Chapter 30
Sage pushed herself upright, every joint protesting. Her head throbbed, and nausea clawed at her throat, but whether it was the sun, the day, or the man sitting beside her, she couldn't tell.
She didn't look down at him hunched over at her feet. She just couldn't stomach looking at his lying face. Her voice was low, steady and forged of steel. "I need you to move out today."
Ronin jerked his head up. "Sage..."
"Have you changed your mind about the house?" she asked in the same monotone.
"No," he said.
"Then I want you to get your filthy arse out of my house. Today."
He stared at her, green eyes fierce, willing her to look at him. She didn't. Silence stretched until finally he gave a small nod. "Alright."
"And I want you to talk to David before you leave."
"All right," he said quietly
Without another glance, she started to walk away.
"This isn't over, Sage. Don't throw all our years together. I will do better. I will win you back."
She met his pleading eyes, her own steady, cold with exhaustion.
"Those years you're clinging to? That life was in my head too like a phantom I couldn’t escape, Ronin.
I built our life together like a dream, carried it alone, and pretended it was real.
But like every one-sided dream, it has to end.
Everyone's patience has a limit...and I crossed mine a long time ago. "
Once inside, her first impulse was to run upstairs, shut the door, and bury herself in silence and tears.
But why should she hide? She hadn't done anything wrong.
She forced herself to the sink and drank a glass of water.
Her hands shook, but she forced herself to drink another.
She didn't look when she heard him come inside or make his way upstairs.
Macaroni and cheese—that's what she craved. She moved mechanically, boiling the pasta, whisking the sauce. She stared at nothing in particular, deep in her head, until the oven beeped. Then she pulled on the mitts, took out the bubbling dish, and scooped herself a large helping.
As she carried it into the cavernous sitting room, she heard Ronin's steps overhead. He hadn't left yet, just moving from room to room.
Let him pace.
The fork scraped softly against the dish as she ate, the creamy saltiness soothing her.
Her gaze drifted around the room—the wide space, the twelve-seater dining table, the glass conservatory beyond, and then thought of the five bedrooms upstairs.
Too much house for one woman and a boy nearly grown. She'd never wanted something this big.
But the garden...yes, she loved that.
She thought about the money already sitting in her account, of the house that would soon be legally hers.
If she were careful, she’d never have to work again.
If nothing else, Ronin had kept his word on that.
She was almost surprised her mother-in-law hadn't turned up yet, wagging her tongue and piling on the shame for not being enough to keep her husband satisfied.
Let her come.
There was one thing her indifferent mother had unknowingly taught her, back when their lives had blown apart under the weight of her father's infidelity---never let yourself be dependent financially on your husband or partner.
It had been the single shard of wisdom she carried from that woman who should have never been a mother.
And Sage had forgotten it. Forgotten her history, and so she was condemned to repeat it—walking the same cracked path her mother's life had warned her against. The realization settled heavy in her chest, equal parts grief and resolve.
This time, she promised herself, she would not forget. She would find herself a job.
The door creaked open, and David came in. She could hear him go to the kitchen, then come looking for her. To her surprise, he crossed straight to her, wrapping his arms around her. She froze for a heartbeat, then pulled him close, holding him just a second longer than he intended.
When he drew back, she managed a faint smile.
She had once imagined that after he left for university, she and Ronin would have more time together, that the empty rooms of this too-big house would close in around them in comfort.
But today had cut that future away. She knew it with a clarity that ached down to her bones—there was no coming back from this. Their paths had already diverged.
She heard him talk to David, then come downstairs with two heavy suitcases.
She stayed in the kitchen as he loaded up his car.
She didn't look up when he came in to tell her that he was planning to stay in the company apartment.
She kept cutting the onion while she listened to his car drive away.
The tears are from the onion, not anything else, she told herself.
The next morning, Ronin was at her doorstep, jacket slung over one arm, ready to leave for work. Sage was wiping the counter down, the smell of fresh coffee in the air. Something on his face when she opened the door made her pause, cloth hanging limply in her hand.
"The result came," he said, his voice strained. "It's in my email."
She nodded once and turned back to the kitchen, her motions brisk. "Open it."
He hesitated, then closed his eyes, thumb hovering before he finally tapped the screen of his phone. His gaze skimmed the email, scrolling up and down, his breathing uneven. Then he exhaled, shoulders sagging. Relief poured across his face.
"Not yours," she said flatly.
"Not mine," he confirmed.
She looked back at him, and to her surprise, anger surged, hot and bitter. What was she supposed to feel? Relief? Gratitude? Vindication? That his mistress hadn't carried his child?
"Sage—" he began.
"Just leave me alone," she snapped, her hand white-knuckled around the dishcloth. "I just need a minute. Go to work. I will call you when I am ready to talk about David."
He turned, pain flashing in his eyes. She called after him, her voice low, trembling with fury, "Ronin? This doesn't change anything."
Later that night, her phone glowed: Can you talk?
She hesitated, then typed: Yes.
It rang at once. She snatched it up before the first buzz finished. "Hi," she whispered.
"Ach, hi, lass," Euan said, his voice warm and low. "How are ye, ma pretty?"
Sage smiled despite herself. "I'm...so-so."
"Want tae talk aboot it?"
She did. It poured out of her in a rush—Mia's box of memories, the love letters, the email in the morning, the relief on Ronin's face, and the hot, unexpected anger that followed. The words tumbled until there were none left. By the time she stopped, her nose was clogged and her eyes were gritty.
"You did well, lass," Euan said softly. "What now?"
"Now we do what was best for David and get on with our lives. Separately," she breathed.
A pause. "I dinna want tae ask this, but...do ye still love him?"
Sage stared at the dark ceiling. "I do...in my own way. But I see him more clearly now. And I don't think I can be with him anymore."
"I'm shootin' masel' in the foot here," he said with a rueful huff, "but think careful, aye? Some couples work it oot. Ask yersel' if ye want tae."
"I don't think so," she said after a long moment. "Every time I look at him, I think of Amanda. I see them together in my head, and it makes me sick. But the worst was that box. How could he do this to me? Why didn't I leave him when I found it? Why did I keep quiet about it?"
"It's not something you need to unwrap all at once," Euan murmured. "Sleep on it, lass."
He hesitated, then added, "Blair still isnae speakin' tae me. I ken fine she's been...steer'n things. The attachment, the hostility—it's no normal. She's like a doctor, always pokin' and proddin', tellin' me how I should live."
"Then why didn't you do anything about it?" Sage asked, not unkindly.
"Because I'd never met anyone I wanted as much as you," he said simply. "And now I need tae fix this. My mess, my job tae fix."
Sage's breath shivered out. "Maybe this is not the right time for...whatever we are. Wrong place, wrong time..."
"You can try to get rid of me, lass, but it's not going ta work." She could hear the smile in his voice. " Ma friend Fergus, who works on the rig, is stayin’ wi’ me for a wee while. Noo, close yer eyes. We'll talk in the morn."
"Goodnight, Euan."
"Goodnight, Sage."
She ended the call and laid very still, the empty room thrumming with the echo of his steadiness. For once, the silence didn't feel like a threat; it felt like a hand at her back, holding her up as she drifted to sleep.