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 cuttingthe 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."
