1. Ivy #2
Rubbing my temples, I groan as I flag down a cab. “Anywhere but here,” I mutter as I climb inside, slamming the door behind me.
The driver barely glances at me in the mirror. “That a real request, or…?”
I sigh. “Just take me home—Dawson House.”
Everyone in Valleria knows where that is. Minutes later, I step out of the cab, my heart thudding dismally as the townhouse looms, all polished stone and grand columns, its dark windows giving nothing away. Inside, I know everything will be in perfect order. Everything always is.
I push open the door, and sure enough, the Dawson family home is as cold as I left it.
Not temperature-wise—no, the central heating is always set at exactly seventy-two degrees—but in the way that matters.
The kind of cold that settles in the bones, in the silences, in the spaces between people who used to love each other without trying.
Drew’s voice is the first thing I hear. “Took you long enough.”
I glance over, finding my older brother standing in the foyer, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and relief.
“I was out,” I say simply, peeling off my coat.
“I gathered.” His eyes narrow slightly. “You didn’t come straight home from the station.”
I kick off my boots, avoiding his gaze. “What are you, my parole officer?”
Drew snorts. “If I were, I’d already be drinking.”
I scowl up at him. “You’re already drinking, aren’t you?”
He just lifts his half-full glass of whiskey in response.
Dinner is as uncomfortable as expected. Our parents sit across from us at the massive dining table, a perfect, symmetrical illustration of a marriage that should have ended a decade ago.
Mother, in her usual pristine silk blouse and diamond earrings, picks at her salad like it’s made of pieces of pretty cardboard. Father, looking vaguely irritated as he reads something on his phone, barely glances up.
Drew and I keep the conversation moving—if only to keep it from sliding into ice-cold silence.
“So, Dad,” Drew says, cutting into his steak, “any progress with the mediator?”
Father makes a noncommittal sound, still scrolling. Mother, without looking up, murmurs, “Of course not.”
I stab my fork into my chicken a little harder than necessary. “Glad to see this is going well.”
Drew shoots me a look that’s purely don’t start .
I take an aggressive bite instead.
Our father sighs, setting down his phone. “We’re handling it, children.”
Drew, to his credit, doesn’t roll his eyes. But I see the effort it takes. “I’m just saying,” he continues, voice perfectly level, “the sooner we finalize everything, the better. For everyone.”
Mother dabs her lips with her napkin. “Indeed.”
The conversation dies a graceless death.
I focus on my plate, trying to ignore the tension pressing into my ribs.
After dinner, Drew follows me into the hallway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
He’s studying me. I can feel it—the careful assessment, the way his brows pull together like he’s trying to figure out what, exactly, is wrong with me tonight.
"So," he says, voice light, like he's picking his words carefully, "how are you doing?"
I freeze for half a second before reaching for my coat. “I’m fine.”
Drew exhales, sharp and unimpressed. “Right.”
I throw him a look. “What?”
He leans against the wall, watching me with that same expression he’s had since we were kids—equal parts protective and exasperated.
"You come back after years of avoiding this place, spend an entire dinner barely talking, and now you're giving me the most convincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard. Yeah, totally believable.”
I shrug, forcing a careless smirk. “You know me. Always thriving.”
His jaw tightens. “Ivy.”
And just like that, I go for the deflection. “How’s Blair?”
Drew blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“Blair,” I repeat, feigning casual interest. “Your wife? The one who didn’t come to dinner?”
His lips press into a thin line. “She’s fine.”
"Fine,” I echo, raising a brow. “And she didn’t want to come because…?”
He hesitates, then sighs. “Because she’d rather do literally anything else than sit through a meal with our parents while they pretend they’re not seconds away from tearing each other apart.”
I snort. “Smart woman.”
"Yeah, I know.”
For a second, we’re quiet, letting everything unsaid stretch between us.
Drew knows about Daniel, about how unhappy I was in that relationship, although he doesn’t know the full extent of what happened to me or why I finally ran.
I could tell him the truth—about how exhausted I feel just being here, about how I still catch myself waiting for the other shoe to drop, about how the ghosts in this house don’t even bother hiding anymore.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift my bag on my shoulder and say, “I’ll talk to you later, Drew.”
Drew’s head snaps up. He watches me, his jaw working like he has something else to say, but in the end, he just shakes his head. “Fine.”
I pull the door open and step into the night, letting the cool air bite at my skin.
Drew doesn’t stop me. He knows better.
Another cab ride. Another quiet driver. Another reminder that this city still doesn’t feel like mine.
When we pull up in front of the Airbnb, I hesitate, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.
It’s a small cottage-style guesthouse tucked between towering oaks, its windows glowing softly against the dark.
A welcome sign leans slightly by the front door, the kind of homey touch that makes it feel lived-in.
The porch light wavers as I step out, the scent of rain lingering in the cool night air.
Stepping inside, I inhale with relief as a cozy warmth instantly greets me.
A knitted throw is draped over a worn-in couch, and the faint scents of vanilla and cinnamon cling to the air, as if someone just finished baking hours ago.
