smirk playing on her lips.

He chuckled low, shaking his head, “Can’t say it’s part of my usual routine.”

“Didn’t think so,” she replied, her tone softening. Her fingers stopped their idle tracing, coming to rest on her lap, “You’re too... I don’t know. Controlled? Like you’ve got a vice grip on everything—your work, your life...”

Declan raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary, “Is that so?”

Was she the same young woman he had encountered roughly... Let’s see, nearly 13 hours ago? Now he grasped how individuals typically felt when he scrutinized them. Bloody journalists, eh?

She shrugged and redirected her attention to the window.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said after a pause, “It’s just... Heavy. On television, at least, it’s how you look but now… You look more human.

Declan’s lips parted as though to respond, but the words caught somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue. He couldn’t tell if it was the whiskey clouding his mind or the way her words seemed to cut through the fog and hit something raw.

“I don’t think it’s as easy as you make it sound,” his voice quieter now.

“That sounds unusual,” Cassie commented, lifting a brow, “Today, you’ve been the one making everything sound easy.”

A soft laugh escaped him, surprising even himself.

“Touché,” he said, shaking his head, bemused by her candor, “I suppose I walked right into that one.”

Cassie didn’t immediately reply, her gaze trailing out the window as the landscape blurred by. There was something contemplative in her expression, a quiet gravity that hadn’t been there before.

The radio continued to play softly in the background—a low thread that filled the gaps between their words. For once, Declan welcomed its presence, it gave him something to focus on other than the knot in his chest or the way her words seemed to echo louder than the music.

“You’re different than I expected,” she remarked once more, shattering the quiet. This time, her voice was gentler, tinged with uncertainty. "On television, you appear... So grand, almost unreachable. But here... You’re simply a father going to a gala, anxious to take his daughter home because he cares for her."

Declan’s grip on the steering wheel faltered, his knuckles shifting pale against the leather.

“I suppose that’s the danger of screens,” he murmured, glancing briefly at her, “They magnify what you want people to see and blur the rest.”

The words hung between them, heavier than he intended.

He regretted saying that. Not only because usually it was a thought he kept for himself but also for reminding that it was that the thing that Cassie had said that terrified her. He expected her to recoil, to retreat into her own thoughts as he had unintentionally circled back to her fears of being seen.

Instead, Cassie tilted her head, studying him for a moment before turning back to the window.

“Or maybe you’re just better at hiding than most.”

Okay, that was a surprise.

Declan didn’t respond, though her words echoed in his mind.

Hiding. It wasn’t entirely untrue, was it? How much of his life had been spent crafting a version of himself that fit the narrative, that could carry the weight of expectations without buckling?

Despite him always wanting to be his true self in the screens, it was impossible to not create another self for the audience, to the guests. Someone more humble, more in control of the situation, more certain.

But here, in this car, with her, the mask felt thinner somehow, as if her presence had a way of peeling back the layers he had built.

Cassie shifted in her seat, drawing the coat closer around her shoulders.

“Does this ever get you tired?” Cassie asked, her voice sounding casual, but there was a thread of sincerity beneath it that caught Declan’s attention. “It looks... Draining.”

Declan glanced at her, the question catching him mid-thought. He knew why she was asking, and could hear the echoes of her own struggles in the question.

Her drunkenness hadn’t dulled her insight—it had sharpened it, like a lens focusing on things she might not have addressed sober. And deep down, Declan understood why.

Almost everyone in their world knew about the tragic death of Matthew Jones, the celebrated journalist and Cassie’s father. Freddie had shared details in private over the months, filling in the gaps about the fallout that followed, the relentless media circus, and how it shaped his life at the time—as Matthew’s brother.

Declan imagined it had reshaped Cassie’s as well. It was not for nothing that she was asking.

“All the time,” he admitted quietly, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

Cassie nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands resting in her lap. There was no triumph in her expression, no sense of having “won” something from him. Instead, her silence carried a kind of understanding that was oddly comforting. It wasn’t pity—it was recognition.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The steady hum of the engine filled the space, accompanied by the faint, familiar strains of the radio.

“You don’t have to answer,” she murmured, her voice gentler now and out of the sudden once again, “But when you’re not on screen, not on show—who are you?”

Declan didn’t react right away, his hands adjusting on the wheel as if grounding himself in the present. Her question persisted in his mind, not just in the car but in the corners of his mind, where the answers felt messy and uncertain.

“I think that’s the problem,” he wondered, his voice laced with self-awareness, “I’m not sure I know anymore.”

His own honesty surprised him… Again.

The road ahead was nearly empty, the soft glow of the gala’s lights appearing faintly on the horizon. Still, the journey felt oddly suspended in time, as though this moment in the car existed in a space separate from the reality waiting for them.

Declan exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the engine.

Cassie’s question echoed in his mind, repeating again and again, threading itself through his thoughts.

For years, he had been the face of authority, the man people turned to for clarity in chaos. On screen, he was sharp and controlled, always ready with the perfect retort or the incisive question. But off-screen? The man behind the polished veneer?

He wasn’t sure he’d known that man in years.

The divorce papers from Maud had stripped away more than just their marriage—they had exposed the hollowness in parts of his life he thought were solid. He’d once imagined a future filled with quiet evenings, the warmth of family anchoring him.

He’d pictured Taggie, Caitlin, and Patrick coming home to a full house, their laughter bouncing off walls unburdened by the ghosts of his failures. But those dreams had dissolved into something messier and far lonelier.

Even the moments he had hoped to share with Maud—their plans for simpler times, away from the cameras and schedules once they were old enough to have grandchildren—had slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only the ache of what could have been.

And then there was Taggie herself. Slipping through his grasp in ways he couldn’t fully define, like trying to hold on to water. He had always prided himself on their closeness, on the way she used to confide in him as a child. But now, there were signs he couldn’t ignore. The easy rapport she seemed to have with Rupert—was she confiding in him more than her own father?

Did she see him, her father, as the man he tried to be on TV or the one who fell short in real life?

Declan glanced at Cassie again. She wasn’t like anyone else in his orbit. She wasn’t asking him to perform or expecting him to have all the answers.

Her frankness, her willingness to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, felt... Disarming. Specifically when she was drunk.

He could only imagine that all these questions she had once made in her mind while they talked in the afternoon or after.

