The storm had raged all evening, a merciless downpour that clawed against windows and rooftops, as if the heavens themselves mourned. Within the hollow quiet of her room, Tabitha Harris pressed her palms into her eyes, willing back the tears that no longer seemed to belong to her. They came unbidden, carving lines down her cheeks, like rivers that refused to dry. She had been too young to understand the meaning of death, yet now—too old to pretend it did not matter.
Her mother's laughter still clung to the corners of memory: warm afternoons on the terrace, the scent of geraniums, the way her voice could soothe an aching heart. And yet, the finality of the coffin had silenced that world. Tabby had thought she would never feel more alone, until the voice of a man she had not heard in twenty years shattered her grief with unwelcome familiarity—her father. A stranger who shared her eyes, but not her history.
Fate, cruel and curious, pushed her across the sea into his home, into a city alive with secrets. Dublin's streets whispered to her in unfamiliar accents, its hospital corridors bled stories she wasn't ready to hear. And somewhere, in the clash of new beginnings, a pair of autumn-brown eyes—sad, restless, unforgettable—found her and held her fast. He appeared as if summoned by the storm itself, a mystery wrapped in charm and danger, carrying shadows that brushed against her soul.
Tabby did not yet know that grief was only the beginning. That love, in its most reckless form, could feel like both salvation and ruin. That destiny often wears the mask of coincidence. And that every choice she made, every secret uncovered, would draw her deeper into a web of lies, betrayal, and longing where the heart's greatest desire could also be its undoing.