Kings wears Quiet Crowns.

DOOLIN DISTRICT;CLARE IN IRELAND,INSIDE A SECRET CLUB...6 PM.

On the outer rim of Doolin's elite quarter, nestled behind a row of unassuming boutiques and gated cafes, was a club so private its name changed weekly,if it even had one at all. Patrons called it whatever suited their tongue that night. To the few who mattered, it was simply "The Room."

It wasn't dangerous,at least, not on the surface. A place where money walked on marble floors and secrets danced between crystal glasses. The lighting was dim, soft jazz bleeding through velvet walls. It reeked of elegance, of quiet danger, of power in a silk tie.

This was where the city's shadow-draped aristocracy congregated: actors who dabbled in politics, CEOs who knew too much, and criminals with clean records and blackened hearts. And amid them all, never speaking too much, never staying too long,was Madden Banks.

He never arrived through the front.

The staff knew not to look him in the eye, even if he wore no crown. He didn't need one. His presence was royalty dressed in tailored charcoal, his shoes touching down like punctuation on secrets. To the world, he was the face of Banks Enterprise,the model of success, ambition, civility. But here?

Here, he was something else.

They didn't know the details. Only that when he walked in, the temperature shifted. Conversations tightened. Eyes flicked away. Some swore they saw blood on his cuff once...others said it was wine. All of them were too smart to ask.

Madden didn't speak often here. He observed. A quiet predator in a room full of lions dressed as gentlemen. One man once called him "an accountant who dines like a king."

Such a pity that the man hadn't been seen since the last two years now.

Tonight, he leaned at the end of the bar with a glass of Macallan, his phone face-down. He wore no tie. Just a sleek black shirt rolled at the cuffs, exposing forearms marked faintly by history. His lips were unreadable, his jaw clean-shaven, his silence unnerving.

Behind his eyes, chaos brewed.

Because while he stood there, all polished and calm, his other world waited like a snarling beast in the dark. The warehouses. The encrypted drives. The secrets in Italy that hasn't yet been discovered.

Madden Banks, CEO, was due for a board meeting tomorrow. Madden Banks, Mafia prince, had a silent bounty on a traitor who was possibly his own ally.

Two lives. One face.

And no one here,not the flirty heirs, not the smirking art dealer,had the faintest idea who he really was.

That was the brilliance of it all.

And yet, as he lifted his glass, his mind flicked elsewhere...not to danger. But to a name.

Tyra.

Sweet, innocent, completely off-limits Tyra.

He sipped his whiskey as he was almost forced to have a rewind of the past but it's not yet time for that.

All he knows is that,no one...will he's alive will ever hurt her,the person will sought for death.

He'll protect his baby Tyra, forever.

And somewhere across the city, her name was about to fall from someone's lips.

---

GALWAY DISTRICT; CLARE IN IRELAND, ALONG INFRARED BOOKSTORE.

Tyra stood at the bookstore's exit, arms tucked around a brown bag of pastries, when she felt it,that buzz under the skin. Like a shadow had stepped into her sunshine. Her smile faltered.

She turned.

Of all the streets in Galway, of all the evenings, why now?

"Fancy seeing you here." Ryan said, hands in his pockets, sunglasses perched on his annoyingly perfect face.

The world didn't even offer her a warning.

Tyra blinked, caught somewhere between retreat and resignation. "I'm pretty sure this is stalking."

He tilted his head, feigning offense. "Please. You think I have time to follow actresses with bakery addictions?"

She tried to laugh. It came out thin. "Right. Just a coincidence."

"I was in the area," he said, shrugging. "Interview nearby. Figured I'd grab something to read."

"Interview? Around 6 PM?"

" Mind your goddamn business." He hissed at her.

Tyra chuckled in contempt." Okay,agreed about the interview shit...but you decided to grab something to read,in the baking section?"

"Well..." he shrugged..."cookbook characters have depth. Unlike you."

She gave him a sharp glance, but he just grinned, cocky and unbothered. That grin,the same one from that night she didn't speak of. That night neither of them had ever acknowledged. Not directly.

Not ever.

Her stomach flipped.

"You always this charming, or is this just reserved for me?" she asked, stepping past him.

"I'm trying to tone it down. You seem delicate."

Tyra scoffed. "Delicate? You're thinking of someone else."

"No," he said quietly, falling in step beside her. "I'm thinking of you. The girl who couldn't look me in the eye on set today."

"I was acting."

"You were blinking like a guilty cartoon character."

She stopped walking. "Ryan, what do you want?"

A pause. He met her gaze. For once, he wasn't smiling.

"To remember why I can't stop thinking about you."

The words landed like glass shattering in her chest. He wasn't supposed to say things like that. Not out loud. Not when she was still piecing her pride together.

Tyra's voice sharpened. "Well, I'm sure it's not the mystery. Some people are just allergic to silence."

"Some people are terrified of it." he said.

She turned to walk again, fast, while wearing her disguise back. He didn't follow this time. Not until she stopped at the corner and waited for the green light. Then he was beside her again, too close, not touching.

They crossed the street like strangers.

Still, he whispered, "I'm not the enemy, Tyra."

"No?" she murmured. "Then why do I always feel like I need to run?"

He said nothing.

They reached the café ahead. She paused, turned to him. "I'm not sharing a table with you. Not today."

"Fine," he said, stepping back. "But you'll miss me."

"I already do," she snapped, "in the way people miss paper cuts."

She pushed the door open, vanishing inside.

He stood there for a beat. Then smirked to himself.

Whatever that night had been...it wasn't over.

Not even close.