Chapter 6 Ronan
RONAN
Boston greets me with its usual gray restraint.
The sky hangs low over the harbor, the color of unpolished steel, and the wind carries that familiar Atlantic bite that slips easily through a man’s coat if he isn’t paying attention.
Spring insists it has arrived, but the city clearly disagrees.
Patches of old snow still cling stubbornly to the curbs along Beacon Hill, like guests who have overstayed their welcome.
I find the familiarity comforting. Boston has never been a city for emotional displays. It expects a man to conduct his affairs quietly, efficiently, and without unnecessary drama. That suits me perfectly well. Routine has always been my greatest ally, and the city seems built around it.
By the time I reach Massachusetts General, the hospital is already alive with activity.
Nurses move briskly through the corridors with tablets tucked beneath their arms, residents gather around workstations murmuring over charts, and the scent of antiseptic drifts through the air in that strange, sterile way hospitals seem to manage no matter how many times they clean the place.
The rhythm of it all settles my mind almost immediately.
Work begins early and rarely slows once it starts.
Rounds occupy the first part of the morning as I move from room to room reviewing charts and speaking with patients.
Consultations follow quickly afterward, most of them involving complications that other departments prefer to hand off to someone with my particular background.
By the time surgery arrives on the schedule, the day has already gathered a certain momentum that carries me through the next several hours without pause.
My professional path has always been a somewhat unusual one.
Cardiology and obstetrics are not specialties most physicians think to combine, yet the intersection of maternal health and cardiovascular complications has occupied the better part of my career.
Pregnancy places extraordinary strain on the heart, and when something goes wrong the consequences can become catastrophic with alarming speed.
My work exists precisely in that narrow space where two lives depend on the steady judgment of the physician standing in the room.
It is demanding work, but I have never been one to shy away from difficulty. Precision matters here. Calm matters even more. There is very little room for hesitation when a mother’s heart begins to falter during labor, and the responsibility of managing that crisis is something I accepted long ago.
The younger doctors sometimes watch me with a mixture of admiration and unease that I recognize from my own training years.
Reputation tends to accumulate slowly in medicine, but eventually it begins to carry weight.
My name appears in enough journals now that the residents occasionally quote my own research back to me during rounds.
Three papers published this year alone, with another currently under review.
The work has a way of building upon itself once the foundation is properly established.
Callahan Labs contributes to that momentum as well.
The company was originally my father’s creation, built with the stubborn determination of a man who believed medical research could reshape the future if the right people were given the proper resources.
I inherited both the laboratory and the responsibility that came with it.
These days we fund cardiovascular trials across the country, and investors seem eager to attach themselves to anything bearing the Callahan name.
By most definitions, the situation would be considered a success. The hospital respects my work. The lab continues to expand. The career I spent decades constructing now runs with the steady reliability of a machine that rarely requires adjustment.
Still, success has a peculiar way of echoing when a man returns home at night.
Connor occupies more of my thoughts than I ever realized he would.
When Cathryn confessed to the pregnancy, I was deep in my grief over Aoifa.
I put it out of my mind—I could handle only one life-changing event at a time.
But he represented a hope for the future, no matter how marred the circumstances of his birth.
My son is twenty-six now, a grown man by any reasonable standard, yet the connection between us has never settled into something comfortable. When he was younger, my career demanded more hours than I had to give, and I allowed that excuse to stand far longer than it should have.
I should have been there for him. Not that it matters now. What’s done is done. What matters now is where we go from here.
I hate that he did not come for the holiday. The family had hoped…
I sigh at myself. Ruminating won’t change the fact that he chose not to show up. Connor represents a time in my life I’m not proud of, but I’d like to be proud of him regardless of my mistakes. Whether he gives me the opportunity to be proud of him is his choice.
What I’m proud of most in my life is my work.
It helps that the hospital is the one place where my mind behaves itself properly.
Patients require focus, and focus leaves very little room for distractions of any kind.
When a life rests in your hands, wandering thoughts become a luxury a sensible physician cannot afford.
It is one of the reasons I’ve always appreciated the structure of my profession.
My morning passes in the familiar rhythm of rounds and consultations.
Nurses move efficiently between rooms, speaking in low voices as they monitor patients and update charts.
I check on several expectant mothers whose pregnancies have been complicated by cardiovascular concerns, reviewing their vitals and discussing the next steps with the attending physicians.
Later, I assist in a delivery involving a woman whose heart condition required careful planning throughout her pregnancy.
The procedure proceeds smoothly, which is always the best possible outcome in situations like these.
The child’s first cry fills the room a moment later, sharp and insistent, and the relief on the parents’ faces is immediate and unmistakable.
Moments like that are the reason many physicians enter obstetrics in the first place.
By the time evening arrives, I’ve spent nearly twelve hours moving from one responsibility to another.
The drive home across the city is quiet, Boston settling into its nighttime rhythm.
The cold air carries the faint scent of the harbor, and pedestrians move briskly along the sidewalks as they make their way home from work.
My penthouse is exactly as I prefer it. Everything is orderly and quiet, which suits me well enough after a long day at the hospital. I loosen my tie and pour myself a small glass of whiskey before moving toward the window overlooking the street.
