Chapter 25 Intervention.exe
INTERVENTION.EXE
SAGE
Thanksgiving Thursday came way too fast.
Standing in my parents' kitchen, I do my absolutely best to make an edible gravy while my mother hovers like a culinary helicopter, occasionally reaching in to "fix" things that aren't broken.
"You need more flour," Mom says, adding flour to my perfectly good roux.
"It was fine."
"It was thin."
"It was—okay, it was thin." I whisk harder, taking out my frustrations on innocent turkey drippings. "But I would have figured it out."
"Of course you would have, sweetie." She pats my shoulder while simultaneously stealing the whisk. "Just like you figured out that Luke situation."
"Mom."
"I'm just saying, you had such a nice thing going—"
"Mom."
"—and now you're making rage gravy."
I look down.
The gravy is indeed being whisked with a bit of violence sprinkled in.
"It's not rage gravy. It's... intensely mixed gravy."
"If you say so." She takes over completely, nudging me aside. "Why don't you go help your father with the table?"
"Because he doesn't need help. He's been setting that table for thirty years."
"Then go help Harper with the appetizers."
"Harper threatened me with a restraining order if I come near her charcuterie board again."
"You ate all the fig jam."
"It was comfort jam!"
"Sage." Mom turns, wielding the gravy whisk like a pointer. "You've been moping for weeks. It's Thanksgiving. Can we please have one meal where you don't look like someone murdered your best friend?"
"Buttercup's not dead. She's just... relocated."
"I wasn't talking about the goat."
Before I can respond, Claire waddles in, one hand on her massive belly, the other reaching for the cranberry sauce.
"No," Mom and I call out together.
"I'm pregnant, not radioactive.” My baby sister frowns. "I can help."
"You're nine months pregnant," I point out. "Your help consists of not going into labor during dinner."
"I'm not due for another week." She steals a roll from the basket. "Besides, this baby is too comfortable. David's been playing him Mozart and telling him about the tax benefits of being born before year-end."
"Your husband is discussing tax breaks with your unborn child?”
"He's very practical." She takes another roll. "Unlike some people who hack dating profiles and then act surprised when it backfires."
"It's Thanksgiving," I remind her. "The one day we're supposed to pretend to like each other."
"I love you," she says. "I just think you're being an idiot."
"The gravy's not the only thing getting violent," Mom mutters.
Harper appears in the doorway like a perfectly coiffed shark sensing blood. "Are we doing the intervention now? I have PowerPoint slides."
"You made slides?" I stare at her. “And what family intervention?"
The room goes silent, and I groan out loud.
“For once,” I scoff, “could you all at least try to pretend to be normal?” I whip around on my oldest sister. “And really, Harper? Slides?”
"I'm a lawyer. I make slides for everything." She's already pulling out her phone. "Slide one: 'Why Sage Is Shit At A Little Thing Called Love.'"
"We're not doing this."
"Slide two," Harper continues, "'Historical Pattern of Self-Sabotage.'"
"Harper—"
"With a subsection on 'Men Who Weren't Worth It' and a detailed analysis of why Luke Sterling is different."
"I'm going to help Dad," I announce, fleeing the kitchen.
"Running away is slide seven!" Harper calls after me.
I find Dad in the dining room, peacefully arranging place settings with the focus of a man who's learned that staying out of the kitchen during holidays is key to survival.
"They're ganging up on me," I inform him.
"It's because they love you," he says, adjusting a fork. "Also because you've been moping like a gothic teenager for a month."
"Et tu, Father?”
"I'm just saying, honey, you used to have... spark. Now you just have sad gravy energy."
"Sad gravy energy?"
"Your mother's term." He straightens a napkin. "She's worried. We all are."
"I'm fine."
"You named the turkey Lukas before you put it in the oven."
"That was... a coincidence."
"You also apologized to it."
I slump into a chair. "Okay, maybe I'm not fine."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Want to hear about how I committed fraud, fell in love with my victim, and then got exactly what I deserved?"
