CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 8
Carter
She slept in my arms. Soft. Warm. Glowing from the inside out.
We’d said everything without saying a word. Her body melted into mine like we were made for this moment—this storm, this goddamn beautiful accident of proximity that feels like fate instead of coincidence.
The storm had let up just enough to let light through the windows, but I barely noticed it. My mind was still stuck on her—the way she clung to me last night, the way her lips parted when I kissed down her stomach, the sound she made when she came undone around me.
I haven’t felt like this in years. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely numb anymore. I carefully slip out of bed and grab my phone on the way to the kitchen. It vibrates just as I do—a missed call. Again.
Dani. She never calls twice unless it’s important.
I step out onto the deck and call her back, keeping my voice low.
“Hi, Dani. Everything okay?” Her voice is hushed and a little rushed. “Yes—sorry to bother you, Mr. Volcor. Just a small issue, nothing urgent. I wanted to check in before it turned into anything bigger.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, glancing through the window at Ivy’s sleeping form. “Thanks for handling it.” “Of course. We’ve got it covered. Enjoy the rest of your trip.” I hang up, rub the back of my neck, and head for the shower. I’ll grab us some breakfast, clear my head. Maybe plan the next ten minutes like I’m not completely spinning from last night.
When I get to the bed, it’s empty. I frown. “Ivy?” No answer.
The bathroom, deck, and other side of the suite—empty. The door is slightly open. My stomach clenches. I head downstairs and spot a staff member arranging towels. “The woman I’m staying with—did she leave?”
He blinks. “Yes, sir. She joined the shopping shuttle about five minutes ago. Seems like she was in a rush, she almost missed it.” Just like that. No note. No text. Gone.
***
Some time later, I’m still pacing the bungalow like a man unraveling. Was last night just convenience? A mistake? Or am I missing something obvious?
When the keycard beeps and the door swings open, I whip around. She steps in, fresh-faced, her hair up, bags in hand like she’s just returned from a spa day.
“Ivy,” I say, the knot in my chest loosening—only to tighten again. “You left.”
“Yeah,” she says, breezy. “The front desk said the shuttles were running while the weather was calm. Figured I’d grab a few things.”
She moves into the kitchen like nothing happened.
No kiss. No lingering look.
“You could’ve said something,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “I woke up and thought something happened.”
She shrugs, dropping her bags on the counter. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
Something’s wrong.
She’s here, but she’s not here.
“You’re… quiet.”
She keeps her back to me. “I’m just tired.”
“Ivy.”
She finally looks up, and her eyes don’t meet mine for long. “Don’t make this a thing, Carter. I just needed some air. Some space. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I say slowly. “But space doesn’t usually come with silence.”
She exhales, tight. “I’m not trying to start anything.”
I step closer, gently wrapping my hand around hers as she grabs the coffee pot. Her fingers twitch but don’t pull away.
“I thought last night meant something.”
She doesn’t move. But she doesn’t deny it, either.
“It did,” she says softly.
“Then why does it feel like I’m suddenly ten miles away?”
She doesn’t pull away. But she doesn’t lean in, either.
“You didn’t misread it,” she says, softly.
“Then what is this?” I ask. “This cold shoulder?”
She exhales hard. “I told you I’m just getting over a breakup. I’m still trying to find my footing. Last night was… incredible. But maybe it also scared the hell out of me.”
I nod slowly. “Do you regret it?”
She pauses.
“No,” she says. “I regret what happens after. The part where you go back to your jet and your boardrooms, and I go back to my apartment and finish my article, and this”—she gestures between us—“becomes a memory I overthink for the next three years.”
“Ivy,” I murmur, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “I meant what I said last night. You’re not someone I’ll just forget when I get on a plane.”
She huffs out a breath. “You say that now.”
“I’ve met a lot of people,” I say gently. “None of them are like you.”
Her eyes flicker, like she wants to believe me but doesn’t know how.
“You’re the smartest, sharpest woman I’ve ever shared a room with. You challenge me. You see things no one else notices. You’re not just beautiful—you’re real.”
