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 shealmostmeant. “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, “youdoknow 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 wordsTiny DickandWhorewere 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.”