"I want to hear whatever you need to tell me." He sits beside me, same steady presence he's been my whole life. “Maybe you could skip the fraud details, though. Plausible deniability and all."
"Dad."
"What? I watch crime shows. I know things." His brown eyes are warm as he pats my hand. "Start with the important part. You love him?"
My throat threatens to close, but I manage to get the words out anyway.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I really do."
"And he loves you?"
“I think he did. I’m almost sure he did. Past tense. Before he found out I'm a lying sack of you-know-what who tricks people."
"You tricked him into visiting your inn. That's not exactly master criminal behavior."
"Tell that to Luke."
"Maybe you should tell that to Luke."
"He made it pretty clear we're done. He sent a check, Dad. A check. Like I'm a business expense he's writing off."
"Or like he's someone who still cares enough to make sure you don't lose everything."
I'm saved from responding by the arrival of the rest of the family.
David helps Claire into a chair while Harper sets up what appears to be an actual projector.
"Are you seriously doing a presentation?" I ask.
"Just a brief overview," Harper says, connecting her laptop. "Twenty slides max."
"Twenty?!"
"I had forty, but Claire made me cut it down."
"This is insane."
"This is an intervention," Mom says, entering with the gravy boat. "With visual aids."
"I'm being PowerPointed into submission?"
"If that's what it takes," Harper says, clicking to the first slide.
What follows is the most professionally executed emotional ambush I've ever experienced. Harper has graphs.
Actual graphs showing my "happiness levels" before and after Luke.
Claire provides color commentary while eating her body weight in rolls. Mom occasionally interjects with "remember when you smiled?"
Dad just pats my hand periodically.
"In conclusion," Harper says fifteen minutes later, "you're being a jackass, and we have the data to prove it."
"That's your conclusion? I'm a jackass?”
"A loved jackass,” Claire clarifies. "But still an jackass.”
"You hacked a man to meet him," Mom adds. "That shows initiative. Now show some follow-through."
"I can't just—"
"Yes, you can," Harper interrupts. "You can apologize again. You can fight for him. You can do something besides mope around naming poultry after him."
"The turkey thing was—"
"Sage." Claire's voice is gentle now. "He was good for you. You were good for him. Don't let one mistake ruin that."
"It wasn't just one mistake. It was the foundation of everything. How do you build on a cracked foundation?"
"You repair it," Dad says simply. "That's what you do with things worth saving."
I'm about to argue when Claire makes a strange noise.
"You okay?" David asks, immediately attentive.
"Yeah, just... Braxton Hicks probably." She shifts uncomfortably. "Baby's been active all day."
"How active?" Mom's voice sharpens.
"Just normal active. Nothing to—" Claire stops mid-sentence, her eyes going wide. "Oh."
"Oh?" We all say as one.
"Oh no." She looks down. "I think... um..."
"Did you just—" Harper starts.
"My water broke," Claire announces with surprising calm. "On Mom's good chair."
"The chairs can be cleaned," Mom says, already in crisis mode. "David, get the car. Frank, get the hospital bag. Harper, time the contractions. Sage, stop standing there like a startled goat!"
"I'm not—what do I do?"
"Help your sister!"
“I—Yeah. Yes. Helping." I rush to Claire's side. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. Just... wet. And about to have a baby on Thanksgiving because this child already has your sense of timing."
"My timing is—" Another contraction hits, and Claire grabs my hand hard enough to crack bones. "Okay, we're not discussing my timing right now."
The next twenty minutes are controlled chaos.
David forgets where he parked. Dad can't find the hospital bag despite it being exactly where Claire told him.
Harper and her husband Ben are trying to time contractions while simultaneously Googling "Thanksgiving baby statistics."
Mom's on the phone with the hospital, arguing about holiday staffing.
And Claire, through it all, maintains an eerie calm that's somehow more terrifying than panic.
"We should go," David says for the fifth time, keys jangling nervously.
"We're going," Claire assures him. "Just... slowly. Sage, stop looking like you're going to faint."
"I'm not going to faint. I'm just... processing."
"Process in the car," Harper orders. "Seattle traffic on Thanksgiving is going to be brutal."