That gets her. I see it in the way her jaw flexes, the way she finally lets her guard slip for half a second.
But just as fast, she closes herself off again.
“I just don’t want to fall for something that only exists in my mind,” she says. “I don’t want this to be some romantic storm story you forget next week. I mean, let’s not kid ourselves and make this seem like more than what it is.”
“And what is that? Seriously, Ivy, what happened? Just talk to me. I don’t want you to be a memory.”
She huffs a dry laugh. “Carter, you’re smart, handsome, and successful. Actually, scratch that—you’re beyond successful. You’re the kind of man people write headlines about. And me? I’m just… not the kind of woman men like you end up with. We don’t even exist in the same universe. This was a beautiful detour. But I know how this ends.”
I step in closer, my hand cradling her face. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” I say. “And I want more than just one night.”
She blinks, uncertainty flickering across her face.
“I want to show you that this doesn’t have to end when the sun comes out.”
Her gaze softens, but I see the wall still lingering behind her eyes.
We stand there a few moments longer, her eyes filled with unspoken words, when my phone begins to ring. I ignore it and it rings again and again.
It gives her the out that she seemed to be looking for and she takes it, stepping away from me. “You should probably get that,” she says quietly, avoiding my eyes. I reach for her hand, wanting her to stay, but she slips away, grabbing her bags.
“Ivy…”
She’s already backing up. “It’s fine. Really.”
But it’s not.
I watch her walk into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
My phone rings again and I finally pick it up, my eyes still fixed on the closed bedroom door.
“Carter,” I say upon answering the phone. It’s my brother’s assistant, Jenna.
“Mr. Volcor, I know you’re busy and I have been trying to speak to Liam about this but… you know how he gets,” she insists.
I listen to Jenna ramble about Liam’s latest antics, only half-focused on the conversation. My mind keeps drifting back to Ivy behind the closed door. The way she looked at me, the vulnerability in her voice—it’s all stuck on repeat in my head like a broken record.
Finally, I manage to interject, “Jenna, is this urgent?”
She sighs, clearly exasperated. “Yes, it is, Mr. Volcor. I just emailed you the details, and well… we have a problem.”
After hanging up, I open Jenna’s email, jaw tight, already bracing for the hit.
Subject: URGENT: Eastbrook Towers Litigation—Initial Complaint Filed
Eastbrook Towers Class Action Filing—PDF Attached
I click.
The PDF attachment loads slowly, like it knows I’m not ready.
Case No. 2023-14981
Docket filed: Manhattan Supreme Court
Plaintiffs: Eleven named former residents and three anonymous
Defendants: Volcor Holdings (Legacy Division), Carter Volcor (Trustee), Liam Volcor (former acting officer), Volcor Urban Development Group
Claim: Wrongful eviction, tenant harassment, constructive neglect, breach of contract, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.
Damages sought: $9.6 million
My eyes skim faster now, heart pounding.
The plaintiffs allege that in 2003, residents of Eastbrook Towers were subjected to persistent mold, broken elevators, winter utility shutoffs, and retaliatory eviction notices following complaints. Within nine months of mass displacement, the property was fully vacated, gutted, and sold to a Volcor affiliate for luxury redevelopment.
The document is full of scanned images: apartment walls covered in black mold. Photos of broken heaters and children wrapped in blankets. A timeline showing how the LLC that bought the building shares a parent company with Volcor Holdings.
The worst part?
All of it happened under my father’s name.
He’d filed Eastbrook through a separate arm—buried under layers of shell companies. Of course. That was his signature move. Do the dirty work under one name, hide the profits under another, and let someone else take the heat.
And now that someone is me.
The legal language shifts as I scroll, naming me as current trustee of the Volcor Estate—which, in legalese, translates to target in all caps.
I slam the laptop shut and press my palms to my face.
I didn’t know.
I had no say. I wasn’t even of legal age to rent a damn apartment, let alone evict people from one.
