Irish Doctor’s Secret Triplets (Forbidden Silver Foxes #17)

Chapter 1 Sage

SAGE

Galway is exactly how it looks on postcards, which should’ve been my first warning.

Connor walks beside me like he owns the cobblestones. “Welcome to my homeland,” he says, spreading his arms like he personally founded the city.

He was born in Boston.

But whatever. His family is from here, and he’s been talking about “coming home” for the past year we’ve been dating. When he suggested we spend St. Patrick’s Day in Galway, I thought… okay. This is it.

This is the trip. The ring trip.

I didn’t tell anyone that. Not even my sister, Rosemary.

I just quietly packed some lingerie and tried not to imagine the exact way he’d get down on one knee.

I’m not delusional. I know Connor loves optics.

If he proposes, it won’t be in the kitchen while I’m eating cereal.

It’ll be here. In front of a cathedral. Or on a cliff.

Or during golden hour with someone conveniently nearby to film it.

It will be staged to perfection. A memory he can share with his followers to garner more clicks. I know how he thinks, and while it’s tacky, I’m fine with it. I knew who he was when we met, and I have no illusions about changing any of that.

He stops in the middle of Shop Street and pulls out his phone. “Babe, stand there,” he says, angling me toward a doorway dripping with shamrock garlands. It’s St. Patrick’s Day week, so everything is covered in green décor and leprechauns.

I laugh. “We just got here.”

“I know. The lighting’s insane.”

I smooth my coat and smile. I’ve learned Connor’s camera smile. Not my real one—the one that crinkles my eyes—but the softer, curated version. The girlfriend-of-an-up-and-coming-brand-consultant smile. Approachable but elevated. All his influencer patter has been drilled into my brain since we met.

He snaps at least fifteen photos. “Okay, now walking toward me. Casual.”

I walk. Casual.

“Chin down a little.”

Chin down.

“Perfect.” He doesn’t kiss me after. He doesn’t even look at the photos with me. He just nods like he’s captured something important and slides the phone back into his coat. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I reach for his hand, and he lets me take it, but he’s distracted, scanning everything like he’s looking for a better backdrop.

“When are we meeting with your family?” I ask, trying to sound breezy.

He shrugs. “They’re doing some huge thing at my Aunt Mary’s estate outside the city. It’s kind of chaotic.”

“I like chaotic.”

“It’s a lot of cousins. And old people.”

I nudge him. “I can handle it.”

He laughs, but it’s thin. “We’ll see.”

We’ll see. That phrase lands somewhere uncomfortable in my stomach.

But then he pulls me in for a selfie, presses his cheek to mine, and says, “First St. Paddy’s in the motherland with this one,” and I push the feeling down.

Because maybe he wants the pictures first. Maybe he’s building toward something. Maybe the ring is in his pocket right now, square and heavy and waiting for the perfect moment. He might be too nervous to think about when he wants to introduce me to his family.

So I smile. I let him frame me against ancient stone and cathedral spires. I let him call me babe in a voice that sounds like it’s already halfway to being a caption.

And I tell myself that sometimes love looks like patience.

By noon, Connor has posted three photos and two stories. I know because my phone won’t stop buzzing.

Friends are reacting with heart eyes. His coworkers are commenting things like “Ireland looks good on you!” and “Brand expansion overseas?” which doesn’t even make sense, but Connor likes comments that imply he’s global.

In every picture, I look happy. Wind in my dark brown hair. Green scarf that matches my eyes. Laughing into the distance like I don’t know I’m being watched.

Connor looks… polished. Casual but intentional. The kind of guy who pretends he just threw something on but definitely spent ten minutes adjusting the cuff of his sweater.

We duck into a pub to warm up. It’s loud and packed and perfect. Fiddles screech in the corner. A group of college kids chants something unintelligible.

Connor orders us both a Guinness.

I wrinkle my nose. “You know I don’t like stout.”

“It’s tradition.”

“I’m not Irish.” I take a sip anyway. It tastes like burnt bread.

He angles his glass toward mine. “Cheers, Sage.”

“To Ireland,” I say.

“To growth,” he corrects.

