CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 11
IVY
Still storming. Still stuck. Still sore in all the right places. I don’t remember falling asleep. But I know exactly what wakes me.
A slow, lazy touch—fingers trailing down the bare curve of my back, light enough to make me shiver, deep enough to remind me of everything we did last night. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, and my thighs… yeah, those are useless. Good luck walking after that marathon.
I groan into the pillow. “You have got to be kidding me.”
His voice is smug and deliciously low. “Good morning to you, too.”
I don’t have the strength to roll over. “I hate you.” “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “You look ridiculously hot, by the way. All flushed and half-buried in the sheets.”
I make a noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “I can’t move.”
“You don’t need to.” The bed shifts, and then I feel him sit beside me. “I brought coffee.”
That gets my attention. I crack one eye open. “You’re lying.”
A chuckle. “Never about caffeine.”
I force myself to roll over—slowly, because everything hurts—and blink up at him. He’s shirtless, smug, holding a tray like some kind of sinfully hot room-service fantasy. Toast. Fruit. Two mugs. Bottled water. I blink again.
“You made me food?”
“I did what I could given the circumstances.” He sets the tray gently across my lap, then leans in and brushes his lips against my temple. “Figured the least I could do after last night was keep you from starving.”
I peer down at the mug. One sip tells me everything. “You even remembered the sugar.”
“I listen,” he says, too casually.
I take another sip and sigh. “Okay. You can stay.” “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
He climbs in beside me while I eat—slowly, carefully, because my muscles are staging a full revolt. He doesn’t touch me, just sips his coffee like we do this every morning. Like I didn’t scream his name so loud last night I’m surprised the resort didn’t evacuate.
Outside, the storm still rages—wind clawing at the walls, thunder rolling in waves. But in here? It’s quiet. Warm. Too comfortable.
His fingers graze mine as I reach for a slice of toast. I pause. There’s a beat of silence between us. But it’s not heavy anymore.
It’s full—of questions, of possibility, of something neither of us is ready to name. Carter’s voice cuts through the quiet, soft and low.
“So, what do you have planned today?” “Working. I have lots and lots of work to do today.” He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Really? Even after last night?”
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at the memory of our passionate night together, but I quickly school my features into a mask of nonchalance. “Yes, really. I have deadlines to meet.”
He chuckles softly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Well, if you insist. But remember, breaks are important too.”
I shoot him a playful glare before taking another sip of coffee. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, then leans in and brushes a kiss across my lips—soft, slow, and far too effective. He tugs my bottom lip between his teeth before pulling away, and I feel the heat rush straight between my legs. Again.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, setting the empty mug aside.
“And you’re glowing.”
“I’m sweaty,” I correct.
“Glowing,” he repeats, dead serious.
I laugh, but it turns into a groan. “I need to shower. Reset. Or I’ll get nothing done.”
“A shower sounds like a fantastic idea,” he says, far too innocently.
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“Wasn’t it?”
Before I can stop him, he’s standing, and suddenly I’m weightless as he lifts me into his arms.
“Carter—”
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’m helping. You clearly can’t walk.”
He carries me into the bathroom and sets me on the marble bench before stripping off his T-shirt I threw on when I woke up. His hands are slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Then I reach for the waistband of his joggers and slide them down, watching his cock spring free, already rock hard.
We step into the shower together. The water is hot, pouring over us in a steady rhythm, washing away the evidence of last night while promising more.
He presses me gently against the glass, body close but not crowding, and grabs a sponge. His touch is… different. Slower. More intimate.
He lathers soap on a sponge , then runs the sponge over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest, teasing my nipples until I gasp and press my thighs together on instinct.
“Relax,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”
Against my better judgment… I do.
His hands are everywhere. Gentle over the bruised places, firm when I whimper for more. He kisses me under the spray—wet, deep, filthy kisses that have me melting into the tile. Then he’s on his knees, lips on my stomach, inching lower with every breath until he’s between my thighs and I’m clutching the back of his head like the water can’t drown me fast enough to stop what he’s doing.
It’s slow. Torturous. Worship.
By the time he stands again, I’m trembling, legs weak all over again.
He braces me against the glass and slides into me with a groan so deep it vibrates through my spine. He moves slowly, filling me with lazy strokes that drag along every nerve ending like velvet and sin. My moans bounce off the walls. The storm howls louder outside, and I swear the thunder answers us.
We don’t talk. We just feel. Breathe. Move.
When I come, it’s with his name on my lips and his hand cradling my face like I’m something precious. He follows, holding still, his forehead resting against mine while the water continues to fall around us.
After, he kisses my shoulder, he moves up to my cheek, and then… my lips.
Then he reaches for the shampoo and starts washing my hair like he’s done it a hundred times before.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t want to.
And with his length pressed against my back, I know he isn’t done with me yet.
Not even close.
***
“He did what?” Vanessa squeals on the other end of the phone.
“Girl. When I tell you my body is done? I mean it. I’m sore in places I didn’t even know could get sore—and honestly, it was the best sex I’ve ever had.” I flop face-first onto the bed, nudging my laptop to the side so I can give Ness my full, scandalized attention.