“You’re a strange one, Cassie,” he said, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips.

She opened one eye, regarding him with mock suspicion, “Strange good or strange bad?”

“Just... Strange,” he replied, not knowing himself the right answer.

“I’ll take it,” Cassie snorted softly, closing her eyes again as if content to let the moment drift, “Guess I, myself, walked right into that one. Sorry if I said something stupid, I’m not exactly thinking straight.”

Declan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he turned his eyes back to the road.

“You’ve got an interesting way of apologizing, I’ll give you that.”

Cassie let out a quiet breath, a soft, unexpected chuckle escaping her as she absorbed something Declan had said. It was different from her usual sharp humor—lighter, more relaxed, as though the weight of her thoughts had loosened just a little as her head lolled against the seat.

“It’s a gift,” she mumbled, though her voice had lost some of its earlier edge, softening into something more reflective, drowned in the dizziness, “Maybe I’ll regret this tomorrow. Maybe not.”

“Regret what exactly?” Declan asked, glancing her way again.

She exhaled deeply, the sound filling the car as she stared out the window, almost as though the passing lights could help her figure out the answer. 

“Saying things like... Like that.” She gestured vaguely, her words slurring, “Asking questions. About you. About screens. About all this... Stuff that probably isn’t my business.”

The car slowed as they approached a turn, the glow of the gala lights becoming visible in the distance.

“You ask because you care,” he managed the words out, trying to soothe the moment, “Not because you’re trying to pry. There’s a difference, there is no need for an apology, truly.”

Cassie opened her eyes at that, turning her head to look at him properly, “That’s very diplomatic of you, Declan. How very on-brand.”

Declan’s laugh came easily this time, less guarded than before, “I’ve been accused of worse.”

The car fell silent again, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Cassie leaned her head back, only a moment later laughing at the joke. For what it seemed, it took her sometime to realize what he meant.

“You know,” she commented, “My dad... He never talked about this stuff. About what it meant to be public. To have people look at you like you’re more than you are. Or less.”

Declan’s grip on the wheel shifted, his attention still on the road. He didn’t interrupt her, sensing there was more.

“I think he thought if he didn’t talk about it, he could shield me from it. Like if he just kept me out of the spotlight, none of it would touch me. But it did. It always does.”

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint sound of the engine and the muted music from the radio.

Declan took a deep breath, considering his words carefully, “It’s not easy, being seen like that. Or knowing people will judge you for things they don’t even understand.”

Cassie nodded, her gaze distant.

“Yeah,” she agreed, her eyes darting away to the window once more, “And sometimes, you don’t even know if you’re judging yourself the same way they do.”

The gala loomed ahead now, its grandeur casting long shadows on the darkened road. Declan slowed the car as they approached, his attention divided between the glowing entrance and the woman beside him.

“You’re not your father, Cassie,” he stated, each word delivered with the beat of his heart, “But that’s not a bad thing. He made his impact, left his mark. You get to decide what yours will be.”

Cassie turned to him, her lips parting as though to respond, but she hesitated. His words sank in slowly, their intent more comforting than overwhelming.

Declan glanced at her once more before parking.

“The world doesn’t need another Matthew Jones. But it could use a Cassie Jones.”

Cassie felt a shift inside her, a moment of stillness before her heart seemed to give a sudden, unexpected jolt. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was a warmth, something that felt almost unfamiliar but not unwelcome, growing quietly where the uncertainty once was.

How strange, she thought, that in less than a day, a man she had only known through screens could make her feel this way.

She decided it was a strange good, then.

The drive toward the gala hadn’t felt nearly long enough. For Cassie, the time between Declan’s car stopping and walking outside Bar Sinister was a blur. Yet, amidst the haze of alcohol and the disjointed events of the night, her mind circled back to one thing: Venturer.

Her clarity wasn’t rooted in confidence—it was more fragile, almost tenuous. But it clung to her nonetheless.

The calls she’d made earlier that day lingered in her thoughts, the voices of strangers who had trusted her with their pain. They had placed their faith in her, even when she wasn’t sure she deserved it. She had promised them she would do something, find some way to make their stories mean something.

And then there was Declan. She still didn’t fully understand it—the way he had used her allegations, not to diminish her, but to magnify the voices she had tried to represent. It hadn’t even been a day since they’d met, and yet, he had gone out of his way to give her story weight…

Why? Really, she couldn’t understand, why?

That question looped in her mind, unanswered and bewildering. He didn’t owe her anything, and yet, he’d offered her not just a platform but a hand to steady herself.

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to unravel his motivations. But in a way, it didn’t matter. It made her feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time: hope. For herself, for the people she had promised to help, and for the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could step into a space she had always believed was too big for her.

Well, she still believed it was. But, for the first time, she wanted to believe she was wrong.

Cassie’s gaze drifted toward the glowing lights of the Spencer estate through the window. She still questioned whether she belonged in front of a camera, whether she could wield a platform like Venturer without losing herself in the process. However, everyone else seemed to believe in her—Declan, Freddie, even Bas in his teasing way.

And maybe, she wanted to believe as well.

Because if Declan O’Hara could wield her story like a weapon for justice, then surely, she could wield her own voice for the same cause… Couldn't she?

It wasn’t about being sure of herself or about proving anything to the media that had twisted her father’s legacy into something unrecognizable. It was about those voices on the other end of the line, about the people she’d promised to help. Turning away now would mean breaking that promise—not just to them, but to herself.

And for the first time, as she stepped off the car, the thought didn’t terrify her.

Cassie’s boots crunched softly on the gravel as the cool night air greeted her, crisp and grounding. The Spencer estate rose before her like a beacon, its illuminated windows spilling gold across manicured hedges and cobblestone paths. The gentle clinking of glasses and faint bursts of laughter drifted toward her, mixing with the faint, far-off hum of an orchestra.

She tugged Declan’s coat closer around her shoulders, its tailored fabric heavier than she’d expected. The faint trace of his cologne lingered, grounding her in an evening that already felt half-dream, half-dare. The coat didn’t quite fit the elegance of the gala, but that incongruity comforted her—an unspoken reminder of where she’d come from and where she was heading.

Declan rounded the car, his gaze sweeping toward the far end of the lot.

