Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
S afe in her own apartment, Aisling O’Byrne slept for five solid hours—which, after a week of cross-country flights, a corporate implosion, and a revenge stunt involving handcuffs and a permanent marker, felt practically indulgent.
Her body had finally revolted. Between LA’s time zone and New York’s chaos, her circadian rhythm had filed for divorce. Now, it was evening, judging by the lavender light bleeding through her apartment windows and the dead silence of her stomach.
There was nothing edible in the fridge. Nothing in the cabinets except tea bags, half a stale granola bar, and judgment. And she didn’t have the energy to go out. She didn’t want to see people. She didn’t want to exist in public.
Right now, she wanted wine, carbs, and silence. Maybe a good cry. Definitely not a LinkedIn update.
She reached for her phone, automatically checking for work information. That would no longer be her problem.
Five missed calls from Michael. One from HR. One from Samantha.
“Oh good,” she muttered. “The ex-fiancé and the woman who slept with him. My fan club.”
She pressed play on Michael’s voicemail first.
“You bitch. I had to go to the ER to get your damn lock removed. You have no idea what kind of humiliation it is to explain to three nurses and a urologist why there’s a lock on your—anyway, we’re done.”
She blinked. “Sweetheart, we were done the second I walked in and found you playing hide the tequila worm with my boss.”
Next.
Samantha.
“Aisling, I will never give you a positive job review after what you pulled. That photo humiliated me. And Michael. I could lose my job over this. So don’t you dare ask for a reference.”
Aisling rolled her eyes so hard they might’ve detached.
“Right,” she said to no one. “Because I’m the villain in this story.”
The third message came from a robotic-sounding HR rep:
“Miss O’Byrne, we’d like to schedule your exit interview and discuss several unresolved matters. Please return our call at your earliest convenience.”
She snorted. “Translation: are you planning to sue us, and if not, would you sign this NDA and go away quietly?”
Not tonight.
Tonight was wine and wallowing. Maybe pizza. Probably something involving chocolate and regret.
She ordered pepperoni and turned on her favorite guilty-pleasure movie: a cheesy romcom in which the heroine moves to the Italian countryside, fixes up an old house, and falls for a man with questionable morals and really good shoulders.
She’d seen it twenty times. It still worked. It was a wish movie. I wanna be her kind of movie.
While she waited for her food, she grabbed the mail she’d dumped earlier on the counter. A stack of bills. Some junk. A credit card preapproval addressed to “Aisling O’Bynee.” Classy.
Then—something different.
A large, cream-colored envelope. Heavy paper. Foreign stamp.
She froze.
The return address: Liam Walsh, Solicitor – Ballina, County Mayo, Ireland.
Her heartbeat stumbled. She had family in Ireland that she didn’t know.
Her mother had been Irish, yes. But Ireland was a closed door in their house. Every time Aisling asked about it, Maeve would clam up like someone had flipped a switch. No stories. No names. No roots. Nothing. Not even before she died would she tell Aisling about what had sent her fleeing to America.
“Some things are better left in the past,” her mother would say. “You’re better off not knowing.”
But that didn’t answer Aisling’s questions about her father.
And now... Maeve was gone. No one left to ask.
She opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Dear Miss O’Byrne,
Your grandmother, Noreen O’Byrne, passed away on March 11, 2025, and has been buried in the cemetery at Mountshannon, County Clare, Ireland. Her greatest regret was never meeting you.
Her final will & testament leaves The O’Byrne Estate to you—her only granddaughter—but under specific conditions. You must reside on the estate for six consecutive months. After that, should you choose not to remain in Ireland, you may sell the house and land.
We’ve been advised that the property is in disrepair. However, your grandmother allocated funds to begin restoring the estate. Enclosed are documents detailing access to those funds upon your arrival in Mountshannon.
If you choose not to accept the terms, the estate will be sold, and the proceeds will be donated to charity. Kindly respond within two weeks.
Sincerely,
Liam Walsh, Solicitor
Aisling sank onto the couch like her bones had turned to soup. Was this a joke? Who would play this mean-spirited trick on her?
She reread the letter.
Then again.
Could this be real?
Her grandmother, the woman her mother had never spoken of, had left her a literal estate?
The doorbell buzzed.
She grabbed some cash and opened the door. The pizza guy blinked at her, clearly uncertain whether she was the kind of woman who tipped big or started crying mid-transaction.
She paid, shut the door, and sat back down. The scent of melted cheese tried to ground her.
It didn’t work. An estate ?
She stood abruptly and padded into the bedroom, dropping to her knees in front of the old cedar trunk that held the last remnants of Maeve’s life. A trunk she’d been unable to go through for years.
Inside: a scarf that still smelled faintly of lavender. A half-filled photo album. And a shoebox labeled in fading marker: “Cards.”
Dozens of unopened birthday cards for her mother Maeve. Postmarked Ireland.
From Noreen O’Byrne, her mother.
Aisling’s breath caught.
Ripping open one, it said, Happy birthday, Sweetheart. I miss you and love you, Mother.
She’d never paid attention. Hadn’t known who they were from. But now?—
Her grandmother had written every year.
Maeve just never told Aisling.
Back in the living room, she opened the pizza box and ate a slice without tasting it. Then she opened her laptop and typed:
Mountshannon, County Clare, Ireland.
The images were stunning. Misty green hills. A lake so blue it looked painted. Sheep-dotted meadows. Ruins. A pub called The Last Drop.
It looked like something from a tourism ad or a dream.
She narrowed her search.
The O’Byrne Estate.
Only one photo came up, a grainy shot from twenty years ago. It showed a large stone house partially obscured by ivy and trees, a crumbling wall, and the outline of grandeur.
Her throat tightened.
Was this her chance?
To escape the noise?
To finally write that novel?
To remember who she was before Michael and the grind?
She grabbed the letter again. Reread the part about restoration funds.
It was enough to live on for a while.
To breathe.
To rebuild.
To begin.
She could go for six months. Fix up the house. See what her roots looked like. Then, walk away if it wasn’t right.
But deep down, she already knew.
Something inside her, some deep, quiet part she hadn’t heard from in years, whispered, Go .
She looked out her window at the streetlight-stained pavement of New York. The honking. The hum. The endless rush.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like home.
She stood.
Spun in a slow circle, arms wide, pizza in hand, laughing like someone reborn. What a crazy, crazy day.
She was going to Ireland.
She was going to her estate.
She was going to see where she came from. Maybe she could find her father and learn why he’d never been in her life. Why was she considered a love child?
And maybe, just maybe, figure out who she wanted to become.