Chapter 6

Sage's POV

The moment I pushed open the private room door.

The noise inside came to an abrupt halt.

Everyone's eyes fell on me.

Holt sat on the black leather sofa in the center.

The lighting in the room was dim and ambiguous.

His shirt collar was slightly open, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingertips holding a half-burned cigarette.

Melanie nestled obediently at his side, holding a glass of fruit wine.

Seeing me, Holt's brow visibly furrowed.

"What the hell happened to you?"

His tone was full of disgust, without a trace of concern.

I stood in the doorway looking at him.

After a long while, I asked in a hoarse voice.

"You signed to have the house in the south district demolished. Is that right?"

The people in the room exchanged glances, the atmosphere instantly freezing.

Holt stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, looking at me coldly.

"That dump should have been torn down ages ago. Didn't Mom give you compensation? Don't be so greedy."

"Dump..."

I laughed.

It looked worse than crying.

"That was your favorite place to be! In winter when the wind came through, you'd hold me in your arms all night; in summer with no air conditioning, you'd fan me all night long!"

My voice grew louder and louder, my emotions teetering on the edge of collapse.

"Holt Thornton, that was our home! How could you... how could you destroy it like garbage!"

"Shut up!"

Holt's face turned iron-gray as he stood up abruptly.

The men around didn't dare breathe.

"Holt, don't be angry."

Melanie stood up at just the right moment, grabbing Holt's arm, then turned to look at me, her eyes full of malicious provocation.

"Miss Sage, the past is the past. Holt is going to be the Thornton family head now. How can he keep such an unseemly past?"

She poured a full glass of liquor.

It was high-proof vodka mixed with red wine.

"Since you're here, have a drink."

Melanie held the glass in front of me.

"I heard Miss Sage has a bad stomach, but everyone here is someone of status. Miss Sage should at least give us this much face, right?"

Everyone was watching me.

I had severe gastric ulcers.

Three years ago, to treat Holt, I worked three jobs a day, often eating only one piece of bread all day, and ruined my stomach.

During one gastric hemorrhage episode, Evan knelt outside the emergency room crying and slapping himself, swearing he'd never let me touch alcohol again.

I turned to look at Holt.

"Do you want me to drink too?"

If he just said one word, don't drink.

I would forgive him for destroying the house today.

But Holt only coldly averted his gaze, sat back down on the sofa, and picked up a glass of wine to swirl it.

"Melanie poured you a drink. That's doing you a favor. Drink it and get lost. Don't kill everyone's mood here."

The last steel wire hanging over the cliff snapped.

I looked at this familiar yet strange face.

Fine.

Just fine.

I reached out and took that glass of liquor.

A flash of triumph crossed Melanie's eyes.

I tilted my head back and downed that glass of harsh liquid without even furrowing my brow.

The alcohol cut through my esophagus like a blade, landing in my already fragile stomach.

Instantly igniting a raging fire.

Bang.

I slammed the empty glass heavily on the coffee table.

A sharp, twisting pain tore through my stomach, as if something inside was ripping me apart.

Large beads of cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

But I clenched my teeth and didn't cry out.

I looked deeply at Holt one last time.

Without waiting for anyone to speak, I clutched my stomach, bent over, turned, and walked out of the private room.

The moment I turned around, Holt's fingers holding the cigarette trembled uncontrollably.

But I didn't care anymore.