“Freddie’s over there,” he said, nodding toward a parked car, its driver’s-side door slightly ajar as a familiar silhouette leaned casually against it.

Cassie followed Declan’s gesture, her gaze easily finding Freddie among the guests. It wasn’t as much about spotting him as it was about feeling his presence, something familiar amidst the unfamiliarity of the evening. He stood a little apart, his posture relaxed but somehow still precise, as though he could never fully shed the tension in his shoulders, even in moments of ease.

The scene around him blurred, the glow of the gala's lights playing off the edges of his silhouette, but Cassie’s focus didn’t waver. She knew him too well to miss the way he held himself, the ever-present quiet that seemed to follow him, even in the crowd.

She gave a small, barely perceptible nod, tugging Declan’s coat tighter around her shoulders. The coat was warm, but it felt almost foreign against the coldness of the night air, as though it didn’t quite belong to her at this moment.

“Alright. I’ll... Talk to him,” her words trailing off as she turned toward Freddie.

Declan’s eyes softened as he observed her. The stoic composure she had become accustomed to seeing in him seemed to loosen for just a fraction of a second, his expression betraying a hint of something unreadable. But instead of pressing, he simply nodded.

"Take your time," he said quietly, his tone low but not without its own kind of reassurance, “I’ll go look for Taggie inside.”

Cassie hesitated for a moment, standing on the uneven gravel as Declan’s footsteps faded toward the glowing entrance of the gala. She turned her focus back to Freddie, who leaned casually against the side of his car. The sharp lines of his profile caught the light, casting shadows that made him look simultaneously familiar and distant.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need to speak to him, or couldn’t quite remember why the sober version of her wanted to. Maybe it was because like Declan, Freddie believed in her, even when she struggled to believe in herself. Or perhaps it was because he was one of the few people who truly understood her father—not just the media icon, but the man behind the legacy.

The alcohol in her system blurred her thoughts, turning them into fragments that didn’t quite connect. What had she meant to say? That she was ready to join Venturer? Or was she seeking reassurance, confirmation that she wasn’t about to make a colossal mistake? Or... Was it something else? A deeper need to see herself as others saw her—not as Matthew Jones’s daughter, or a reckless journalist who doesn’t know what she is doing, but as someone with her own voice, her own agency and could figure things out.

As she approached, her steps crunching against the gravel, Freddie’s head lifted. He spotted her instantly, his expression shifting from mild distraction to curiosity.

“Cass,” he greeted, his voice steady as ever, though his brows knitted, “Didn’t expect to see you here. Or... Like this.” His gaze flicked over the oversized coat draped over her shoulders.

Cassie smirked, tugging the coat closer, “Declan O’Hara has an interesting sense of chivalry.”

Freddie’s lips twitched into a smile that didn't quite get into his eyes. For a second, a suspicious look washed over his face before shifting back to curiosity, his attention lingered on her face.

“You’ve had a drink or two.” It was really that obvious? “Yesterday, you got arrested, tonight you are drunk… What do you plan to do tomorrow night?”

“Perhaps rob a bank,” she jested, finger over her chin, tapping as if she was truly thinking about it further, “Give them a true reason to arrest me, you know?”

Freddie arched a brow but didn’t press, gesturing toward the passenger side of his car, “You’re definitely too drunk. Come on, let’s sit.”

The moment they settled inside the car, Cassie found herself staring at her hands, tracing invisible patterns on her lap. The words she’d rehearsed in her mind earlier—if she had even rehearsed them—seemed to scatter.

Worse considering how drunk she was. Because let’s confess, she was too drunk. Thanks to Bas and Declan.

“Uncle, I...” She paused, frowning as she tried to organize her thoughts, “I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?” he asked gently, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Venturer,” she said, the word tumbling out in a single breath, “I’m going to take the offer.”

Freddie studied her for a long moment, his expression changing subtly. There was no dramatic change, no obvious emotion to pinpoint. Instead, there was something quieter—an intensity in the way his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, and his eyes softened even more as though weighing every word she’d just said.

He wasn’t just listening. He was reading her, the way he always did, peeling back the layers of her drunken bravado and finding what lay beneath.

His silence drew her to continue, filling the space with her own uncertain voice.

“It’s not just about... Getting out there or proving anything,” she said, her words slower now, measured in a way that contrasted with her slightly slurred tone, “It’s about the people I promised to help. The ones I will meet someday in the future. And the ones who believed I could do something. And maybe... Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. If she was to be sincere, anything really.

“I don’t want to be my father’s shadow,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “But I also don’t want to ruin what he stood for. The media’s already done enough of that. I want to make him proud. I have to.”

Freddie’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding. As always,

“You already are, Cass,” he whispered back to her, a smile adorning his lips, “Even if you don’t see it yet.”

“You think so?” she questioned him, hesitant.

“I know so,” he replied firmly, now serious, “And you don’t have to do it alone. There are people who want to help—Bas, for one. Lizzie, too. She could give you advice if you’d let her.”

Cassie hesitated, her drunken haze making it harder to parse his words, but their meaning still sank in.

“Lizzie,” she repeated softly, her thoughts meandering back to the woman’s gentle presence and subtle strength, “She seems so... Sure of herself, isn't she?” she slurred it, laughing before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m anything like that.”

“You don’t have to be Lizzie, neither like your father,” Freddie said gently, his voice threading through her rambling, “And you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But Lizzie’s been through her share of fights, as your father. I know he’d understand what you’re facing.”

Cassie’s gaze drifted downward, her fingers absentmindedly brushing over the worn fabric of Declan’s coat draped around her shoulders. It felt heavy—she couldn’t stop herself from noticing that, but not oppressively so… More like an anchor keeping her grounded as her thoughts tumbled over themselves in a blur.

“My father...” she started, then stopped, her voice catching in her throat. The words felt fragile, like glass she was afraid to shatter. She took a breath, her hand stilling against the edge of the coat as if searching for steadiness.

“I don’t know if I can stop trying to protect him,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, her words almost drowned in the quiet of the car. “I’ve spent so much time trying to keep what he built from being ruined. I want to... I don’t want to be what they’ve turned him into.” 

Freddie stayed quiet, his gaze focused on her, urging her to continue.

