Sadie pressed her back against the bench, seeking its solid support as Nate’s poison tried to seep through the phone.
“I’ve been ignoring you for a reason,” she said, glad to be alone where no one could witness her side of the conversation. “What do you want?”
“Want?” He snorted, the sound wet and ugly. “I want to know why my fiancé’s suddenly playing house in England with some hotshot writer when our lease isn’t up for another two months. I paid the rent, by the way. You’re welcome.”
“Always good to try something new, isn’t it?” Sadie snarked before she could stop herself. She had been covering the entirety of the rent for years while Nate worked on ‘finding his inspiration.’ She pressed on before he could rage at her for her comment, “I told you I took care of my portion with our landlord. And it’s ex-fiancé, Nate. We’ve been over this.”
“Right, right. Ex. Such a drama queen.” His voice dropped into the wheedling register she knew too well. “Come on, babe. This temper tantrum’s gone on long enough. What, I get mad over your nagging, and you move across the ocean?”
The casual rewriting of history wasn’t lost on her, as if he hadn’t smashed her laptop against the wall when she had the nerve to send him the listing for writing gigs so he might earn some money. As if the scar on her calf hadn’t come from dodginga thrown coffee mug. As if years of systematic belittling could be dismissed as a single moment.
“You know that’s not what happened,” she said, surprised by the steadiness in her voice.
“Whatever. So you’re what, finding yourself? Playing in the mud with the sheep?” His tone sharpened, the false concern evaporating. “Or is it this author guy? You fucking him, Sadie? Is that it?”
The crude accusation hung in the air, intended to shock and wound. Old Sadie would have rushed to explain, placate, and defuse his jealousy with reassurances. But something about being on the other side of an ocean made her brave. She was tired of making herself smaller to accommodate his insecurity.
“I’m working, Nate,” she said, each word cool and clipped. “You don’t get to ask those questions anymore. You don’t get to wreck this.”
“Working.” He infused the word with disdain. “Right. Fixing comma splices for some British prick who couldn’t finish his book. That is what you reduced yourself to? I mean, I know Jess always rolls shit downhill to you, but sending you across the ocean?”
“Corbyn Pearce has sold millions of books,” she said, though she owed him no explanation. “And I was sent because I’m good at my job.”
“Corbyn Pearce?” Nate’s laugh returned, uglier than before. “He hasn’t published anything in years. Jesus, Sadie, are you editing airport paperbacks now? What’s next, ghostwriting celebrity cookbooks?”
Sadie felt her spine straighten, a flash of unexpected anger rising in her chest. “You don’t know the first thing about Corbyn Pearce or his work.”
“Whoa, a bit protective are we?” Nate’s voice dripped with mock surprise. “Wasn’t he in some sort of accident a few yearsback? What, is he tragic and misunderstood? That’s pathetic even for you.”
“What’s pathetic is tearing down someone who’s survived what he has,” Sadie shot back, surprised by her own vehemence. “The man has more talent and determination in one finger than you have in your entire body.”
The silence on the other end told her she’d hit a nerve. But the dismissal of her career choices had been a cheap shot, one that preyed on the lingering fear that she was wasting her talent fixing other people’s words instead of creating her own. Looking down at the notebook on her lap filled with her morning’s writing, gave her confidence. She was more than her job title, more than Nate’s narrow definition of success.
“Eventually, everyone, including Jess, will realize you’re not as sweet and charming as they think you are,” he continued, filling her silence with more venom. “When this gig crashes and burns, don’t come crawling back to…”
Her index finger stabbed the end call button, cutting off the tirade mid-sentence. For a moment, she sat motionless, waiting for the familiar wave of guilt to crash over her, but it didn’t come. Taking a breath, she found his number in her contacts and quickly blocked it before he could call back—a long-overdue action.
She shoved the phone into her pocket and tipped her head back, letting the cold air wash over her heated face. The wind swept back in, clean and crisp, as her pulse slowed from a gallop to a canter. Closing her eyes, she made an effort to release the tension in her muscles, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.
When she opened her eyes again, she looked down at her notebook, at the words she’d written. Lifting the pen once more, she continued to write, forgetting about Nate, her fears, and even Corbyn and his stalled manuscript. Jess had sent her hereto heal, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt like it might just be possible.
February 14, 2025
-Sadie-
The soft sound of a pen moving across paper and the patter of rain on the window were the only two things to interrupt the silence of Pearce House’s living room. It seemed fitting to Sadie as she circled yet another paragraph in Corbyn’s latest chapter ofEchoes of Ash, on a page that was already bleeding with red ink.
The mystery was turning into a gripping work featuring a burned-out detective investigating arson cases that mirrored his own tragic past. The premise was solid, and Corbyn’s prose could be devastatingly good, but his tendency to wander into tangents killed the pacing.
“The reader doesn’t need three pages on the butler’s childhood,” she muttered, scribbling a note in the margin. “He doesn’t even show up again until chapter twenty-four.”
It had been eight days since she first arrived in Great Missenden. Most of those days included stilted morning check-ins with Corbyn, each a test of her patience. Their first hour-long meeting about the manuscript had gone surprisingly well and miraculously concluded without raised voices or slammed doors. She’d taken Edie’s advice, met his glare evenly, andoffered a well-thought-out explanation as to why her advice should be taken seriously. He’d growled and grumbled, but by the end, he’d muttered a grudging “not bad” that had felt like she had won something monumental.
She didn’t hold much hope for a repeat performance today. She had been up until the early morning hours working on a freelance editing project for a self-published romance author. She needed a new laptop to replace the one Nate had smashed, but it would take about three more projects to afford the one she had her eye on.
The peaceful atmosphere was broken when her phone buzzed suddenly on the coffee table. Her brow furrowed as the text showed it was from an unknown number, and curiosity had her unlocking the screen.
Miss you, babe.