We pile into two cars—Claire and David in one, the rest of us following like a worried caravan.
The rain that's been threatening all day finally starts, just to sprinkle a little more havoc into the mix.
"Which hospital?" I ask as we navigate the holiday traffic.
"Swedish," Mom says. "Claire's doctor has privileges there."
We crawl through Seattle streets packed with people trying to get to their own dinners.
Claire texts updates from the other car.
Contractions 8 minutes apart.
David forgot how to breathe.
Tell Sage this is karma for the turkey thing.
I text back.
ME: I’m being blamed for your labor?
CLAIRE: Everything is your fault. Sister rules.
We finally arrive at Swedish Medical Center, and David practically carries Claire to the entrance while we deal with parking.
By the time we make it inside, I'm expecting the usual hospital chaos.
Crowded waiting room. Harried staff.
The general sense of medical barely-controlled disaster.
Instead, we find Claire being wheeled toward a private elevator by a nurse who seems to be expecting us.
"Winters family?" she asks cheerfully. "We have the VIP suite ready for you."
"The what?" Harper asks.
"The VIP maternity suite. Everything's been arranged."
We exchange confused looks as we follow her to an elevator that requires a special key.
"I think there's been a mistake," Mom says. "We didn't book any suite."
"Oh, it's been booked for weeks," the nurse assures us. "Mr. Sterling's assistant was very specific about the arrangements."
My heart stops. "Mr. Sterling?"
"Luke Sterling, yes. He wanted to ensure the Winters family had everything they needed." She smiles as the elevator rises. "We've never had someone reserve an entire floor before."
"An entire floor?" Dad asks faintly.
"The whole VIP section. Private rooms for family, catered meals, dedicated nursing staff." The doors open to reveal what looks more like a luxury hotel than a hospital. "He was very thorough."
I'm still processing this when we reach Claire's room—a space bigger than my apartment with views of the Sound, medical equipment discretely hidden behind elegant panels, and—
"Is that a goat?" Claire asks from her bed.
On the bedside table is a small plush goat, white with brown patches, wearing a tiny bow. There's a note attached.
With shaking hands, I pick it up and read:
For the new arrival. Buttercup insisted on being represented.
-L
P.S. I hope it's okay that I arranged this. Your family deserves the best care. You deserve everything.
"Oh honey," Mom says softly, reading over my shoulder.
“He had to have booked this weeks ago," I whisper. "Before everything fell apart."
For a second, the world goes quiet.
Not because of shock or adrenaline—but because something inside me shifts. Cracks. Then opens.
He didn’t do this because I asked.
He didn’t do it because I “earned” it.
He did it because he knows me. Because he cares about me.
Not for saving the inn. Not for making nice with the guests or coordinating three-course breakfasts or always being the one who makes things better.
He did this for me.
Because I’m his to love.
Because I’m enough.
And maybe I’ve been so busy—with the inn, with Grandma Rose’s “legacy”, with striking out on my own after Derek—trying to prove I was worthy of being chosen…
I never saw that someone already did.
Harper whistles just as tears start to burn behind my eyes. “Man, that guy is good.”
"But—"
“Sage, let me tell you something right now…” Claire grits out through a contraction. "When I'm done pushing out this baby, you're going to fix this. That's an order."
"You can't order me around while in labor."
"I absolutely can. It's in the sister handbook." She grabs my hand again. "Promise me, Sage. Promise you'll try."
I look around the room—at my family, at this ridiculous suite that Luke arranged because he wanted them comfortable.
At the little goat that means he was thinking of me every step of the way.
"I promise," I whisper.
"Good," Claire says. "Now someone get me an epidural before I change my mind about everything."
As the medical team rushes in and our family settles into the various luxury accommodations Luke arranged, I clutch the little goat and let myself hope for the first time in weeks.
Maybe broken foundations can be repaired.
Maybe trust can be rebuilt.
Maybe a man who books entire hospital floors for your family before you've even properly dated is worth fighting for.
Definitely worth fighting for.
I just have to figure out how.