“It’s like I’m always trying to put back together something I can never touch,” the frustration bleeding into her tone, “I can’t fix what they did to him. I can’t stop people from seeing him the way they painted him. But every time I try, it just... it slips through my fingers.”

Freddie’s silence lingered for a moment, almost too long, before he spoke again, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken weight.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to him, Cass. You’re carrying something that wasn’t meant for you. His legacy... It’s not about what you protect, or how many people you shield from the things they did to him. It’s what you choose to do with the pieces of him that remain—what you make of them.”

Cassie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t break down. She just nodded quietly, trying to digest his words as they tumbled around in her mind.

“It feels like everything I’ve been doing... It’s to keep him whole. But I’m just patching things up. I’m not even sure what’s left anymore to protect.”

“You don’t have to carry that burden,” Freddie replied, his gaze focused on Spencer's residence, “You don’t have to carry his mistakes or his image, trust me, I’ve been in your place, I know what I’m talking about. What matters is what you choose to do next—what you make of your own life. You’re not him, neither of us are. You don’t need to be.”

Cassie inhaled deeply, but it didn’t seem to fill her lungs. She’d heard the words before—the advice, the reassurances. It should have been enough, right? But tonight, it felt heavier, like the walls were closing in. Her mind was drawing darker pictures now, the fear bleeding into thoughts she couldn’t push aside.

Now she remembered why she didn’t usually drink.

“I’m so scared of losing him,” she finally said, her words tumbling out in a rush. The tightness that had gripped her for so long released in a rush, “Losing his name... Making it all feel like it was for nothing.”

“You’re not losing him,” he replied, his tone firm but not harsh, “He’s in you, Cassie. Not in some image the media wants to cling to. Not in the mistakes that the media blew out of proportion. He’s in the parts of you that are real—the way you see people, how you care about them. That’s what matters. That’s what counts.”

Cassie swallowed hard, but the words didn’t bring the relief she expected. She shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling the weight of the conversation and the alcohol heavier than before. Her fingers brushed over the coat again, the sensation grounding her, but her thoughts were spiraling, tugging her deeper.

Everything seemed so much worse with the drunken fog covering his mind.

“I don’t even know how to start letting go,” she whispered, her voice cracking as her gaze dropped to her lap, the coat, anything but his eyes, “I’ve spent so long keeping his name intact. His image... So careful, so guarded. And every time I try... Every time I feel like I can breathe without him, it just slips right through my fingers.”

Freddie stayed silent for a moment, letting her words hang in the air, weighted and unresolved. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he tried to reassure her, “It’ll come, when it’s time. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here.”

She couldn’t answer him right away, her mind still lost in the complexity of her own emotions. His words felt like a promise, but even in her intoxicated state, she knew they weren’t that simple.

But then, something cracked in her thoughts, a flash of clarity amid the haze.

“If I go to Venturer,” she wondered, almost to herself, “When I take the offer… What if I do what he did? What if I make the same things?” Her voice was quiet now, trembling as the thought she had been avoiding suddenly surfaced, “What if they start comparing me to him once they discover he was my father? Because they will. What if I can’t measure up? What if... I ruin everything more than they already have?”

Freddie’s silence was louder than his words could have been. The understanding between them was almost too much for her to bear. She glanced at him, waiting for an answer, but Freddie’s gaze was a quiet sea of thought.

After a pause, he spoke, the simplicity of his words hitting her harder than she expected.

“You’re not him, Cass. You’ll never be him. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to the media or to anyone who’s already decided who you are.”

“But they’ll always remember him,” Cassie replied, the truth seeping out as a mixture of resignation and frustration, “And I’ll always be compared to him.”

She didn’t even know why she was saying it—maybe because tonight, it all felt too close to the surface. Maybe because she didn’t have the energy to keep pretending she didn’t care.

The alcohol had taken all her energy away.

Her uncle looked at her with a softness that made her want to run but somehow kept her grounded.

“People will try, Cass,” he said after a moment, “But they won’t see what you can do. They will try to make up something that is not real, but it won’t ever work. Because it would be impossible to imagine you being anything but sincere, raw, honest.”

Cassie absorbed that for a long moment, the air heavy with the vulnerability she hadn’t intended to show. The unease in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but it didn’t feel as suffocating. Still, something gnawed at her—a quiet, unrelenting fear.

Freddie looked at her more closely now, his words quieter, almost a whisper.

“You’ve always been afraid of making the same things he did, Cassie. But that fear, it’s not just about you. It’s about his shadow. And you don’t have to keep hiding from it.”

Cassie turned her gaze away, her thoughts spinning again. It wasn’t just about being seen by a grand audience and discovering she was nothing she tried to be. Neither about being seen as her father’s daughter. It was about avoiding the comparisons—avoiding becoming the next failure in a long line of missteps.

But that wasn’t the whole picture, was it?

If she took that offer—really took it—she wasn’t just signing up for a fight for herself. She was signing up for the possibility of failure, of becoming something that wasn’t perfect. Of being judged. Of losing herself in the process.

But then again… If she didn’t, what would she be?

Her father's legacy would hang like a weight around her neck, too heavy to carry and too fragile to protect.

Earlier that they, she had thought of using it as an advantage instead of considering Venturer. But now? The more she thought about that, the more she hated herself for having been so desperate at that hour.

It would have been a terrible idea.

Cassie’s thoughts churned, a tangled mess of doubts, desires, and the lingering weight of everything she couldn’t quite name. The fear of falling into the same patterns, of becoming just another misstep in the line of her father’s legacy, clawed at her. But the more she tried to run from it, the more it seemed to haunt her.

And yet, she knew that if she didn’t take the chance, if she didn’t step into the space that had been carved out for her, it would all be for nothing. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not after everything she’d promised.

Her heart was heavy with the weight of the choice before her, but for the first time, there was a faint sense of relief in the uncertainty. It wasn’t a clear-cut path, not a guarantee of success, but it was hers. It had to be.

Her voice was barely a whisper, the thought escaping her before she could stop it.

“Maybe I need to stop running from it.”

Freddie’s smile was small, but it was there, soft and understanding.

“You’ll be fine, Cass. I know you will.”

Cassie turned her gaze toward him, uncertain but strangely comforted by his presence, “How can you be so sure?”

