Chapter 14 The Education of Hostility

POV: Sage

Sage Ortiz was not a patient woman. Never had been. Her mother used to say it was the fire in her blood—half-Mexican, half-Irish, all temper. But right now, watching Jonah Raines move through the museum like a ghost wearing a director's badge, patience wasn't the problem.

The problem was watching her best friend destroy himself. Again.

She stood in the doorway of the education wing, clipboard in hand, pretending to review next week's school tour schedule. Really, she was watching Jonah cross the main hall toward his office. His shoulders were rigid. His jaw was set. And he walked like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe properly.

"You're doing it again."

Sage flinched; Dr. Webb had appeared at her side with that unnerving knack of his—always arriving precisely when least expected, never announced.

“Doing what?” she muttered, eyes fixed anywhere but him.

“Watching. Worrying. Planning an intervention.” His tone was soft, too knowing, and all the more infuriating for it.

“I’m not planning anything.”

Webb’s glasses caught the light as he adjusted them, his gaze steady. “Liar. You’ve been circling him all week. Ever since the night Wren walked through the museum door.”

Sage's grip tightened on the clipboard. "She shouldn't have done that."

"Probably not."

"She shouldn't be pushing him. He's made his boundaries clear."

"He has."

"Then why—" Sage stopped. Started again. "Why do you sound like you're defending her?"

Webb was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm not defending anyone. I'm observing. And what I observe is two people in pain, one secret that needs to come out, and a whole lot of stubbornness preventing any forward movement."

"He has a right to be stubborn. She left him."

"She did."

"She broke his heart."

"She did that too."

"And now she's back expecting—what? Forgiveness? Understanding?" Sage's voice rose slightly. A passing intern glanced over. She lowered it. "She doesn't get to waltz back in here and make demands."

"Is that what she's doing?" Webb asked mildly. "Making demands? Or is she trying to explain something he won't let her explain?"

Sage turned to look at him fully. "Whose side are you on?"

"There are no sides, Sage. Just people making mistakes and trying—or not trying—to fix them." He paused. "Tell me something. Why does Wren bother you so much?"

"Because she hurt him."

"Partially. But there's more." Webb's brown eyes were too perceptive. Too kind. "You see something in her situation that reminds you of your own."

Sage's stomach clenched. "I don't—"

"Your ex-husband. The one who left when things got hard. The one who made promises and broke them." Webb's voice stayed gentle. "Wren left. Like he did. And you're projecting."

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Marcus."

"Then don't let old wounds dictate present judgments." He adjusted his cardigan. "I'm not saying Wren was right. I'm not saying Jonah should forgive her. I'm saying—perhaps—there's more to the story than either of us knows."

Before Sage could respond, Jonah emerged from his office. He looked worse than he had going in. More tired. More worn. More like a man holding himself together with sheer force of will.

"Director Raines," Dr. Webb called. "Do you have a moment?"

Jonah's face did that thing—that careful rearrangement into professional pleasantness that never reached his eyes anymore. "Of course. What do you need?"

"Just wanted to confirm the budget meeting for Monday. But—" Webb studied him. "Perhaps we should reschedule. You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," Sage said it before she could stop herself. Both men turned to look at her. "Sorry. But you're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

I’m handling it," Jonah said. His jaw locked, words clipped and brittle, the kind of tightness that betrayed him more than it convinced.

"Are you?" Sage crossed her arms. Clipboard forgotten. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like you're one bad day away from a breakdown."

Jonah's jaw clenched. "Sage—"

"When's the last time you ate something that wasn't coffee?"

"I don't—"

"When's the last time you slept more than three hours?"

"That's not—"

"When's the last time you let yourself feel anything other than anger?" Her voice softened despite herself. "Jonah, you're my best friend. And I'm watching you suffocate yourself."

For a heartbeat—just one unguarded beat—his face fractured. Pain flickered there, raw and unhidden, before the mask slid back into place. Smooth. Impenetrable.

"I appreciate your concern," he said, each syllable weighed and deliberate. "But I’m fine. The budget meeting is on Monday by 2. I’ll see you both then."

He walked away. Down the hall. Around the corner. Gone.

Sage looked at Webb. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not wrong." Webb sighed. "But you can't force someone to feel their feelings. He'll break when he's ready."

"And if he's not ready? If he just keeps going like this until there's nothing left?"

"Then we catch him when he falls."

Sage hated that answer. Hated the waiting. The watching. The knowing that Jonah was in pain and there was nothing she could do to fix it.

"I need coffee," she muttered.

"I need something stronger," Webb said. "But coffee will have to do."

They walked to the break room together. The space was empty—too early for lunch, too late for morning break. Sage started the coffee maker. Webb sat at the small table. Both of them were caught in that uncomfortable silence that comes from saying too much and not enough at the same time.

They drank their coffee in silence. Both were thinking about the explosion that was coming. The pain that couldn't be avoided. The truth that would change everything.

"I don't like her," Sage said finally.

"I know."

"I don't trust her."

"I know that too."

"But—" Sage stopped. Sighed. "But I believe she loves him. I believe she's trying to make this right. And I believe that little girl deserves better than parents who can't even talk to each other."

"So you'll support them? When this all comes out?"

"I'll support Jonah," Sage corrected. "Wherever that takes him. If he forgives her, I'll try to accept it. If he doesn't—" She shrugged. "I'll help him pick up the pieces. Again."

"That's all any of us can do."

Her phone buzzed. A response from Wren: I'm writing him a letter. I'll leave it in his office tonight.

Sage showed Webb the message. He frowned.

"A letter," he said slowly.

"Is that good or bad?"

"Neither. Both." Webb set down his coffee. "It gives Jonah the information without forcing a confrontation. But it also gives him time to retreat. To build his walls higher before they can have an actual conversation."

