Chapter 11
Four days ago ...
Ronin packed his own suitcase for the first time in years.
The shirts were folded crookedly; the ties crumpled at the edges.
Sage had always done this for him—everything in neat piles, even ticking items off her little checklist with that absent-minded hum which used to annoy him as he worked on his laptop.
She just laughed in good humour and said it helped her concentrate.
You don't know what you have until it is gone.
He stood over the half-open case now, staring at the mess, and thought of how stupid he had been.
She had been cooking for them, keeping the house in order, making sure David had his meals, his kit, his rides.
She had carried the weight of them all while he.
..Ronin swallowed...while he had betrayed her.
Worse, it was his fault David had lied, too.
David admired him, of course he did—he was his father.
And now, Sage thought he had chosen Ronin over her, keeping her in the dark.
They had been so close, mother and son, and Ronin had shattered that bond.
He had hurt them both. It was not surprising David hated him now.
He hated himself.
He hadn't slept since the day Sage found out about his sordid deeds.
Since they became a couple, he had never spent a night apart from her, except when he travelled.
Even then, the night before leaving was always the hardest. He would toss and turn, then pull her warm body close while Sage slept like the dead.
He would feel relief, knowing he could come home in not too many days. But not this time.
The last year had been nothing but a balancing act—placating Amanda, trying to keep her from spiralling, supporting her through the pregnancy, all while pretending normalcy with his family.
Every day the lie weighed heavier, crushing his chest until it was hard to breathe.
He told himself he was salvaging what he could, holding things together.
But in the end, the truth had spilled out in all its ugliness, anyway.
He was a cheat and a liar.
He tried to summon Amanda's face in his mind, the way she had looked in those early months.
The cheap thrill of it came back first—the shock of excitement when she had unzipped him that very first time and had taken him in her mouth, the rush of forbidden novelty that had clouded his judgment.
Or the night she'd pushed him back onto his office couch, stripping off her clothes in a frenzy, like she couldn't bear not having him inside her for a second longer.
At the time, it had made him feel wanted, powerful, and young again. But the thrill never lasted. Seconds, that was all—seconds before it curdled into a hollow nothingness, twisted through with shame.
And worse, he knew what Sage's father had done, how his betrayals had broken her childhood, made her believe love was conditional and fragile. She had trusted Ronin not to be that man, but he was no better. He had become the exact thing she had feared the most.
He remembered thinking during the early days that he might be in love with Amanda. He had told himself he was, because otherwise, he would have had to admit the truth—that he had thrown away his relationship and everything Sage had given him for moments of distraction.
Even a few days ago, he had clung to the lie that there had been something real in it, some meaning.
But when he stripped it bare in the silence of their bedroom with the whisky burning his throat like acid, he couldn't deny it any longer.
It had never been love ; it was just empty pleasure, and he had sacrificed the one person who mattered most for an adrenaline rush.
He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on him, trying to wash away the tears that came unbidden.
He had destroyed everything, and he didn't know if there was any way back from this nightmare he had trapped them in with his actions.
Would Sage ever forgive him? Did he even deserve to be forgiven?
It was past midnight when he made his way to the guest bedroom, hoping to catch her before she disappeared into herself again.
He worried about the bottle he'd seen in her hand.
Sage could barely get through half a beer without feeling tipsy.
He had sat with his back to her door, listening to her haunting sobs, listening her shuffle around.
David had come out once, saw him there in the hallway, and turned back without a word.
His fault.
All of it.
The house had finally fallen silent around two.
He had gone in then, just to be sure she was all right.
In the low light, she lay naked on her side, passed out, the empty bottle on the floor, tipped on its side.
He had pulled the bedspread gently over her, arranging it so she wouldn't be cold.
He hadn't touched her, though God, he wanted to.
Her beloved body wasn't his to touch anymore—he had lost that right. He sat in the chair until dawn.
When morning came, he had driven to the airport and used the valet parking before boarding the plane to Brussels with a sinking feeling in his heart.
The flight attendant leaned down and asked what he'd like.
"Whisky," he rasped once, and then again after he had down the first round.
Anything to drown out the images in his mind: Sage's face when she looked at him, the misery in her eyes.
His PA, Gage, had looked surprised but kept his peace.
The next three days muddled together. Amanda's messages lit up his phone in a relentless stream.
Amanda: She smiled today, I swear she has your eyes.
Sending you a photo. Amanda: I would like to do the DNA test, but James is getting suspicious.
I am terrified.Amanda: He asked me who I was messaging.
I lied. I said it was a mum from my birthing group.
I can't keep this up.Amanda: I miss you.
I miss the way you make me feel.Amanda: Please, Ronin. Say something.
Ronin sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his phone seemed to grow heavier with every new message. He sighed, dragging a palm over his face. He hadn't answered her, not one of them. What was there left to say? He had told her they would talk after the DNA test. He had nothing left to lose.
He thumbed over to Sage's thread. Dozens of messages there, too, but all his, short and stilted.
Are you eating?I'm sorry. Please let me explain.Sage, just answer. Please.
All left on read. All unanswered. He had tried calling twice that morning, and she had let it ring out. A small part of him had been relieved. Because what could he possibly say if she picked up?
He stared at the two threads—Amanda's neediness, Sage's silence—and felt the weight of both. One suffocating him, the other cutting him off at the knees.
David, of course, did not bother to pick up the phone when he called.
He went through the motions with his team—his partner cracking jokes, Gage chattering about the schedule in his good-humoured, easy-going way, the endless business dinners.
The trip went well on paper, but Ronin was lost, a ghost at the table.
Nights were the worst. He lay in hotel beds plagued by nightmares—of Sage walking away from him, Sage in an accident, Sage with another man.
Always Sage.
The urgency was unbearable by the last day.
He noticed every absence, the hundred little things she used to do.
His cufflinks to match his suit, the way she reminded him to call his mother, even though she had never treated Sage right, or the way she smoothed down his collar before he walked out the door.
But most of all, he missed her smiles and the easy way she brushed off his crankiness and irritation.
They fought, yes, but Sage was the one who always backed down first, who looked at him like he hung the moon. That look was gone now.
He felt a sudden urgency as he boarded the plane, like something was slipping away. It got worse as the plane taxied and every minute dragged.
The uneasy feeling crawled down his spine as his car pulled up to the house. Relief flickered when he saw Sage's car still in the drive. She was here. She hadn't left. But the feeling didn't leave him.
Something was wrong.
The house was silent. David must be upstairs. Ronin walked through the rooms, unsettled, noticing tiny differences he couldn't place. The air felt empty, still.
He filled the kettle, set it on to boil, trying to settle the panic in himself with something familiar. And that's when he saw them—Sage's keys sitting on the kitchen island, not in the blue porcelain bowl next to the door where they always were.