It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts, my mind racing with the implications of what I’ve just read. The weight of the accusations against my father, against me, threatens to suffocate me.
How could my father have been involved in something so malicious, so heartless?
How could he have kept this hidden for so long? How could he have involved me in such a despicable scheme without my knowledge or consent?
So many fucking questions and only one man who can answer them. I hear shuffling in the other room and remember that Ivy is still in there. The last thing I want is for her to hear my conversation with my father. She’s already questioning my character, and to be honest, I could really see myself with a woman like Ivy, so I decide to take the call in a conference room offered in the resort lobby.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself before heading into the conference room to make the call. The situation feels heavier with each step, each passing moment bringing me closer to confronting my father about his actions. As I enter the room and close the door behind me, I dial his number, my hand shaking slightly as anger envelops me.
The phone rings once, twice, before he finally answers.
“Hello, son,” he greets me, calm and composed—like he was expecting the call. But I can hear the tension beneath it. A crack in the polished armor.
“Dad,” I say, voice tight. “We need to talk.”
A pause. Heavy.
Then: “I know about the lawsuit,” he says, cutting me off. “I know you’ve seen the documents. The accusations. The truth.”
My grip tightens. “The truth?” I scoff. “So all of this is true? What kind of sick game were you playing, Dad? Evicting innocent people, tearing families apart—for what? Profit? There were kids, Dad. These were families. How could you do something like that?”
I barely breathe before the next words leave my mouth. “What if it had been Laura, huh? You’d be okay with someone doing this kind of bullshit to your only granddaughter?”
“Leave Laura out of this,” he growls. “You know I’d do anything to protect her. Anything for this family.”
I laugh. Cold. Hollow. “Yeah? What about those other families? Those women? Their children? You think protecting us gives you the right to destroy them?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Dad, I know you’ve always said there’s an ugly side to business, but this is so fucked up, man. This is just wrong. A family was living out of their car after you evicted them, and a kid almost died. You evicted them during a storm, and he had to get an amputation. He was an aspiring football player, Dad; you ruined that kid’s life. That shit doesn’t mean anything to you?”
I take a deep breath, steadying my voice. “And you involved me in this. You made me the trustee knowing full well what you buried under it. You handed me your sins and smiled like you were passing me a torch. How could you do that to your own son?”
A pause. Long and lead-heavy.
“You don’t understand, son,” he finally says, voice low. “You were never meant to be involved. I did what I had to do to protect you. To secure your future. I never wanted you to know about Eastbrook, about the things I did to make sure you had a good life.”
My hands curl into fists. “Protect me? You used me. You made me a pawn in your sick little game. You dragged me into your corruption and told yourself it was love. How dare you, Dad. How fucking dare you.”
The realization hits harder than any lawsuit ever could. The man I once idolized—the man I built myself in reaction to—is nothing but a well-dressed ghost of greed and power.
“You can’t sweep this under the rug,” I say. “You can’t pretend this didn’t happen. People’s lives were destroyed. And I won’t be part of it. Not anymore.”
His voice lowers. “I know I can’t undo the past. I know I’ve made mistakes I can’t take back. But please, try to understand—everything I did, I did for you, for Liam, for your mother.”
“For me?” I repeat, almost laughing. “You didn’t do it for us. Not for Liam. Not for Mom. You did it for you. For your greed. It’s people like you that make people hate the super rich.”
I’m breathing hard now, fists clenched at my sides, rage coiled tight in my chest like a spring ready to snap.
“You sit in your glass tower and make decisions that ruin people’s lives—and call it strategy. You sleep at night because you’ve convinced yourself it was business. That they were just numbers. Spreadsheets. But they were families, Dad.”
He doesn’t respond. Because he can’t.
He’s not used to hearing me like this. He’s not used to hearing me at all when it comes to him.
But I’m done pretending.
I’ve always known there were shady parts of the business. I’m not na?ve. Sometimes, tough decisions have to be made. Not everyone wins.