She cackles. “Ivy! You sound… wrecked.”
“I am wrecked,” I groan dramatically. “I had to hold the damn wall in the shower like a support beam.”
“Okay, pause,” Vanessa says. “He cooked for you, brought coffee, gave bed-breaking energy, and cleaned you up after? Honey, you better go ahead and lock that man down.”
“Stop.” I laugh. “Do not say that. It’s just vacation sex. Trapped-in-a-storm, mutual-attraction, perfectly-sculpted-body-on-top-of-me sex.”
“Sure. And I’m going to the gym tomorrow,” she says dryly.
I laugh, shaking my head.
“What?” she retorts. “I thought we were telling lies today.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
“But seriously,” she continues, her voice softening, “how are you feeling? Besides being thoroughly rearranged.”
I glance toward the window. The storm is still raging, but inside… it’s oddly still. I press a hand to my chest.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It was supposed to be a fling. But the way he’s looking at me… the way he’s treating me…”
“Yeah?”
“I guess it’s hard to remember this is supposed to end in a few days.”
Vanessa goes quiet for a second. Then, gently but pointedly:
“Ivy… don’t get too close, okay? Enjoy the moment, ride the vacation high, but don’t go catching feelings too soon.”
“I know, Ness. I won’t,” I say quickly—too quickly.
But even I don’t believe it.
Because the truth is… I think I’m already halfway gone. Falling for the man I was never supposed to meet.
Falling for Mr. Billionaire.
“How are my babies?” I ask, steering the conversation in a lighter direction. She has a key to my apartment and has been checking in on my cats while I’m away.
“Luna tried to bite my finger off when I got too close with a wet towel. Diva behavior, as usual.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”
“She’s fine now. They’re just staring at the wall like they’re plotting a takeover or something.”
“She’s probably mad you didn’t heat up her blanket.”
“Well, I’m not their personal butler,” she says, then adds, “Actually—scratch that. I think I’ve officially earned the title of Cat Aunt.”
“Welcome to the family.”
“Don’t push it.”
She’s not a cat person. At all. But she loves me enough to play cat sitter for a few days, and that means everything.
A buzz interrupts the call, and I pull the phone away. My editor’s name flashes across the screen.
“Shit. I’ve gotta take this, but thanks so much, Ness.”
“Okay, but call me later. And send pics. Of him. Shirtless. Wet, preferably.”
“Bye, Ness.”
She laughs as I hang up and swipe to answer the incoming call.
“Hey, Ben. I was just about to call you,” I lie, dragging myself upright against the pillows.
“Sure you were,” he deadpans. “Tell me you’ve got something real, Monroe.”
“I do,” I say, grabbing my laptop off the nightstand and flipping it open. “You remember that lead I was chasing with V Corp? The one buried in the early 2000 acquisitions?”
“Yeah. Ghost shell. No public board, no employee listings, scrubbed filings. You said they were tied to that block of evictions in Brooklyn.”
“They are,” I confirm. “But it’s more than that. I found new records showing they acquired six other buildings under similar conditions—hidden under dummy subsidiaries, all funneled through a blind trust connected to a private real estate group. Still trying to trace the top of the ladder.”
“Do we have a name yet?”
“Not yet,” I admit, clicking through the files. “But I’m close. There’s a trail forming. I’m working through the lease transfers, eviction notices, and utility shutoffs. Once I connect the trust to the parent company, I think we’ll have enough to call it predatory redevelopment.”
Ben exhales into the line. “That’s the headline. I want to run it next week. Can you get me a draft by tomorrow night?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I’ve got someone sending me documents from the Carlton property. If they check out, we can tie V Corp to a repeat pattern. The same buildings. The same paper trail.”
“And the same victims,” he mutters. “People displaced under the radar while the city looked the other way.”
“Exactly,” I say. “But I need just a little more proof and to tie some pieces together to confirm who benefits at the top. Whoever’s behind the trust is keeping themselves squeaky clean on paper.”
“Speed it up, Monroe. This could blow the whole case wide open. I want a first draft by tomorrow night.”
“I’m on it.”
“Ivy,” he adds before hanging up, “if this is what you think it is—finish it. Because if you don’t, someone else will.”
“Got it,” I murmur. “I’ll get you something.”
He hangs up without another word.
I set the phone down, my stomach twisting. My brain spinning. My heart?
A mess.
I don’t even have time to breathe before it buzzes again.
Before I called Vanessa, Carter and I agreed it was best to separate for a while and actually get some work done. We both had calls to make, and the room was starting to feel… charged. Tense in a way that made focus impossible.
He took his laptop into the kitchen and set up at the small dining table—a hand-carved piece of art that looks like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. It’s on the same level as the bedroom, which means it’s still dry even though the rest of the bungalow is slowly turning into a shallow indoor pool.
I call my brother first to check in on the case, but it goes to voicemail. I leave him a message, and after that, everything slides into a rhythm. Emails. Notes. Research. Just work… even if “work” is the last thing I can focus on with Carter in the next room, behind a closed door.
The phone rings a third time before I finally answer. “Hey, Jeremy.”
“Hey, little sis.”