The hardwood floors creak under my steps, not with the eerie silence of an empty house but the gentle protest of something that’s been loved and used.
The kitchen is small but functional, stocked with mismatched mugs and a handwritten note from the owner on the counter.
Make yourself at home.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my boots, and take a slow lap through the space.
The bookshelves are crammed with actual books, their spines cracked and softened by time.
A half-melted candle sits on the coffee table, the wick charred from past nights of quiet comfort.
Everything here is meant to be touched, used, lived in.
With a little sigh, I sink onto the couch, curling up against a pillow that smells like fresh linen. For five minutes, I just breathe. Then, as if possessed by a force beyond my control, I pull out my phone.
I need one night. One night with normal people in a normal place where I don’t have to think about the past or the people in it.
So I text Cassie.
Changed my mind about Harlow’s. Let’s go somewhere that doesn’t play soft jazz and charge twenty dollars for olives.
Her response is immediate.
Where have you been all my life? I’ll pick you up in an hour.
A smile tugs at my lips for the first time all night.
After a hot shower, the tension in my shoulders eases, leaving me feeling lighter.
As I rummage through my suitcase, my gaze catches on a dark-blue number.
If I’m committing to this whole living in the moment thing, then naturally, the dress is a little too short.
Or maybe it just feels that way because it’s been a while since I’ve worn something that makes me feel like this. Like a woman who could wrap someone around her finger with nothing more than a slow smile. Like someone who isn’t tired of running.
I smooth the hem down anyway, throw on my leather jacket, and step outside, where Cassie is already waiting at the curb, looking impossibly chic in a fitted black jumpsuit and red lipstick sharp enough to cut glass.
She lets out a low whistle when she sees me. “Damn, Dawson. If you were trying to make me question my sexuality, congratulations.”
I smirk. “Good to know I still have options.”
She loops her arm through mine as we head toward the bar. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? Drinks? Dancing? Flirting with men we have absolutely no intention of calling back?”
“All of the above,” I say breezily. “And I expect at least one round of shots before the night is over.”
Cassie nods approvingly. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Crowley’s is walking distance from my Airbnb.
It’s exactly the kind of place I need tonight—lively without being chaotic, upscale without being pretentious.
The kind of bar where the music is loud enough to drown out overthinking but not so loud that you have to shout over it.
A mix of polished professionals and people just looking for a good time, all tucked beneath the warm glow of brass fixtures and rich mahogany.
Cassie and I weave through the crowd, past clusters of patrons leaning into conversations over cocktails, past the low hum of laughter and the occasional clink of a glass against marble. It’s busy but not overwhelming, with just enough movement to disappear into.
We make it to the bar, where I slide onto a stool, leaning against the cool edge of the counter. When the bartender approaches, I don’t hesitate and ask for something strong and just sweet enough.
“Whiskey sour,” I say, flashing a small, knowing smile.
Cassie smirks, nudging me. “Look at you, getting straight to business.”
“Don’t jinx it.” I tap the counter as the bartender moves away. “Tonight, I just want to drink, talk nonsense, and pretend I don’t have responsibilities.”
She lifts a brow. “Ah, yes. The classic Ivy Dawson method of coping. Drink now, regret later.”
“Exactly.”
The glass is set in front of me, amber liquid catching in the low light. I take the first sip, letting the warmth curl through me. Half a drink in, the first casualty of the night arrives.
“Ladies,” a voice slurs.
I turn to find two frat-boy types grinning at us, their button-ups just wrinkled enough to look “effortless”, their cologne strong enough to fumigate the entire establishment.
Cassie, ever the opportunist, takes one glance at them and says, “Oh, thank God. I was hoping we’d get aggressively hit on by guys who still think flip-cup is a personality trait.”
The blond one frowns. “What?”
I clap a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing great, buddy. Really.”
The brunette, clearly undeterred, leans in. “Come on, let us buy you a drink.”
Cassie smiles, all teeth. “I’d rather lick the floor.”
He blinks.
I sip my cocktail. “And I’m more of a pour-my-own-poison kind of girl.”
They exchange a look, clearly trying to decide whether this is a challenge or a rejection.
I save them the trouble. “But thanks for playing. Better luck next time.”
Cassie grabs my hand, already laughing as we spin back toward the bar. “God, that was too easy.”
I’m still grinning when I turn…
The laughter dies in my throat.
Ethan Cross sits at the far end of the room, effortlessly at ease in his dark suit and rolled-up sleeves, his broad frame leaning back against the bar like he owns the place. Like nothing has changed.
Except something has. Because this time, he sees me and he doesn’t look away.
I know I should look away. I shouldn’t wonder if he still smells like cedar and soap.
I shouldn’t think about how his fingers looked wrapped around his glass, how easy it would be to slide my own along the rim and brush against his.
I shouldn’t ache for something I told myself was never mine to want.
But after years of running, of being controlled, of belonging to men who only wanted to keep me in a gilded cage, I want— for once —to make a mistake of my own choosing, unlike Daniel, who came in far too strong and made me believe no one else would ever match up to him.
I raise my glass to him.
Ethan’s eyes darken. And then he stands and begins moving toward me.