Growth. That’s Connor’s favorite word lately. Growth, alignment, trajectory. He talks about his life like it’s a startup pitch.

I study him over the rim of my glass. He’s handsome. Objectively. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp jaw, the kind of good looks that make waitresses linger. When we first started dating, I thought he was magnetic.

Now I’m not sure if he’s magnetic or just very aware of where the light hits.

“So,” I try again. “Your family thing.”

He exhales like I’ve asked him to run a marathon. “It’s just… a lot of people. And they’re intense.”

“I can be intense.”

“Not like them.”

“What does that mean?”

He hesitates, and something flickers across his face. Calculation. “It’s very traditional,” he says finally. “They have expectations.”

My stomach dips. “About what?”

“About… things.”

Marriage, I almost guess. But I don’t.

He smiles suddenly, like he’s remembered something urgent, and grabs his phone.

“Hold on. The lighting in here is sick.” He pulls me closer, arm firm around my waist. We look like a couple in love.

Like the kind of pair that’s about to announce something big.

“Okay,” he says softly, but he’s looking at the screen, not me. “Lean into me.”

I do.

He snaps the photo. “Perfect,” he murmurs.

The band starts playing something wild and fast. People clap. A stranger spills beer near my boots.

Connor stands. “Come on. There’s this alley with insane texture. I want to shoot there before it gets dark.”

I stare at the half-full Guinness. “We just sat down.”

“Babe.” His smile tightens. “It’s once in a lifetime.” The way he says it makes it sound like the once-in-a-lifetime thing is the content. Not us.

Still, I follow him.

Because maybe later—after the photos, after the perfect shot, after he’s satisfied—he’ll turn to me and say, I brought you here for a reason. And maybe that reason will glitter.

By late afternoon, my cheeks hurt from smiling. We’ve walked half the city. The river. A narrow lane Connor found on a travel blog. Every time we stop, he adjusts me like I’m part of the scenery.

“Turn your shoulders.”

“Relax your mouth.”

“Less teeth.”

I laugh at first. It feels playful. But after the tenth correction, I start to feel like a prop. At one point, a woman in a green sequined jacket offers to take a photo of us together.

Connor hesitates.

I notice.

Then he hands her his phone and wraps an arm around me. It’s warm, possessive. For the camera. We smile. She hands it back, and he barely glances at the shot before tucking the phone away. “Let’s keep moving.”

“Don’t you want to see it?”

“I know it’s good.”

We pass a group of older people singing outside a shop. One of them has Connor’s eyes. Dark. Deep-set. Familiar.

I slow down. “Connor,” I say quietly. “Is that—”

He doesn’t look. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

He keeps walking.

“Wait.” I tug his sleeve. “Is that your family?”

He exhales sharply. “Sage.”

“What?”

“I told you. It’s a lot.”

“So we’re just… not saying hi?”

He finally turns to me, and there’s something in his expression I don’t recognize. Not anger. Impatience. “They don’t get what I’m doing,” he says. “They think I should be working at my family’s labs. Or settling down with some nice Irish girl who makes soda bread.”

I blink. “Okay.”

“It’s just easier if we skip it.”

“Easier for who?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t make this a thing.”

I look back at the group. The woman with his eyes laughs, throws her head back. For a second, I imagine walking over there. Introducing myself.

Hi, I’m Sage. I love your nephew.

But Connor is already moving again. He stops in front of a mural, pulls out his phone, and says, “Stand there.”

Something inside me shifts. “You sure you want me in this one?”

He pauses. Just for a second. Then he smiles. “Yeah. Of course.”

Of course.

I stand where he tells me to. I give him the smile he likes. And as the camera clicks, I realize I have not been invited into his homeland. I have been curated into it.

That night, we have dinner at a restaurant overlooking the water.

It’s romantic in the obvious way. Candlelight. Soft music. The kind of place that would absolutely work for a proposal. My heart won’t stop beating in my throat.

Connor seems relaxed now. Mission accomplished. The photos are posted. The engagement is high. He’s scrolling through comments while I pretend not to watch.

“You’re blowing up,” I say lightly.