His voice is rough, tired. “You good? I saw the storm report. Looked like Hawaii was about to get wiped off the map.”
“I’m surviving,” I say. “Still trapped. Still soggy. Still sore… for reasons we’re not discussing.”
A beat. “Jesus Christ, Ivy.”
I laugh. “Relax. I’m fine. Just… distracted.”
“You better be careful out there. Storms make people horny and stupid. Trust me, I’ve seen it. Vegas, ’09.”
“Oh my god. Please don’t.”
“Anyway,” he exhales, shifting gears, “I just left court. Finally, Jesus, that system is brutal. I feel like I got cross-examined just for existing.”
“How’d it go?” I ask, softening.
“Long. Messy. You know how it is—drag it out, grind you down. But luckily, I’m sleeping with a badass attorney who makes people think twice before running their mouths.”
I grin. “Marissa’s still out there saving your ass?”
“Every damn day,” he says, pure pride in his voice.
A pause lingers, quieter now.
“So,” he says, “how’s the story going?”
I glance toward the bedroom door. Carter’s still on a call. He shut the door when he started talking, which was a bit weird, but honestly? I appreciate the privacy.
“I’m close,” I say, lowering my voice. “Really close.”
“You find the paper trail?”
“Yeah. Sons & Bell was just a shell. There’s something off in the acquisition docs, but the connection to V Corp? It’s way deeper than I thought.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly. I need those eviction files from Carlton. The utility shutoffs, code violations—everything. If you can scan and send them today, I’ll weave it into the final version.”
“Already on it. Marissa’s got them in a Dropbox folder. I’ll send it over when I get back.”
“Perfect.” I chew my cheek. “Ben wants a draft by tomorrow night.”
“Think you can pull it off?”
“I have to.”
Another pause. Then Jeremy asks, more quietly, “Have you seen Mom lately?”
I blink. “Not since she and Ness were over helping me plot Matt’s murder after I caught him cheating. I called her from the airport, but… I’ve had a lot going on. You know she wants me to leave this case alone. But those people destroyed families. Kids. They destroyed her. They destroyed you.”
He goes quiet. Finally, he says, “She texted me yesterday. Just asking if I was okay. It was weird. Said she was in Atlanta.”
“She lied,” I say automatically.
“Yeah.” A sigh. “Still… I think she’s trying. Sort of.”
“Trying isn’t enough. Not anymore.”
“I know.” His voice softens. And for a second, we’re just kids again—sitting on the bumper of Mom’s beat-up SUV, arguing over who has to sleep in the passenger seat that night.
“I just thought I’d ask.”
I nod, staring at the faint bruise on my thigh—Carter’s fingerprint, from last night. “Thanks for checking in.”
“Always.”
“I’ll call you when I finish the first draft. And tell Marissa she’s a saint.”
“She knows. And hey, Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, okay? And don’t do this just for me. If you’re gonna burn the house down, make sure it’s because you want to because if they go after you, you could lost everything.”
“Ugh. Don’t be dramatic, Jeremy. Get off my phone.”
I try not to get sentimental.
“Love you, Poison Ivy.”
“Love you too, Flamingo.”
He laughs, and so do I. It started when we were kids—after he lost his leg. I was eight, he was eleven, hopping on one foot around the house when I blurted out that he looked like a flamingo. Instead of getting mad, he grinned and said, “Better a flamingo than poison ivy. At least people like flamingos.”
That was Jeremy. Always choosing the joke over the pain. We never stopped using those names.
My brother lost his leg. My mom lost her job. And we all lost our home. She used to be a nurse—sharp, focused, gentle. But after the eviction, after the storm, she just… faded. Thank God for my aunt. She owned a flower shop and took Mom in. Gave her a job. Gave her purpose. They’re rebranding now, turning it into a partnership. A second chance.
Twenty Years Ago:
“I’m fine, Anna. The kids and I are getting a hotel for a few days. I’ll cash in my 401k and get us a new place,” my mom said, too proud to take help.
But we weren’t in a hotel. We were in her car.
At first, it was manageable. But then the storm hit. And everything changed.
“Jeremy? Honey, breathe—please,” my mom begged, frantic.“Someone help! Ivy, call 911!”
Two Weeks Before That:
“You can’t evict me. I’m only a few weeks late. I’ll have the money for this month and next before the month ends—just give me time!”
“Time? Everyone wants time. This ain’t a charity. Rent’s due on the first. It’s the 21st. You’re out.”
“We don’t have anywhere to go. Please.”
“Not my problem. You’re twenty days late. I can legally kick you out. Now move it, lady.”
Present Day:
Legally, my ass.
There was no eviction notice. No court filing. And that check my mom wrote? It was never cashed. The landlord lied. And under the weight of everything—divorce, job loss, fear—my mom just shut down.
Weeks later, the unit was demolished. Another tenant was evicted under the same false pretenses. Her credit was ruined. She couldn’t rent another apartment, so she rented a single bedroom from a relative. She and her kids shared it until she could crawl her way back.
And that’s why I do this. That’s why this story matters.
Because it wasn’t just my family. It’s hundreds. All over New York City.
And someone has to answer for it.