Freddie’s expression shifted, becoming more distant, as if reaching back to a time and place she couldn’t fully understand. He leaned back, his hands resting on the steering wheel, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“When I lost him,” he began, “I was so deep in that well that I couldn’t see my way out. I couldn’t face the world. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to lay down and let time take me too.”

Cassie stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to continue.

“But,” he continued, his voice gaining strength as the memories took shape, “As time passed, as I got the help I needed and found my way back, it was when I stopped running from the world—when I stopped running from his image—that things started to make sense. I stopped fighting it and just... Understood. And one day, you’ll understand too. It won’t happen all at once. But it’ll come.”

Cassie stared out of the car window, the lights of the gala blurring in her vision. The coat around her shoulders felt heavy—not from its weight, but from the reminders it carried, of Declan and of the space she was now stepping into.

She had always thought radio would be a way to stay hidden. A way to keep her father’s name from haunting her every move. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it had only been another form of running. Now, with Venturer on the table, she knew she couldn’t keep avoiding it forever. It wasn’t about her father’s legacy; it was about her. It was time to stop letting the past dictate her future.

Turning to Freddie, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I thought getting into radio was my way of staying out of this, you know? But now… If once I’m there, in front of a camera, I know I’ll be forced to face it.”

Freddie’s eyes didn’t leave her face, “You probably won’t remember most of the conversation tomorrow, but I’ll say it, you need to live it without doubting every action.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the coat in her lap. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this, but the weight of the decision didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had before. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be someone else’s idea of who she should be. Maybe it was time to step into something real.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said quietly, “I’ll for sure forget most of the conversation.”

Freddie’s laugh came as a soft, rumbling sound, breaking through the quiet like a beacon. He shook his head slightly, his usual sardonic edge replaced with something gentler.

“You’ll think about it,” he said, his tone confident yet unpressing.

Cassie nodded slowly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of Declan’s coat draped across her lap. The heaviness of the conversation settled, but it didn’t smother—it was lighter now, the kind of weight she felt she could hold without being crushed.

Freddie glanced toward the glow of the house, “We can talk more tomorrow. I’ll bring Lizzie with me. We’ll help you nurse your inevitable hangover and sort through the rest.”

Cassie let out a small laugh, her lips quirking into a half-smile.

“That sounds like a thrilling way to spend your day.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he said simply, his words carrying a steadiness that made her feel a little less adrift.

Cassie leaned back against the seat, the night air brushing against her cheeks as she glanced toward him.

“Speaking of Lizzie... Where is she? Is she here?”

Freddie nodded, his gaze shifting toward the entrance.

“She’s wrapping up. I promised her a ride back.”

Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity cutting through the haze of her thoughts, “And Valerie? Is she here too?”

Freddie’s expression didn’t falter, but there was the briefest pause before he replied.

“She left earlier. Said she wasn’t feeling great—probably went home.”

Cassie blinked, her intoxicated mind seizing on the detail, “Without you?”

“She doesn’t need me to hold her hand every time she leaves,” Freddie shrugged, his tone casual.

The words stirred in Cassie’s mind, unremarkable on the surface but carrying a weight she couldn’t ignore… Until a thought crossed her mind, followed by a million more.

She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening despite the whiskey softening her edges.

“You should just end it, Uncle,” she said in the next second, the words tumbling out without the usual filter she kept in place, “Be with Lizzie, you clearly enjoy each other’s company. Valerie’s already halfway out the door, and Lizzie—”

“Cassie,” Freddie interrupted, a note of surprise threading through his voice as his eyes widened slightly, his hands lifting in a quick gesture as if to calm her down or stop the thought mid-air.

His widened eyes met Cassie’s, but the surprise on his face softened quickly, replaced by a quiet exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short laugh—a deflection, maybe, or an attempt to shake off the weight of her words.

“Good God, Cassie. You’ve always been too blunt for your own good,” he muttered, his lips curving in a half-smile, a sad one.

Cassie blinked at him, the alcohol buzzing through her veins making her unusually bold. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said it—no, scratch that, she was sure. It had been brewing in her mind for weeks, months even.

Still, now that the words were out there, the implications seemed heavier, clearer.

“You know I’m right,” she said, her voice quieter this time but no less insistent.

Freddie didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight in the driver’s seat, his fingers drumming briefly against the steering wheel before dropping into his lap. His eyes flickered toward the faint glow of the residence beyond the windshield, the hum of distant music filtering through the cool night air.

“Lizzie’s...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “She’s a friend, Cass. And Valerie—”

“Doesn’t care,” Cassie interrupted, her voice sharper now.

Freddie looked at her again, his brows drawing together. His gaze wasn’t angry, though—more contemplative, like he was weighing her words against something unspoken.

“Maybe not,” he admitted after a moment, his voice measured, “But it’s complicated. Life is complicated, and not everything is as simple as it looks from the outside.”

Cassie opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, the sound of crunching gravel outside the car caught both their attention.

Freddie’s hand moved instinctively to the door handle, but he paused, his head turning toward the approaching figures illuminated by the headlights.

Declan O’Hara stepped into view first, his sharp features carved into focus by the pale light. Behind him, Rupert strolled with an air of practiced ease, Taggie walking just a little too close at his side. Her hand brushed his arm—a fleeting gesture, but enough to catch Cassie’s notice.

The Wolfhound’s gaze swept the scene, his sharp eyes moving with deliberate calm over Freddie’s car, Cassie in the passenger seat, and the trio behind him. For a moment, his expression was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible tension in the set of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes.

Curiosity, perhaps, or something closer to suspicion. Cassie, in her drunken haze, couldn’t quite decide which.

Rupert’s grin widened as he approached, his voice breaking the silence with a deliberate cheeriness.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A cozy little pow-wow?”

Freddie’s jaw tightened subtly, though he matched Rupert’s energy with a casual smile.

“Waiting on Lizzie,” he said, his tone easy, “What about you lot?”

Declan’s gaze lingered on Cassie for a moment before he responded.

“Giving Taggie a ride. Figured she’d need one since...” He trailed off, his eyes darting briefly to Rupert before continuing smoothly, “Mr. Spencer brought her here.”

Rupert’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a sharpness in his gaze as he replied, “Taggie has plenty of options for getting home.”

Taggie interjected quickly, her voice light and steady. “Dad was kind enough to offer, that’s all.”