He smirks. “Told you Ireland would hit.”

Ireland. Not us.

The waiter brings champagne. My pulse spikes. Connor didn’t order champagne. He lifts his glass. “To a successful trip.”

Successful.

I wait.

He takes a sip.

Still waiting.

Finally, he sets the glass down and looks at me fully for the first time all day. “Sage.” That tone. “I’ve been thinking.”

My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy.

“This trip just kind of clarified some things for me. I’m at a point in my life where everything has to align,” he continues. “My brand. My partnerships. The direction I’m going.”

I stare at him. “And?”

“And I don’t think we’re aligned anymore.”

The room feels suddenly too small. “What are you talking about?”

He sighs like I’m missing something obvious. “You’re amazing. You know that.”

“But?”

“But you don’t really fit where I’m headed.”

I laugh, because it sounds insane out loud. “Fit?”

“I need someone who complements the image I’m building.”

I blink. “I’m your girlfriend. Not a throw pillow.”

He winces. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it ugly.”

“You brought me to Ireland,” I say slowly. “I thought—”

“I know what you thought.”

My face burns. “You let me think that. On purpose?”

He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t want to ruin the trip. And honestly, the content works better as a couple. You looked extra happy in all the pictures, so I didn’t bother to correct your assumption.”

The words hit like a slap.

“So I’m what?” I ask. “A limited-time aesthetic?”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s the truth.”

He looks almost annoyed now. “You’ve been great for this phase of my life. But I’m leveling up. You understand.”

Leveling up.

I don’t cry in the restaurant. I won’t give him that.

I sit there while he talks about growth and evolution and how we both deserve partners who align with our futures. I nod like I’m in a performance review.

“… with my brand on the line, so I had to make some cuts. It’s business.”

Business. I’m business.

“As a personal trainer, you’ve been great for me. You look perfect in pictures, and it sells the whole ‘fitness influencer’ thing. You’ll bounce back.”

I’m not sure what to say. I’m in a foreign country with no one I know. Not even the man who brought me here.

I thought Connor was a little empty-headed, but had a good heart. He always seemed to—on our first date, he helped a little girl get her cat out of a tree when we were walking through a park.

Now, I wonder whether there was a photographer taking pictures of the whole thing.

We walk back toward the hotel in silence. Galway is still glowing. Music. Laughter. People wrapped in flags and each other.

I feel strangely calm.

At the corner near our hotel, Connor stops. “I’ll change my flight. You can keep the original one.”

“How generous.”

He flinches. “I didn’t mean for this to hurt you.”

I almost laugh again. “You just meant for it to photograph well?”

He rubs his jaw. “You’re being sarcastic.”

“Observant of you.”

For a second, I think he might argue. Instead, he pulls me into a hug. It’s the kind of hug you give someone at a networking event. Polite. Brief. “I really do want the best for you, Sage.”

I step back. “Then next time, break up with your girlfriend before you fly her across an ocean for better lighting.”

His mouth tightens. “Take care of yourself.”

And then he walks away. Just like that.

No ring. No dramatic scene. No cinematic rainstorm.

Just the echo of marching bands and my own heartbeat.

I stand there for a long moment, watching strangers celebrate a holiday that suddenly feels ironic. Patron saint of luck. Of blessings.

I check my phone. His latest post is already up.

A photo of us at an arch. I’m laughing into the wind. He’s looking at the camera like he’s already somewhere else. Caption: Grateful for growth. Onward.

I stare at it. Then I laugh. Because here’s the thing about being dumped for not fitting someone’s brand: It hurts. But it also clarifies.

I am not content. I am a human being, one who very nearly disappeared into this man’s world, even though I was front and center in it.

I look around at Galway—wild and loud and alive—and for the first time all day, I take a picture. Not of myself. Not of us. Just the street. The music. The messy, imperfect joy of it.

I book a flight change. I’m not going back to Boston on the plane he expects me on. Fuck that. He might show up and try for reconciliation-on-the-plane pictures, and by then, I might be drunk enough to agree. Not only that—I deserve a treat. Something better than the coach ticket I had before.

If Connor wants a curated future, he can have it. I want something real.