A Spinster
SARAH
So, as my gaze stays locked on Ronan and Ryan, my father, who either doesn’t see, doesn’t sense, or simply chooses to ignore the hostility humming beneath the air, gently pulls me further into the room. His hand stays warm and grounded on my back as he helps me into a velvet-backed chair.
“Juice? Water?” he asks. “Maybe a little wine?”
“Maybe a little bit,” I say with a small, grateful smile.
Maybe the wine would help me forget the way those four eyes, Ronan’s sharp and cruel, Ryan’s watchful and unreadable keep tracing over me.
My father pours me a glass, the red liquid glinting like rubies in the soft light of the family room.
“Barolo,” he murmurs with a smile, handing it to me. “This was your mother’s favourite. Have I ever told you how much you look like her?”
I blink.
“She loved wearing white too,” he continues, eyes drifting as if caught in some old memory. The way he’s looking at me, it’s soft, distant. But the room around me feels anything but.
And that’s when Ronan snaps.
“I don’t like this.”
My hand tightens around the stem of the wineglass. My father barely shifts, calmly lifting another glass.
“What about this don’t you like?” he asks, tone light but firm. Still, he doesn’t meet Ronan’s eyes.
Ronan doesn’t answer him. He looks at me.
“You know what I bought you for your birthday?” he says, voice low and venom-laced.
He pulls something out of the inner pocket of his jacket. A box. A small, velvet box. The kind you might expect to hold a necklace or earrings, something delicate and thoughtful.
But he doesn’t hand it to me. He throws it. Not violently, but just enough to startle me as it lands in my lap. I blink at it. Then slowly, carefully, I pick it up.
“Open it,” Ronan says.
The air is still. I unwrap it. It’s a jewellery box, just like I thought. Pale blue velvet, like something a man gives to a woman.
I glance at him. His face is unreadable. Ryan is still frozen, still watching.
“Go on,” Ronan says. “Don't be shy. Open it.”
I lift the lid. Inside… is a single, small key.
I stare. It’s just a key. Silver. Old-fashioned. No tag, no ribbon, no explanation. I glance back up, confused.
“What is this supposed to open?” I ask slowly.
Ronan leans forward slightly.
“Your life,” he says. “Your freedom.”
A chill ripples through me. I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
He smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. That never reaches anything human.
“Do you remember,” he begins, voice dangerously calm, “when I told you that the reason our father never remarried wasn’t about loyalty?”
My chest tightens. He leans in closer.
“Have you ever seen the way he looks at you, Sarah? Really seen it? Because I have. And he looks at you a lot like he used to look at his wife.”
My stomach flips. My heart stutters.
“What are you saying?” I whisper, barely able to hear myself over the roar of blood in my ears.
Ronan tilts his head.
“Maybe he thought marrying someone else would’ve been cheating… on her. On your mother. Or maybe he thought marrying someone else would be cheating on you.”
My face pales. My body goes cold.
“Ew,” I whisper, recoiling. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Ronan only smirks.
"You're the fool," Ronan snaps. "You got your opening when he arranged that marriage for you. You got your opening..... When Cyrus married Bella, Dad wanted to forget all about your marriage altogether. And I had to fight. I even had to create an obsession with an Italian woman just to get you married. I bought your fucking freedom. And you're never grateful, you selfish bitch."
"Okay, that's enough," my father says sharply, his voice low and commanding.
But Ronan isn't done.
"And then what do you do after you leave this place? You try to kill yourself. And now you're back here. Now Dad is never gonna let you go. He's never gonna let you get married. And I heard that you never even...." he scoffs with bitter amusement, "...because you never consummated your wedding.... you're a virgin. And that's what you're gonna die as. A virgin."
"How can you say that about my father?!" I fire back, my voice trembling. "He is my dad."
"I know." Ronan's expression is unreadable. Then he says, coldly, "Let me rephrase. He doesn't see you as his wife in a sexual way. No, not that way. I mean...." he pauses, and his voice lowers. "I would have killed him if I thought he was any danger to you."
And when he says this my frown deepens.
This is the same person who tried to kill me once. The same person who took every opportunity to hurt me, to make me feel small, broken, and discarded. The same Ronan who made it his life’s mission to twist the knife deeper every time I gasped for air.
And now he’s saying he would have killed for me?
But Ronan continues, his tone still as sharp, still as cruel.
"He just has this obsession with you. As his wife."
I frown at my father, my face twisting further into disgust.
"I know. And I don’t understand it either," he says slowly. "But it’s like he’s keeping the memory of his wife… in you. With you. He would never try and do anything that would jeopardise your relationship or make you hate him. He marvels in your adoration."
"Ronan," I say more firmly now, "Stop."
"Enough," my dad cuts in, and this time there’s an edge in his voice... sharp, warning.
But Ronan just shrugs like it means nothing.
"She’s my baby sister. I’m supposed to protect her, right? I’m not really waiting for her to die here as a spinster in this house, are you?" he throws back at my father, tilting his head with that twisted grin.
And now there’s something in the air.... a challenge. The silence goes tight.
"My daughter," my father says, his voice restrained, "has just gotten out of a very traumatic marriage. Maybe we should wait for her to heal before she decides anything."
"Ah. Okay. So you are going to let her get married?" Ronan presses. "I don’t know, maybe this time you’ll let her choose the man she wants to marry, right?" He still isn’t letting go. His eyes are locked on our father, defiant.
My father grits his teeth. His jaw twitches as he clenches it.
“Maybe you should leave.”
Ronan doesn’t flinch. He just turns to me, and there’s that wicked gleam again, one I’ve known for too long curling behind his lashes.
"I tried," he says lightly. "Good night, little sister. I’ll see you again. Probably next year." He winks.
And then he’s gone, just like that.
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