Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
S he didn’t go back to her apartment.
There was no point. No time to cry, scream, or crawl under a blanket and question every life decision she’d ever made. Not when Patrick freaking Wright was scheduled to arrive in less than an hour—and the publishing house she’d given her soul to was about to implode.
Instead, Aisling O’Byrne walked into the office like a woman on a mission. Not broken. Not beaten. But burning.
Her heels clicked with authority across the polished marble floor. Heads turned. Whispers swirled. Just how long had this secret affair been going on? She didn’t care.
If she was going out, she was going out legendary .
First stop: her office.
In twenty-five minutes, she had everything packed into three boxes. Her desk was spotless, save for the copy of the resignation letter she tapped out with ruthless precision and left on Samantha’s desk like a grenade without the pin. She deleted every contact, every note, every last digital footprint of her bookshop network—the lifeblood of their sales team—from her work computer.
Let them beg for the names. Let them try to rebuild what she’d created from scratch with charm, spreadsheets, and red-eye flights. And when her clients learned she’d left, it would be hard on the next rep.
Then came the pièce de résistance.
She opened her phone, scrolled to the photo— the photo—and attached it to an email. Subject line: “Team Loyalty Update.” Recipients: the entire company. From interns to the boardroom.
She hit send.
Boom. You could almost hear the gasps in the office as the email was opened.
Aisling adjusted her blouse in the mirror, swiped her lipstick back into place, and took a steadying breath. Her eyes were glassy, but her spine was steel.
This wasn’t the life she’d planned.
But it was still hers .
Her phone rang. The receptionist.
“Aisling, there’s a Patrick Wright and his agent here to see you.”
She smiled, even though her heart cracked a little at the edges. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
She checked her reflection one last time. Her curls had held. Her lipstick was war paint. Her heart was battered but still beating.
Time to face the author whose career could’ve changed everything. One last meeting before she left. She could do this.
Patrick Wright was tall, sharp-featured, and disarmingly casual in a worn leather jacket and bookish wire-rimmed glasses. His agent, a silver-haired woman with the steely vibe of a Manhattan literary godmother, flanked him like a shield. The woman was the best in the business.
“Mr. Wright,” Aisling said, extending her hand with a smile she almost meant. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Aisling O’Byrne.”
His smile was slow and genuine. “Ah, the infamous Aisling. You’re... persistent.”
She laughed even as her chest squeezed. “That’s one word for it.”
“There’s been a change in plans. Shall we?”
She led them upstairs, each step heavier than the last. The receptionist wouldn’t meet her eye. Good. She’d seen the email. The receptionist was like a paid piper of gossip in the building. She knew everything.
Inside the boardroom, sunlight streamed through the windows, mocking the tension thickening in her lungs. She gestured toward the coffee bar.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
Wright waved her off. “I’m good. But you said there was a change in plans?”
She nodded, then braced herself.
“I’m no longer working here,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “In about ten minutes from now, I’ll be unemployed.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
A small laugh escaped her lips—part nerves, part disbelief. “It’s... been a morning. The short version? I walked in on my fiancé and my boss in bed together. I’m resigning. Boxes are packed. Email’s been sent. I’m guessing security will be up shortly to escort me from the building.”
The agent’s eyebrows lifted. Patrick Wright leaned forward.
“Well,” he said, “you do know how to deliver a hook. Please give me the dirty details. Maybe I can help you land somewhere better.”
Warmth bloomed behind her ribs. “I can’t tell you how much that means.”
“You made a compelling case for why I should consider this firm. But if you’re not here...”
The boardroom doors slammed open.
Aisling didn’t flinch.
Michael and Samantha stood there, pale, red-eyed, and visibly hungover. The words Tiny Dick and Whore were still faintly visible in faded Sharpie across their foreheads.
It was almost beautiful. Almost.
Patrick turned toward them, then back to Aisling. His eyes danced with intrigue. “Did you do that?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “My boss and my ex-fiancé,” Aisling said, not even trying to hide the glee in her voice. “So glad you could join us.”
Samantha’s voice cracked. “Aisling, may I speak with you in the hall?”
“No.” She smiled sweetly. “My resignation is already on your desk. I was just telling Mr. Wright that I’m done here.”
Michael’s jaw clenched. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”
“Oh, did you have some trouble this morning?” she asked, voice sugary and lethal.
Patrick leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. “So... is that actually what it says on your forehead? Tiny Dick?”
Neither responded.
“I’m calling security,” Samantha snapped. “You’re finished.”
“Already packed,” Aisling chirped. “Oh—and have you checked your company email yet?”
Michael paled. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did. The entire office knows where I found you this morning. And I’m guessing,” she added with a smirk, “you also found the engagement ring?”
Michael’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Give me the key. The locksmith refused to remove it. I have to go to the ER.”
She shrugged. “Funny thing... the key slipped out of my hand and into the storm drain.”
Patrick Wright started shaking with laughter. “Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.”
His face flushed crimson. “You bitch .”
The agent stood. “Mr. Wright, we should probably?—”
Patrick held up a hand. “Hang on. This is better than anything I’ve read in months.”
He turned to Aisling. “Miss O’Byrne, I’d like your personal contact info. I’d like to stay in touch. Maybe even help you land a new job.”
Patrick Wright, the most famous author in the United States, wanted to help her find a job. Bless him.
She handed him her card, grateful her hands didn’t shake.
Samantha stepped forward, a fake smile plastered on. “We’re so sorry about this disruption. We’d be happy to reschedule?—”
Patrick cut her off. “Let me get this straight. She flew home early to meet with me, caught the two of you in bed, and still came in to do the job professionally. And you want to reschedule?”
“I’m sorry that this has been a waste of your time,” Aisling said, knowing that this man didn’t deserve to witness this today.
He turned to Aisling. “You didn’t waste my time. This company did.”
Then, with a wry grin, he added, “Tiny Dick. Honestly, that’s going in a book. Some villain is going to find that on his forehead.”
Michael looked like he might combust. Samantha looked like she wanted to die.
Aisling just smiled.
As Patrick and his agent walked out, the author turned one last time. “You’re going to be just fine, Aisling. Better than fine. I expect great things from you.”
When the door closed, Samantha turned on her. “How dare you?—”
“No,” Aisling cut in. “How dare you . But you know what? I’m done caring. This part of my life – over.”
Security arrived just as she reached her office. Looking around at the tiny place she’d called home, she sighed. It was for the best that she left. She reached for her boxes.
As they walked her down the stairs, half the office was waiting in the lobby.
And they cheered .
Some hugged her. A few whispered, “We always hated her.” One handed her a latte and winked.
It was bittersweet. She’d been friends with many of these people for so long, and now she would have to start over somewhere.
She’d given this job everything. Years of red-eyes, endless pitch decks, bookshop tours, and hope.
Today was supposed to be her beginning.
Instead, it was her end.
But as the sun hit the marble floors and she stepped out onto the street, for the first time in a long while?—
She didn’t feel lost.
She felt free . She felt relief .
Time for a new beginning.