Inheriting an Irish Groom

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

S ometimes you wonder if the great Oz enjoys totally disrupting life.

When Aisling O’Byrne got the call, she’d been on her way to her last presentation at a small bookstore in Hollywood, running on caffeine, ambition, and the sheer force of dreams that just wouldn’t quit.

Patrick Wright—the Patrick Wright—was finally going to meet with their firm.

After months of chasing him across time zones, trade shows, and inboxes, the bestselling thriller author and his agent were in New York, and Aisling had snagged the meeting. If they landed him, it wouldn’t just change the trajectory of the small indie publishing house she worked for—it could launch her into the editorial career she actually wanted. No more playing salesgirl with a smile and a suitcase full of Author Reader’s Copies. She could finally be the one acquiring books instead of just peddling them.

Racing to the airport, she’d called Michael and Samantha and told them to be prepared. Patrick Wright would be meeting with them this very morning. She hadn't slept on the plane. Instead, she’d spent five hours constructing the perfect pitch and three more mentally practicing how to not fangirl when she met him. Her feet ached from sprinting through LAX in heels. Her nerves were fried, but her heart was thundering with the kind of excitement that made her feel alive .

She couldn’t wait to see Michael.

He hadn’t answered when she’d called from the airport last night, but he’d sounded off earlier that day—distracted, maybe a little drunk—but thrilled, nonetheless. They both worked at the same company. This meeting could mean a promotion for him too. Their lives—the one they’d planned—could finally begin. Wedding. New apartment. A lifetime of commitment. The works.

She smiled as the cab rolled to a stop in front of his building. The New York skyline blinked overhead, busy and buzzing like always. Still, a small part of her—tucked behind the exhaustion and nerves—longed for a place that didn’t run 24/7. A quieter life. One that gave her room to breathe.

One she could build with the man she loved.

She tipped the cabbie, grabbed her suitcase, and nodded to the doorman, who opened the door for her. “Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, Miss O’Byrne.”

As she walked through the lobby, she knew this was not the apartment building she wanted to live in. She and Michael hadn’t lived together yet, but it was only a matter of time. She had a key, a drawer, a toothbrush, and dreams.

And in a few hours, they’d both be sitting in front of Patrick Wright, pitching a future that would skyrocket their careers.

She took the elevator up to his floor, heart fluttering like the inside of a new hardcover. The building smelled like fresh paint and overpriced rent. Her reflection in the mirrored doors looked a little wild but determined—red curly hair in a sleep-deprived bun, tired green eyes, lipstick applied with the precision of someone who'd done it in a cab.

This was the start of everything.

She let herself in with her spare key, already planning to shower, change, and wow the author of the decade. Today was a special kind of day, and she wanted to look her best.

But the second the door opened, her steps faltered.

The apartment was a disaster zone. Takeout containers scattered. The reek of tequila soaked the air like cheap cologne. Clothes on the floor. Women’s panties. A bra. His underwear.

No. Just no.

Her stomach twisted. Michael wasn’t a neat freak, but this had the makings of a liquor-soaked affair. What were women’s clothes doing on the floor? Her stomach clenched, her heart beating wildly.

He must still be asleep.

She walked toward the bedroom, suitcase bumping quietly behind her, still holding on to the sliver of hope that maybe—just maybe—he'd had a rough night and just needed a coffee and a shower.

What she got instead?

Two naked bodies. One bed.

Her fiancé.

Her boss.

Aisling froze. She swallowed a sob.

Her brain tried to make sense of it—Michael, sprawled on his side, arm slung across Samantha Lee, her boss, who was snoring softly with her perfectly blow-dried hair splayed on Aisling’s pillow .

Two empty tequila bottles.

An open box of condoms.

She blinked.

Then blinked again.

Her throat closed around a sound she didn’t make. Just a sharp inhale that tasted like betrayal and bile.

Her stomach clenched, and for a moment, she feared she was going to throw up.

Her hands started to shake.

But her mind—oh, her mind snapped into crystal clarity.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry.

She took a long, slow breath… and pivoted . The son of a bitch was going to pay for what he’d done. And pay dearly.

They were still passed out. Perfect.

She walked—very calmly—to the nightstand and opened the drawer.

Inside?

The handcuffs.

Michael’s favorite prop. The ones where he liked to cuff her to the bed, and then she would beg him to have his way with her. Well, she was about to have her way with him, and he wasn’t going to enjoy what she planned to do.

Today, he was going to be the one who begged.

With a level of focus she hadn’t summoned since her college finals, Aisling picked up his wrist and clicked the cuff shut then wrapped the chain around the metal pole in the middle of the headboard and snapped Samantha’s hand in the other cuff. She stirred and moaned something unintelligible but didn’t wake.

In the drawer, a Sharpie lay next to the keys.

Well…what could she do with this?

It would be rude not to use the permanent marker.

With a practiced flick of the wrist, she scrawled the word tiny across Michael’s forehead, adding a bold arrow down his nose. On his chin, in aggressive black letters: dick.

The man didn’t move, but did scrunch up his nose. How much tequila had they drunk?

Samantha got whore and skank . Very minimalist. Very chic.

Then Aisling took a picture. For personal satisfaction, of course.

She stared at the diamond engagement ring on her finger—the one he’d given her in Central Park under fairy lights and fake promises. The one where he’d said he was so proud she would be his wife and promised her that they would have a great life.

She slipped it off, her heart wrenching in pain.

A slow, wicked smile crept across her face.

She grabbed her gym bag from his closet. Inside was the old lock she used for her college locker. She slipped the ring onto it. Then she lifted the sheet on the bed and smiled. She looped it through the one place she knew he’d feel it—his beloved metal cock ring. With a snap, she closed the lock.

Let him try explaining that to the ER doctor.

Keys? Oh, she had those.

And they were going with her.

She zipped her bag, grabbed her suitcase, and glanced back at the bed.

They still hadn’t moved.

Unbelievable.

She rolled her eyes and laughed—actually laughed.

Then, she snapped one more photo for the company webpage, focusing on their foreheads.

Turning, she knew she had to get out of here before she did something else even more diabolical. When she opened the door, she let it slam behind her with theatrical flair. If that didn’t wake them up, they were dead.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she walked toward the elevator. Her emotions finally overwhelmed her.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, and she wasn’t finished ruining their day. Their week. But she also knew she would no longer be working for the company she loved. She’d be fired within a couple of hours.

What she would do, she had no idea. But this part of her life was over.

Moments later, from down the hall, she heard Michael’s scream.

“AISLING!”

She stepped into the elevator, pressed the button, and smiled as the doors closed. Wiping her eyes, she sighed.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she called sweetly. “Make it a great day.”