The tension crackled between them, subtle but undeniable. Cassie’s attention shifted from one face to the next, her drunk mind trying to piece together what wasn’t being said.

Cassie’s gaze darted between them, her mind sluggish but still catching the undercurrent of something unspoken. The faint pressure in Declan’s voice, the way Rupert’s easy grin didn’t reach his eyes, and Taggie’s too-smooth interjection all seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible strain. Like a string pulled just tight enough to vibrate but not yet snap.

It was the kind of tension that didn’t need loud arguments to make itself known—it lived in the pauses, the glances, the spaces between words.

Taggie turned her attention to Cassie, her smile warm, trying to soothe the moment.

“You must be Cassie, right?” she said smoothly, her voice carrying the lightness of someone who had perfected small talk, “I’m Taggie. I’m a big fan of yours—I listened to your show every night.”

“Thanks,” Cassie replied, her lips curving into a small smile, “I really enjoyed working there but, you know, sometimes we must recognize that we deserve better.”

Taggie’s polite nod came quickly, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. The soft glow of the car headlights bounced off the curves of her features, and Cassie could feel Taggie’s thoughts wandering away from their exchange.

Declan’s expression remained inscrutable, but Cassie didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked briefly to Taggie, then Rupert. The angle of his stance shifted slightly, subtle yet calculated, as though bracing for something.

“So, you must be the famous Cassie Jones, Freddie’s niece!” Rupert said, breaking the silence with a grin that leaned toward the theatrical, “Quite the reunion out here. I’m Rupert—”

“I know who you are,” Cassie interrupted, raising her hands, “Minister of Sport. I’m more surprised you know who I am.” Her voice had a touch of amusement, though her brow arched as she spoke, the tiniest edge of challenge lacing her words.

Rupert chuckled, his hands spreading out in mock innocence.

“Well, your uncle telling us nothing about you didn’t make it easier,” he said, his tone light but not entirely devoid of calculation, “But you must imagine it, stirring with people like Crawford tends to bring attention.”

Cassie held back a laugh. Despite being drunk, she knew better than saying it was her who asked her uncle not to mention her.

She knew once she said that, the night would never end.

Cassie fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. Even in her drunken haze, she knew better than to let it slip that it was her idea to keep her uncle quiet about her. Admitting that would guarantee a night full of relentless questioning—and she was already past her limit.

Declan’s voice cut in smoothly, his tone casual but laced with a playful edge.

“Freddie, you keeping this one out of trouble?” His gesture toward Cassie was easy, but his gaze flicked briefly between Rupert and Taggie, his stance just a little too composed.

Freddie’s smile was polite but taut, his tone balancing on the edge of friendliness. “I will try.”

Cassie, emboldened by the alcohol humming through her veins, turned to Freddie with a grin.

“I can assure you,” she said, her voice lilting with mock seriousness, “I’ll sleep the second we hit the road.”

Taggie laughed lightly, the sound warm but carefully measured.

“You’re even funnier in person,” she said, her eyes flitting toward Declan for just a moment before returning to Cassie, “You’d be a great addition to Venturer.”

Cassie’s gaze shifted to Declan, her expression softening despite herself. “I’ve heard that before,” she said, her voice quieter, more reflective.

For a moment, their eyes locked. It was subtle—barely a pause—but the space between them seemed to shift. Declan’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, though there was something restrained in his expression, as if he were holding back a thought.

Freddie, sitting silently in the periphery, seemed to notice the moment, his gaze narrowing just slightly before returning to neutral.

“We should be on our way,” Declan said finally, his voice smooth but carrying a note of finality.

Rupert, however, seemed in no hurry to leave. He rocked back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets as his gaze drifted lazily around the lot.

“No rush, is there? It’s a nice night.”

Declan’s brow twitched, a barely perceptible shift that Cassie might have missed if she weren’t already hyper-aware of his presence. His voice remained measured, calm.

“It’s late, and I’d like to get Taggie home before it gets any later.”

The words landed with a certain punch, though Cassie’s tipsy mind grappled with why. There was something about the phrasing—precise, intentional—that caught her attention.

She glanced between Declan and Taggie again, noting how Rupert’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Weird.

Freddie cleared his throat, cutting through the subtle tension.

“We’re heading out too,” Freddie said, his voice carrying a casual lilt, though his hand moved almost instinctively toward the coat draped across Cassie’s shoulders. His gaze flicked briefly toward the house before settling back on Declan, “We’ll just wait for Lizzie; I’m giving her a ride.”

Cassie glanced down, her fingers curling absently into the soft folds of the coat. It still carried a faint warmth, a strange mix of comfort and weight she couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, right. I should give this back.” Her voice wavered slightly, a mix of tiredness and awkwardness, as she lifted the coat and held it toward Declan.

For a moment, Declan didn’t move. His gaze found hers, steady and searching, and the faintest flicker of something—hesitation? Thoughtfulness?—crossed his expression.

“Keep it,” he said at last, his lips curving faintly. The smile was almost shy as it widened, “You can return it another time.”

Cassie hesitated, caught between the instinct to protest and the sudden quiet that seemed to settle between them. Her fingers faltered mid-motion.

Before she could decide, Freddie’s hand intercepted the coat mid-motion.

“It’s fine,” Freddie said, his voice calm but firm, a hint of finality in the undertone, “It’s warmer in the car.”

The air shifted, the unspoken tension stretching thin one more time as Freddie and Declan’s gazes met. Declan’s stance didn’t tremble, but his expression tightened—briefly, imperceptibly—before smoothing into neutrality.

“Of course,” Declan replied, his tone polite but noticeably cooler.

Cassie rose from her seat, the motion drawing her closer to Declan. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, their gazes held. It wasn’t a charged look, not exactly—it was quieter, a lingering acknowledgment of something.

Something that Cassie’s drunk mind didn’t even acknowledge truly. If her drunk version was to be sincere, she only appreciated looking into his dark eyes, she felt lighter every time she found them tonight.

Declan reached out, taking the coat gently from her hands. His fingers brushed the fabric, a fleeting touch that felt heavier than it should have.

After tonight, Cassie silently swore that she would never drink again.

“Thank you,” she murmured, though her voice was almost lost in the space between them.

He inclined his head, the trace of a smile returning to his face.