"So what should she do?"

"I don't know." Webb stood. "But I suspect we're about to find out."

That evening, Sage stayed late. Not because she had work—her education programs were all planned for next week. But because she couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to break.

She was in her office when she saw Wren's truck pull into the parking lot. Watched her sit there for ten minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, clearly gathering courage.

Finally, Wren got out. She carried a white envelope. Her hands were shaking.

Sage watched her walk to the front entrance. Use her key. Disappear inside.

Five minutes later, Wren emerged. Empty-handed. Face pale. She got in her truck and drove away.

The letter was delivered.

Sage waited another hour. Then went to Jonah's office. The door was closed but not locked. She knocked anyway.

"Come in."

Jonah sat at his desk. The white envelope lay in front of him. Unopened.

"You're still here," Sage said.

"So are you."

"I had work."

"No, you didn't." He didn't look at her. Just stared at the envelope. "You're hovering. Again."

"Someone has to." She came fully into the office. Closed the door behind her. "Are you going to open it?"

"I don't know."

"Jonah—"

"She won't stop, will she?" His voice was tired. So tired. "I've made my boundaries clear. I've been professional. I've done everything right. And she still—" He gestured to the envelope. "She still pushes."

"Maybe what she has to say is important."

"Nothing she has to say can change the past."

"But it might change the future."

He finally looked up. "What do you know?"

Sage's stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"

"You're defending her. You. The woman who threatened to throw her out of the museum if she hurt me again. So what do you know?"

Damn. He'd always been too perceptive.

"I know she has a reason," Sage said carefully. "For why she left. A real one. And I know—Jonah, I know you deserve to hear it."

"Did she tell you?"

"She told me something. But it's not my story to share. It's hers." Sage moved closer. "Please. Just read the letter."

"What if I don't want to know?"

"Then you leave it unopened. You burn it. You throw it away. But—" She paused. "But you'll always wonder. And wondering is worse than knowing."

They looked at each other. Best friends for five years. Through his worst grief. Through her divorce. Through all the small and large disasters of life.

"I'm scared," he admitted quietly.

"I know."

"What if she tells me something I can't unhear? What if it changes everything?"

"Then everything changes. And we deal with it." Sage sat in the chair across from him. "Together. Like always."

Jonah stared at the envelope for a long moment. Then he picked it up. Turned it over in his hands. Felt the weight of whatever truth lay inside.

"Stay," he said. "Please. I don't—I don't want to read this alone."

"Okay."

He opened the envelope. Pulled out several sheets of paper. Unfolded them with shaking hands.

And began to read.

Sage watched his face. Watched the color drain. Watched his eyes widen. Watched his hands start to tremble so badly he nearly dropped the pages.

"Oh god," he whispered.

"Jonah?"

He kept reading. His breathing got faster. Shallower. The paper crumpled under his grip, knuckles blanching as though the force alone could wring the truth from the page.

"Jonah, what does it say?"

He finished. Set the letter down slowly. Carefully. Like it might explode.

Then he looked at Sage. And the expression on his face—

"I have a daughter."

The words fell into the silence like stones into water.

"She was pregnant," he continued. His voice is strange. Distant. Shocked. "When she left. She was pregnant with my child, and she—" He stopped. Couldn't finish.

Sage stayed very still. "I know."

His head snapped up. "You knew?"

"She told me. Last night. I wanted to tell you but—"

"You knew." He stood abruptly. The chair scraped across the floor. "You've known for twenty-four hours that I have a daughter and you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't my—"

"A daughter, Sage! I have a nine-year-old daughter I've never met!" His voice rose. Cracked. "And you knew! And Webb knew! And you both just—what? Decided to let me find out like this?"

"We wanted her to tell you. It needed to come from her."

"She kept my child from me for nine years!" He was shouting now. Pacing. "Nine years, Sage! Nine years of birthdays and first days of school and—god, everything. And you knew, and you said nothing!"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He laughed. It sounded like breaking. "My daughter is nine years old. Her name is—" He grabbed the letter. Scanned it. "Lily. Her name is Lily. She lives in Seattle. She has my eyes. She asks about me. She—" His voice cracked completely. "She wants to meet me."

Sage stood. Moved toward him slowly. "Jonah—"

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get out." He wasn't shouting anymore. Worse. He was quiet. Cold. "I need—I can't—just get out."

"I'm not leaving you like this."

"Sage, please." He looked at her. And his eyes—god, his eyes—were destroyed. "Please. I need to be alone."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to stay. Wanted to make sure he didn't fall apart completely.

But she also knew him. Knew he needed space to process. To break in private.

"Okay," she said softly. "But I'm calling in an hour. And if you don't answer, I'm coming back."

He didn't respond. Just turned away. Stared out the window at the dark mountains.

Sage left. Closed the door quietly behind her. Stood in the hallway trying to breathe.

She'd known this would be bad.

She hadn't known it would be this bad.

Her phone was in her hand before she consciously decided to use it. She pulled up Wren's number. Typed: He knows. He read the letter. And Sage—he's devastated.

The response came immediately: Is he okay?

Sage almost laughed. No. He's not okay. He has a nine-year-old daughter he's never met. Nothing about this is okay.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Finally: Can I see him?

He won't see you. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. You need to give him space.

But—

Space, Wren. Let him process. Let him grieve. And then—maybe—he'll be ready to talk. But not tonight.

No response this time.

Sage pocketed her phone. Looked back at Jonah's closed door. Saw the light still burning.

Inside, Jonah Raines was learning he was a father.

And outside, Sage Ortiz was learning that sometimes love wasn't enough to protect the people you cared about from pain.

Sometimes, you just had to stand witness to their breaking.

And hope—pray—that when all the pieces were scattered, there'd be something left to rebuild.