Blurb
In rain-soaked Dublin, Aoife begins to unravel the life she thought was hers, discovering that love, identity, and belonging are not given — they are claimed.
Aoife Brennan planned the perfect night to celebrate the life they were building. But when the clock strikes midnight, she learns that some truths don’t crash down; they unravel, quietly.
Set in the rainy corners of Dublin, The Placeholder is a story of love mistaken for fate and the quiet ache of being someone’s almost.
Original (First 500)
The clock struck six.
It was a quiet sort of evening, the kind she used to dream of when she was a little girl -- soft rain tapping the windows, cinnamon-scented candles flickering in glass jars, and the promise of love hanging in the air like the scent of the stew simmering on the stove. Except it wasn't a dream anymore. It was her first wedding anniversary.
And he wasn't home.
Aoife Brennan stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the folds of her navy silk dress. She had curled her hair just the way he used to say he liked it when they were younger -- back when he still laughed with her over burnt cookies and muddy shoes. Back when they were friends.
Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Silence.
She'd taken the day off from the children's hospital -- cancelled four appointments, rescheduled a critical consultation, and sent an apologetic message to a new mother whose baby had colic. Everyone had understood. After all, even one of the best pediatricians in Dublin deserved a break to celebrate her first anniversary.
But the person she'd planned the day for didn't even know what she'd sacrificed.
The house smelled like roasted rosemary chicken and chocolate fondant. His favorites. In the living room, a playlist of the songs they used to love in school hummed softly under the clink of glassware. The bath was drawn. Warm. Scented. She'd even booked a couples' massage -- at home, discreet, romantic.
And still no sign of him.
It wasn't unusual -- not anymore. Ronan had grown distant. At first, she'd told herself it was work. Then stress. Then his father's expectations. Lately, she wasn't sure what lie she was feeding herself anymore.
They'd been childhood friends. Always in each other's pockets. First snowball fights, then rooftop conversations, then shared dreams of what life might become. Their marriage had made sense -- to their families, at least. The O'Sullivans and Brennans had been allies in business long before Aoife and Ronan knew what alliances even meant. But it hadn't felt arranged. Not then.
She had loved him. Quietly. Patiently. She had thought he would come around.
But these days, he wasn't even her friend.
She checked the phone again. Still nothing. Last message was from this morning. Just a curt:
"Will be working late. Don't wait up."
But she had.
It was now eleven thirty. The bath was cold. The chicken had dried in the oven. The fondant had collapsed slightly in the center.
Still, she sat, watching the door. Watching the clock.
It struck midnight.
She stood, slipped out of her heels, and pulled a cardigan over her dress. The rain had started to thicken into a proper downpour. She couldn't ignore the tight coil in her stomach any longer -- the one that whispered something was off. Wrong.
She tried calling him. Once. Twice. Voicemail.
On impulse, she grabbed her keys and rushed to the car.
The pub near his office -- the same one he always slipped into with his colleagues -- was twenty minutes away.
The clock struck six.
It was a quiet sort of evening, the kind she used to dream of when she was a little girl -- soft rain tapping the windows, cinnamon-scented candles flickering in glass jars, and the promise of love hanging in the air like the scent of the stew simmering on the stove. Except it wasn't a dream anymore. It was her first wedding anniversary.
And he wasn't home.
Aoife Brennan stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the folds of her navy silk dress. She had curled her hair just the way he used to say he liked it when they were younger -- back when he still laughed with her over burnt cookies and muddy shoes. Back when they were friends.
Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Silence.
She'd taken the day off from the children's hospital -- cancelled four appointments, rescheduled a critical consultation, and sent an apologetic message to a new mother whose baby had colic. Everyone had understood. After all, even one of the best pediatricians in Dublin deserved a break to celebrate her first anniversary.
But the person she'd planned the day for didn't even know what she'd sacrificed.
The house smelled like roasted rosemary chicken and chocolate fondant. His favorites. In the living room, a playlist of the songs they used to love in school hummed softly under the clink of glassware. The bath was drawn. Warm. Scented. She'd even booked a couples' massage -- at home, discreet, romantic.
And still no sign of him.
It wasn't unusual -- not anymore. Ronan had grown distant. At first, she'd told herself it was work. Then stress. Then his father's expectations. Lately, she wasn't sure what lie she was feeding herself anymore.
They'd been childhood friends. Always in each other's pockets. First snowball fights, then rooftop conversations, then shared dreams of what life might become. Their marriage had made sense -- to their families, at least. The O'Sullivans and Brennans had been allies in business long before Aoife and Ronan knew what alliances even meant. But it hadn't felt arranged. Not then.
She had loved him. Quietly. Patiently. She had thought he would come around.
But these days, he wasn't even her friend.
She checked the phone again. Still nothing. Last message was from this morning. Just a curt:
"Will be working late. Don't wait up."
But she had.
It was now eleven thirty. The bath was cold. The chicken had dried in the oven. The fondant had collapsed slightly in the center.
Still, she sat, watching the door. Watching the clock.
It struck midnight.
She stood, slipped out of her heels, and pulled a cardigan over her dress. The rain had started to thicken into a proper downpour. She couldn't ignore the tight coil in her stomach any longer -- the one that whispered something was off. Wrong.
She tried calling him. Once. Twice. Voicemail.
On impulse, she grabbed her keys and rushed to the car.
The pub near his office -- the same one he always slipped into with his colleagues -- was twenty minutes away.
Critique
She had loved him. Quietly. Patiently. She had thought he would come around.
But these days, he wasn't even her friend.
Roman’s characterization needs some work. Lines like:
“They’d been childhood friends. Always in each other’s pockets. First snowball fights, then rooftop conversations, then shared dreams…”
That tension comes from expectation and denial. The entire room is set for two, and there’s only one. The author nails this with small beats: The author sells the tension with little asides like, "Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Silence." Or, "She tried calling him. Once. Twice. Voicemail."
The reader starts to wonder if something bad happened — and then realizes, no, he just doesn’t care. Their decade of friendship has eroded into indifference, or worse, contempt.
Because think about it: if Roman simply didn’t love her romantically, he’d say so. He’d rely on their shared history and basic human empathy to communicate that. But for him to let her sit alone for hours, waiting, without a word — that’s punishment.
But, for what? What turned warmth into this cold contempt? And what twisted his one-time open affection toward her into this utter contempt? Nothing that we've learned from Aoife's POV points to a reason for this change. So, either she's the most unreliable narrator known to man, or he has been affected by something his wife is not aware of.
Amazing questions for a reader to have, halfway through the first chapter of a book. Tension? Yes, here you go, all you can handle. You want some more? Here, here's some more!
Final Thoughts
I wanted to address something happening in the text of this book outside of the narration, without disrupting the flow of the critique. Every few paragraphs, there’s a note reminding readers that this book belongs to the author, and that if they find it anywhere else, it’s stolen. Her frustration is completely valid — theft is awful — but I think this approach backfires.
Yes, it may help her track stolen copies, but it also interrupts the reader’s experience. It’s jarring. You can’t control or stop theft entirely, and trying to will only steal your own energy and your readers’ immersion. Pick your battles carefully. Keep the fights that don’t serve the story off the page. Punish the thief, not the reader.
It's a shame to see beautiful storytelling scarred by what's happening to the author in real life. I don't say all of this to call the author out (I doubt she'll ever see this), I just wanted to note that in case this becomes a tempting option if you find yourself in a similar situation.
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