“Goodnight, Cassie. Freddie.” He faced the man, bowing his head briefly.

Cassie watched, still lingering by the car, as Rupert climbed into his vehicle, the door slamming shut with a soft thud. Declan moved fluidly beside him, offering Taggie a brief but courteous smile before opening the door for her. The brief interaction was almost too smooth, too polished to feel completely natural. Cassie couldn’t help but notice the way Declan’s posture remained perfectly composed, how his movements were precise.

As she slid into the backseat of Freddie's car, Cassie leaned her head against the cool window, her thoughts still racing. The events of the night clung to her, fragmented pieces of conversation and moments flickering in her mind like disjointed images. The cool glass against her skin was grounding, but the unease still lingered.

Declan’s smile, the way he had looked at her earlier… Sincerely, the whole day sit sat in the pit of her stomach

Her eyes followed Rupert’s car as it pulled away from the lot, the taillights fading into the distance before disappearing entirely. She then watched as Declan’s car followed suit, the two of them driving off into the night with an almost eerie synchronicity.

Freddie’s sigh filled the quiet space between her and Freddie, pulling her back from the haze of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized how much of the night she had been holding her breath. Freddie, however, seemed unfazed, his eyes focused on something else.

Cassie hadn’t seen him glance at Declan, but as the car’s headlights illuminated the road ahead, she caught the subtle change in Freddie’s demeanor. His gaze flickered toward the rear view mirror before quickly turning back to the residence, waiting for Lizzie.

The moment was brief, but something in the way he carried himself shifted—a slight tension, a quiet little figure that she wouldn’t grasp even if she had noticed the whole sudden reaction.

“You alright, Uncle?” Cassie turned to face him, knitting her brows.

Freddie nodded slowly, but his answer wasn’t as certain as he wanted it to be.

“Yeah,” he replied, her voice a little hoarse, “Just... Thinking.”

Cassie hummed, turning her attention back to the window as her mind drifted once more, still tangled with the events of the day.

What a day, really.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Well, this was just the cutest!

Your Declan fic was SO good. That’s how u discovered your account and I can’t wait for the other Rivals fics you have coming up!!!

If you are still taking requests, I would die for protective Declan O’Hara in any situation. Love your stuff!!

man of the hour.

the sexiest thing about a man is his moustache morals.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - cursing. a little violence and a quick injury description.

word count - 2k

authors note - I truly believe that one of the sexiest things about declan is the fact that he stands up for what he believes in… don’t underestimate the aphrodisiac powers of strong morals, ladies and gents. need him to stand up for me sometime🧎‍♀️‍➡️. anyway this ended up much softer than I meant it to be (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing) <3

masterlist. inbox.

“Can I get you another drink?”

You laugh as the man swings an arm around your shoulders, the heavy weight of it almost taking you down.

“You’ve asked me that four times in the last five minutes, Bas. Thank you, though.”

“Just want to make sure you’re having a good time.”

He’s yelling into your ear, both of you fighting to raise your voices above the noise of Bar Sinister.

“I’m always having a good time with you,” you tease, leaning into his side. “I’m alright, Bas. Promise.”

“You need to let loose for once in your life.”

“I’ll let loose on a day I’m not working.”

“You’re always working.”

“What can I say? He’s hard fucking work.”

You both look over to your boss, who’s currently animatedly telling Declan a story. Rupert’s gesturing so exaggeratedly that people are ducking out of the way, both men laughing and completely oblivious as beer and whiskey splash all over the floor.

Bas presses a kiss into your hair, squeezing you tightly.

“I don’t know what he’d do without you.”

“Well, he never has to find out. We’re stuck with each other,” you chuckle. “Best job I’ve ever had, surprisingly.”

“I won’t tell him you said that,” Bas winks, laughing.

The sound of multiple glasses smashing has the both of you whipping your heads around, trying to find the source of the commotion.

“Shit. I’ll see you later, darling. Come and find me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Course.”

Bas disappears into the bustling crowd, leaving you standing at the bar. It’s absolutely manic, people packed in to the rafters and bumping into each other left, right and centre.

You’re about to make your way over to Rupert when a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you backwards so hard that you stumble over your own feet. You tug your arm away, finally getting a good look at the person who’s responsible.

“Spencer?”

“Oh, so you do remember me then?”

“… What? We were together for six months, and I don’t have short term memory loss, so… yes.”

“I just meant because you’re hanging around with the elite now. The rumour is that you’re working for Rupert Campbell Black.”

“I am working for Rupert Campbell Black. It’s not a secret, Spencer. I’m his aide and assistant. I’m working for Venturer, too, helping with their public relations. And you are… what? Still pretending to work for your father when you really just spend your days drinking and betting?”

“I do work for my father.”

“Of course you do.”

He steps forward, getting into your personal space.

“What are you doing in here, Spencer? You don’t even live in Rutshire.”

“Thought I’d pop in, see if you were here. Wanted to see if there was any truth to the rumours.”

“Well, you’ve put the rumours to bed now, haven’t you?”

“Not the only thing that’s been put to bed,” he murmurs, just low enough so you only catch half of it.

“Pardon me?”

Your entire body is taut with tension, nerves alert and heart racing. You can only imagine how uncomfortable you must look, praying that someone notices sooner rather than later.

“Which one are you sleeping with, then?”

“Spencer-”

“No, come on. You finished things with me, so there must be another man. Who is it?”

“I’m finished things with you - eight months ago, mind you - because you’re an immature prick who’s so pretentious it makes you deeply unlikeable. There was no other man, I’d just rather be single than be with you.”

His chest puffs out as he starts to go red with rage, anger bubbling up in his veins. You know that you’re not completely unsafe here in this room full of people, but that doesn’t calm your anxiety in the slightest.

“Which one is it, hmm?” his voice is raising, getting louder with every passing minute. “Which one looks like your type?”

He points at Seb first, quirking an eyebrow.

“Him?”

When you don’t respond, he moves on to pointing at Patrick.

“Him?”

You shake your head almost imperceptibly, wishing that the ground would swallow you up.

“Oh my god… it’s him, isn’t it?”

His eyes have landed on Rupert, who’s still stood across the room. Your boss is looking at you, now, quickly assessing the situation you’re in.

“You’re fucking Rupert Campbell Black?!”

