Page 29 of Second Best Again
Too late.
David, still in his school kit, slung his bag higher on his shoulder as he came up the drive. His stride faltered when he saw Amanda on the step, baby basket at her feet—the picture of a woman who didn't belong there and was determined to force herself in, anyway.
"How are you, David?" she asked brightly, as if they'd known each other for years, her voice lilting with false familiarity.
David stared at her like she were something the cat had dragged in, then turned his gaze on his father, sharp and accusing. His mouth thinned , betrayal flickering in his eyes.
Ronin felt the ground tilt beneath him. "Let's take this inside," he muttered, stepping aside.
Amanda triumphantly swept up the basket and crossed the threshold, the faint smell of baby powder following her.
David dropped his bag in the hall with athudand stalked into the kitchen, but Ronin knew he was hovering. He didn’trun upstairs like usual. The boy's presence was heavy, a silent witness just out of sight. Every cupboard door left ajar, every creak of the floorboards in the kitchen told him David was straining to hear.
Ronin could only brace himself and let this play out. There would be no hiding whatever came next.
Amanda made herself comfortable on the sofa, her coat sliding off one shoulder, as though she belonged there. Her gaze swept the room, lingering too long on the original paintings Sage had chosen, on the polished wood and expensive furniture.
"You have a beautiful house," she said lightly, but there was no mistaking the gleam of avarice in her eyes—hungry, possessive, as though she were already imagining herself inside these walls.
Then her gaze swung back to him as the mask slid in place, softer now, lips parted just so. "I'm leaving James. I can't keep doing this. You know he's not kind to me. And this baby..." She brushed her hand over the blanket in the basket where the baby gurgled. "You need to take responsibility, Ronin. I have nowhere else to go."
Ronin stood with his hands on the back of a chair, listening, his expression flat. "I'm sorry, Amanda. But I can't help you."
Her eyes widened, lips trembling with what he realized was practiced hurt.
He went on, voice hardening. "If the paternity test shows I'm the father—which I highly doubt—then I'll support the child. But Amanda, I've never been with you without protection. Even the last few times a year ago, when I was drunk, I still remembered to use a condom every single time." He exhaled sharply. "You mentioned family. Go back to yours."
Amanda rose, her movements fluid, calculated. She closed the space between them with a slow sway of her hips, her hand brushing against his arm.
Ronin flinched back, circling behind the sofa as though it were a shield between them. His jaw tightened. "Don't."
Her face crumpled into a wounded pout. "You're really going to push me away? After everything we were to each other? It's Sage, isn't it? But you never married her. And you kept coming back to me."
"I'm asking you to leave," he said, ignoring everything she said. "Or would you rather I call the police?"
For a moment she just stared at him, stunned, as though no one had ever spoken to her that way.
Then the doorbell rang.
Ronin's posture seemed to relax a little. He quickly crossed to the door, half-relieved for the interruption, half-dreading who it might be.
He opened it—and froze.
Sage stood on the step, travel-worn, her hair loose around her face. Her voice was steady, almost casual, though her eyes held something else entirely.
"Hello, Ronin."
Sage brushed past him before he could find the words, the scent of rain and travel clinging to her. It was her house—her home—and she crossed the threshold with the surety of someone who belonged there, even if she had fled ten days prior.
She was halfway down the hall when a whimper stopped her cold. A faint, gurgling cry from the drawing room.
Her body went rigid.
Ronin's hand caught at her arm, voice tight. "Sage—wait. It's not what you think."
But she was already moving, only to come to an abrupt halt. Her buttercup-yellow cardigan was bright against the backdrop of the wide window, her lace undershirt delicate above her jeans. Amanda looked vibrant, alive in a way that only sharpened the hurt already clawing its way into her chest.
The scene in the drawing room landed like a blow. Amanda, perched on the sofa with the baby basket at her feet, her expression composed, but she couldn't hide the smugness creeping in.