A young couple passes beneath the glow of the lamppost outside, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
For reasons I cannot quite explain, my thoughts drift as I watch them disappear down the sidewalk.
They drift away from work, away from the hospital, and toward a memory I have been trying rather unsuccessfully to ignore.
Sage.
It has been several weeks since that flight, yet she remains in my mind with surprising persistence. I am not a man who typically dwells on brief encounters. Life has always been far too busy for that sort of indulgence. Still, something about her lingers in a way that feels mildly inconvenient.
I suppose the explanation is simple enough. She was the last woman I slept with, and the mind has a tendency to revisit its most recent experiences. That seems logical. Sensible, even.
And yet, when the memory surfaces, it’s not merely the encounter itself that returns.
It is the taste of her. Sweet. Unreasonably vivid.
I take a slow sip of whiskey and set the glass down with deliberate calm. Clearly, the matter requires a practical solution.
I attempt to read for a while, settling into one of the chairs near the window with a medical journal open in my lap.
The article concerns a promising new treatment for postpartum cardiomyopathy, and under normal circumstances, the topic would easily hold my attention.
Tonight, however, I find myself rereading the same paragraph several times without absorbing a single detail.
The solution is obvious enough. When a man finds his thoughts lingering on one woman for longer than is reasonable, the most practical response is to remind himself that the world contains many others. It is not a particularly romantic philosophy, but I have never claimed to be a romantic man.
Boston’s nightlife is not particularly wild compared to cities like New York or London, but there are still a number of respectable establishments where a man can enjoy a drink without unnecessary chaos.
I choose a bar not far from the harbor, one with dim lighting and a reputation for discretion.
The sort of place where conversations remain private, and no one asks too many questions.
The interior is warm and quietly crowded when I arrive. Soft jazz drifts through the room, and the low hum of conversation creates a pleasant background noise that contrasts with the silence of my penthouse. I take a seat at the bar and order a whiskey, allowing myself a moment to survey the room.
My attention catches on a familiar detail across the room.
A woman sits at a table near the back, her back turned toward me as she speaks with a friend. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, the color of dark chocolate touched with cherry highlights. The sight of it sends a sudden, unexpected spark of recognition through me.
Sage.
I stand and cross the room before I’ve entirely considered the decision. The woman’s posture, the fall of her hair, even the slender line of her shoulders seems unmistakably familiar. A faint sense of anticipation builds in my chest as I reach the table.
I lift a hand and gently tap her shoulder. “Forgive me,” I begin.
She turns.
And immediately, I realize my mistake.
The woman looking up at me is attractive, certainly. Her brown eyes widen slightly with curiosity. Up close, however, the resemblance to Sage vanishes almost entirely. The hair is similar, yes, but the rest of her features are completely different.
Still, I have already interrupted her evening, and a gentleman does not simply walk away without acknowledging the intrusion. “I’m terribly sorry. I mistook you for someone else.”
Her expression softens almost immediately, curiosity replacing the initial surprise. “That’s a new one. Usually, people pretend they meant to say hello.”
Her friend across the table watches the exchange with open interest, clearly amused by the situation. The woman herself tilts her head slightly as she studies me, and I can see the moment recognition of my intentions settles into her eyes.
She assumes I approached her deliberately.
I could correct that misunderstanding, of course. Instead, I simply maintain the calm composure that has served me well in far more complicated situations.
I had meant to find someone new to hook up with. Perhaps she is the right woman for the evening. Certainly attractive enough, with full lips and a soft jaw.
But she’s not Sage.
“Well,” she continues with a small smile, “since you’re already here, you might as well join us.”
“How can I say no?” I wish I knew. But I take the empty chair beside the table out of courtesy and sit for a moment, exchanging names and making the sort of polite conversation one makes with strangers in bars.
She works in marketing for a tech company. Her friend is visiting from Chicago. They ask about my profession, and I give the brief version that usually satisfies people.
“I’m a physician.”
The reaction is predictable enough. A touch of intrigue, a few questions about hospital life, a comment about how difficult the profession must be. I answer politely, keeping the tone light without offering too many personal details.
The woman—Ivonne, as she introduced herself—leans forward slightly as we speak. Her interest becomes more obvious with each passing minute. She laughs easily, touches my arm once during the conversation, and holds my gaze in a way that makes her intentions quite clear.
Under other circumstances, I would likely respond in kind.
“You seem distracted,” she says with a teasing smile. “Am I boring you already?”
“Not at all. It’s been a long day.”
She laughs again and suggests another round of drinks. I accept out of civility, though the conversation never quite gains the momentum she clearly hopes for.
After another ten minutes or so, I glance discreetly at my watch. “I’m afraid I should be heading home,” I say, standing from the table. “Early surgery tomorrow.”
Claire looks mildly disappointed, though she recovers quickly enough. “Well,” she says with a playful smile, “if you change your mind about calling it a night, I’ll be here for a while longer.”
I thank her for the drink and wish both women a pleasant evening before making my way toward the door. The cool Boston air greets me the moment I step outside, clearing my head far more effectively than the whiskey ever could.
As I walk toward my car, the realization settles in with quiet certainty. The entire purpose of the evening had been to forget Sage. I failed.
But when I think of her, the way she tasted… the way she worked herself on my cock… I don’t feel much like a failure at all.
I only wish I had her number.