But deliberately targeting people? Destroying homes? When you’re already one of the richest men in the country?
That’s not business. That’s inhumane.
“You’re angry,” he finally says, trying to stay measured. “I get that.”
“No. You don’t get anything.”
“I do. More than you think. But this is bigger than feelings, Carter. This is about power. And if you want to keep yours, you need to start thinking like a Volcor.”
I laugh. Bitter. Broken.
“That’s the problem,” I say. “I don’t want to think like a Volcor. Not if it means becoming you.”
He doesn’t argue.
“You dragged me into something I didn’t understand. And now I’m the face of a scandal I had no part in. You made this mess. And I’m the one cleaning it up while Ivy—” I catch myself. Grind my teeth. “While people I care about start thinking I’m exactly like you.”
“Then control the story,” he says. “Get ahead of it.”
“You still don’t get it,” I whisper. “I don’t care about optics. I care about the truth.”
“And the truth is ugly,” he replies. “The truth doesn’t preserve legacies. It doesn’t buy silence. But power does. And you have it now—unless you throw it away chasing some na?ve sense of justice. Things were different back then.”
I’m quiet for a beat. Then I say what I know he won’t be able to stomach.
“Maybe I don’t want the legacy anymore.”
“Carter—”
“I’m done.”
I end the call before he can say another word. Before he can twist it. Before he can reel me back in with guilt or strategy.
My hand is still shaking. But my head has never been clearer.
My father’s kingdom was built on rot.
And the worst part?
If Ivy finds out before I can explain…
She’ll think I helped build it too.
I send a text to my assistant: Book me a flight home. Tonight.
I grow impatient and tap my phone screen to call her.
“Sir, I just sent you a screenshot. There’s a travel advisory. No planes are flying in or out of the Big Island due to the storm.”
“Can you send my jet?”
A pause. “I’m sorry, Mr. Volcor. FAA’s grounded everything until the weather clears. Nothing can fly in or out until further notice. Not commercial, not private.”
I curse under my breath, ending the call just as I step into the lobby. As I’m wrapping things up, I glance toward the front desk—and there she is.
Ivy.
She’s speaking to the concierge. The windows of the lounge are tinted for privacy, so she doesn’t see me. But I see her. Her profile, her posture, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear while asking a question like she’s trying not to sound too eager.
I wait until she walks off before I approach.
The woman behind the desk greets me with a professional smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Volcor. How can I assist you?”
“The woman who was just here—what was she asking about?”
She hesitates, but I don’t need her to say much.
“She was checking to see if any vacancies had opened up,” she says finally.
“And?” I ask, jaw tight.
“We’re still fully booked, sir. Most of our guests are here for the Global Architecture and Sustainability Conference. We usually have a few vacancies even with a fully booked resort, but with the storm interfering with the systems, everything’s a mess. We won’t have any rooms available for at least another week—likely not until the airport reopens.”
So she was trying to leave. Not the island, just… me.
I nod slowly. “Thank you for your help.”
She smiles politely. “Of course.”
I stand there for a second, debating whether to let her walk farther away from me emotionally, or… try.
I don’t know where this thing with Ivy is going. But I do know what it felt like last night. And I’m not ready to let that go.
Not yet.
“Actually,” I say, turning back toward the desk, “I’d like to order dinner. Room service. For two.”
“Certainly. And any special requests?”
“Yes. Something not on the menu.” I pause, then smirk slightly. “Is it possible to create a custom dessert? Something… surprising.”
She lights up. “Absolutely. Our head chef is world-renowned, and our pastry chef has earned two Michelin stars in France. We’ll make something unforgettable.”
“Perfect. Deliver it at seven.”
She types it into her tablet. “Done. You’ll have a full course delivered promptly at seven p.m. I’ll let the kitchen know it’s a priority.”
I thank her and head for the elevator, my mind already racing.
If I can’t leave this island yet, then I’m going to use the time I have to show Ivy that she’s not just part of some storm-soaked detour.
She’s been the best part of this entire trip.