Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
T he sun spilled through the lace curtains, soft and golden as if the world hadn’t shifted beneath Aisling’s feet just hours ago.
She blinked awake slowly, tangled in warm sheets and limbs that weren’t her own.
Ronan lay beside her, one arm flung lazily across her waist, his bare chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. In the glow of the early light, he looked almost innocent. Peaceful. Like he hadn’t just turned her entire body to molten fire last night. Like he hadn’t murmured her name against her skin as if it meant something.
Last night, they’d drowned in whiskey and want, and somewhere between the laughter and the longing, she let go. And God, what a night it had been. She’d never known a man who could make her feel so completely undone—who kissed like a prayer one second and claimed her like a wildfire the next. It wasn’t just sex. I
t was raw, consuming, soul-shaking. He’d touched her like he was mapping every inch of her, learning her in a language no one else had ever bothered to speak. One moment, her body melted under the ache of his tenderness—and the next, she swore the heat between them could’ve burned down the damn house.
Lying there beside him, she sighed and knew that somehow last night had changed everything.
For a fleeting moment, she let herself slip into the dangerous luxury of pretending this was real, normal, easy. That she wasn’t tangled in a century-old feud thick with betrayal or drowning in secrets that seemed to multiply every time she turned around. But reality scratched at the edges of that bliss.
She slipped from the bed carefully, reaching for one of his shirts—white linen, worn soft from age—and a pair of shorts then padded quietly to her disastrous kitchen, still torn apart by construction. Her body ached in all the best ways, but her brain was already busy building walls again.
She barely had time to sip the coffee she’d made when the knock came.
Three sharp raps. Purposeful.
Frowning, she glanced at the clock. It was barely half past seven. The workers didn’t come on Saturdays, and Bríd would’ve just let herself in.
Another knock. Firm. Impatient.
Setting her mug down, Aisling walked to the front door, brushing a hand through her hair. When she opened it, a man in a dark blazer and flat cap stood on the porch holding an envelope.
“Miss O’Byrne?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Courier from County Clare Legal Services. I was instructed to deliver this to you directly. It’s time-sensitive.”
She hesitated only a second before taking the envelope and signing the receipt.
“Thank you.”
The man tipped his cap and walked off without another word.
The envelope was thick. Heavy. Her name was scrawled across the front in a careful, formal hand.
Her gut twisted. Good news rarely came from an attorney.
She shut the door, peeled the flap open, and unfolded the first page. The seal of Séamus Gallagher stared up at her.
A chill slid down her spine.
Private Property Agreement — Executed August 12th, 1997
By and between: Noreen Margaret O’Byrne and Séamus Finley Gallagher
Aisling dropped into a chair as her eyes flew across the words.
"...in consideration of maintaining the historical unity of the adjoining estates, it is hereby agreed that should the heirs of the O’Byrne and Gallagher families not enter into matrimonial union within ninety (90) days of Aisling Maeve O’Byrne taking legal possession of the O’Byrne property, said property will revert entirely to the Gallagher family..."
“No,” she whispered. Her fingers trembled. Where the hell had this piece of legalistic jargon come from? Why wasn’t it with the will?
"...this agreement, signed by both parties, is to supersede all previous wills or family declarations. Executed in trust and delivered upon activation by Séamus F. Gallagher..."
She stared at the fresh signature. Dated yesterday.
Her body went cold.
Noreen had signed this, her own grandmother, not long after she’d been born.
And Séamus, alive and tucked away in that damn nursing home, had clearly just dusted it off and decided to drop a legal bomb into her life.
A deal. A betrayal. One that reeked of coercion and manipulation. One that would steal everything unless she married Ronan.
Her vision blurred.
Was this what Paddy had tried to warn her of?
Her grandmother had betrothed her. That had been bad enough. But this… This was worse. A legal leash. A threat disguised as a family alliance. A weapon.
And the man in her bed?
He hadn’t said a word.
Rage bloomed, hot and sharp.
The floor creaked behind her.
Ronan, tousled and towel-wrapped, stood at the edge of the hallway, eyes still hazy with sleep. “Hey,” he said softly. “Come back to bed.”
Aisling stood slowly, envelope clenched in her fist.
“Did you know?” she asked, her voice deathly calm.
His brow furrowed. “Know what?”
She threw the pages at him.
He caught them midair, blinking down at the top sheet. His eyes skimmed the words. Then again, slower.
“What the hell is this?”
“You tell me.” Her voice was rising. “Because it looks like a land grab signed by your grandfather. And it was just delivered to me. This morning. By courier.”
His eyes widened, and he ran a hand through his tousled hair.
“I swear to God, I didn’t know anything about this.”
“Oh, that’s convenient,” she snapped. “You didn’t know? Really? What, you thought the betrothal clause was cute and quirky enough, so why not seal the deal in bed and wait for the land to roll in?”
He flinched, and she could see the color drain from his face. “Jesus, Aisling.”
“No, don’t you ‘Jesus’ me. I trusted you. Last night, I let you in. And this morning, I find out that if I don’t marry you, I lose everything my family has owned for generations. It feels like I’ve been deceived. And here I was worried about Declan when you were the real thief.”
He looked stunned. “Aisling, listen to me. I’ve never seen this before. My grandfather, he’s a mean old crazy coot, he’s not even in his right mind. I had no idea he?—”
“Spare me.” Her voice cracked. “God, I’m so stupid . Bríd warned me. Paddy warned me. And I just waltzed right into your arms like the world’s dumbest heroine in a badly written romance.”
“Stop.” He stepped forward.
She stepped back.
“I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your lies. And I definitely don’t want your land deal dressed up as affection.”
“It’s not like that,” he said, quieter now. “Last night meant everything.”
Tears burned her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “I think you should go.”
“Aisling.”
“Now.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His jaw clenched.
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I mean it. Get out.”
The silence between them stretched like a chasm. Finally, he nodded once.
Ronan turned and walked back toward the bedroom, silently grabbing his clothes and dressed in quick, angry movements. He didn’t say another word.
At the door, he paused.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, “I meant every word I said last night. But I get it—you think this was all a setup. You think I’m just another Gallagher chasing your land. Fine. But hear me now, Aisling, give me time. I’ll fix this. And if Séamus doesn’t tear up that cursed agreement himself, I swear to God, I’ll burn it, and anything else standing between us, to the fucking ground.”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t. Her throat locked around the ache. Another betrayal, another man unraveling the thread of her trust. First her father, then Michael… and now Ronan. Like clockwork, every man she let in found a new way to rip her open.
The door closed behind him. And she realized she still wore his shirt. Damn it!!
Aisling stood in the kitchen, numb, heart pounding. The envelope sat on the table, mocking her.
Love, land, loyalty.
All tangled. All poisoned.
She sank into a chair and let the tears fall.