The entire crowd of people goes silent as he practically screams it, everyone’s heads turning to look at you.

“She’s… what?” Rupert, Declan and Bas all ask at the exact same time, hilariously in sync.

“Fucked your way up to the top, did you? Classy as always.”

Spencer goes to continue his sentence, but hits the floor suddenly with a heavy thud. You look up to see Declan shaking off his hand, chest heaving with adrenaline. Your ex boyfriend has a busted lip, blood dripping down his chin and onto his awfully unflattering shirt.

“It’s called hard work, you arrogant little prick. Not that you’d know.”

Declan’s Irish accent sounds stronger than usual, coloured with fury and aggression. Bas has dragged Spencer to his feet, both him and Rupert holding him upright.

“If I ever catch you anywhere near here again, I’ll do more than just split your fucking lip. You understand?”

Spencer nods, clearly still dizzy from the impact of the punch. He’s dragged outside before anyone can say anything else, the crowd returning back to their drinks as if nothing ever happened.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Declan links his fingers with yours before you can register what’s happening, pulling you through the bar and out of the back door. You take a seat on the brick wall, legs dangling over the edge as you kick your feet.

“You okay?” he asks as he sits down next to you, just close enough that you can feel his body heat.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”

You don’t really know how to feel, confused by the whole ordeal.

“He seems like a nice boy.”

You laugh suddenly at the bad joke, shaking your head as Declan laughs with you. It’s not a sound you hear from him all that often.

“Sorry you had to punch him.”

“I didn’t have to. Kinda wanted to, though.”

“Me too.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours, looking at you carefully.

“I didn’t just hit him for a laugh, you know. I was worried he was going to hurt ya.”

“I was too,” you whisper, vulnerability bleeding into your tone.

“I’d never of let that happen. I promise, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours again, fingers gently sliding in between yours. He rests your intertwined hands on his thigh, thumb rubbing patterns on your skin.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You sit in silence for a long moment, enjoying the way the warmth of his palm seeps slowly into yours.

“I didn’t think anyone had even noticed Spencer was there.”

“I saw as soon as he walked in, because I knew I didn’t recognise him. I tried to give you some space, thought maybe you were friends or something. Didn’t want to intervene and embarrass ya.”

“Ex boyfriend, if you haven’t already guessed. We were only together about six months all in all, about eight months ago. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. He’s fucking awful.”

“You can say that again,” he chuckles, hand squeezing yours. “Not sure what you ever saw in him.”

“Neither am I, anymore. I don’t know, maybe I just liked having someone really like me, as sad as that sounds. Dating is fun and exciting and… well, it’s supposed to be. God knows it isn’t, for me.”

Declan slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side to keep the evening chill at bay. You can hear the ruckus from inside, everyone in the bar carrying on as usual.

“I think you just keep choosing the wrong men, darlin’. Don’t swear off dating just because of a few bad apples.”

“I mean, I haven’t dated anyone since Spencer, and that finished eight months ago. I’d rather stay single than date any more of these posh boys who’ve never worked a day in their lives.”

He laughs, and the vibrations of it rumble through the both of you, settling into your bones. All you can think about is how warm he is and how good he smells and how if you leaned in an inch to your left, you could kiss him right on the cheek.

“What if it’s me?” you can’t help but ask quietly. “What if I’m the reason I can’t find someone?”

“What?”

“I mean, I work for Rupert - which I love - but my job is my life now. He’s a handful as it is, and now with all the Venturer stuff… all I do is work. And I know I’m not pretty like Taggie or powerful and bossy like Cameron but-”

“You’re beautiful.”

Declan stops you in your tracks, his interruption derailing your train of thought completely.

“I- what?”

“Sweetheart, the only reason I noticed that prat Spencer earlier was because I was already looking at you.”

“You were?”

“I always am.”

“… Why?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It’s like this… gravitational pull. You light up a room.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” you chuckle nervously.

“I wish it was.”

You don’t know what to say, so you lean further into his side, resting your head on his broad shoulder and breathing him in.

“I would have said something sooner,” he murmurs, “but Rupert would fucking kill me.”

“He’s not my keeper, Declan.”

“No, but he’s your boss. And for all intents and purposes, your big brother.”

He rests his head atop of yours, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“How’s your hand?”

“Perfectly fine,” he laughs, squeezing your thigh. “I’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank God for that.”

Declan turns his body so he can look at you properly, big hands coming up to cradle your face. Neither of you say anything, waiting with tense anticipation for the other person to move first.

You surprise yourself by leaning in and planting a kiss on his lips, chaste and testing the waters. You begin to overthink everything the minute you pull back, worried that you’ve misread his kindness. As if he can read your mind, he tangles a hand into your hair and tugs you back into him, kissing you with a passion you’ve never experienced before.

His tongue slips into your mouth cheekily as you let him take the lead, happy to surrender the control to him. You’ve dreamt about this, late nights in bed spent wondering if the real thing would live up to your imagination. It definitely does.

Eventually, you both pull away, panting and flushed. You can no longer feel the chill in the air, the warmth of Declan keeping the cold at bay.

“Don’t tell Rupert,” he whispers, dirty smirk written across his face.

You can’t help but laugh, giddy off of the weight of the moment. Before tonight, you’d begun to accept that you might have been slightly delusional when it came to Declan - reading into his fingers brushing yours when you handed him something, him winking at you across the room, his palm pressing into your back as he walked past. Now you know - it wasn’t delusion. They were signals.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Secret’s safe with me.”

He pecks your lips again quickly before standing up, outstretching his hands for you to grab so he can pull you with him.

“You wanna go back inside?”

“No, think I’m done for the night.”

“Will you let me walk you home?”

You look at him smiling down at you all soft and sweet, and realise instantly that you’re in trouble. This isn’t something either of you are going to be able to just brush past. This’ll be haunting both of your memories every single day until it happens again.

“I’d like that.”

“Come on then, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

Declan links his fingers with yours, happy to let you steer him in the right direction. Neither of you say much. You don’t need to.

The way his palm fits perfectly against yours tells you both everything you need to know.

@lostinthefandoms11 @prettycoolgirl @buzzcutlip

don’t make me give the reblogs are invaluable to your writers speech again… i’ve given it one too many times… but you know the deal… reblog if you enjoyed and I shall write more for you <3