4. Ivy
IVY
S leep won’t come. The distinct stillness inside the Airbnb makes every small sound seem louder.
The heater clicks as it cycles off. Trees shift outside, their rustling barely audible.
The old wood beneath me creaks under time and gravity.
I curl deeper into the blankets, letting the warmth wrap around me, but it does nothing to quiet the restlessness creeping under my skin.
My body feels too awake, my pulse unsteady, my thoughts circling the same useless patterns.
I try to will myself into relaxation, but the harder I chase it, the further it drifts out of reach.
I flip onto my side and reach for the book I pulled from the shelf earlier, an old favorite with a worn spine and yellowed pages.
The words are familiar, but tonight, they blur together, slipping through my mind without sticking.
My focus drifts, the weight of exhaustion pressing against me but never quite tipping over into sleep.
I close the book with a quiet sigh and let it rest on my stomach, fingers drumming against the cover.
My hand finds my phone before I can stop myself.
I tell myself I’ll check the time, maybe scroll through meaningless headlines until my eyes grow heavy, but muscle memory betrays me. A few taps, a quick swipe, and suddenly, I’m staring at old photos—at him.
Daniel Holt, grinning at the camera, his arm slung casually around my shoulders, the city skyline glittering behind us like a backdrop to a life I once believed in.
My stomach tightens, fingers hesitating over the screen.
I’ve gone down this road a hundred times, and a hundred times the answer has been the same—scrolling after twelve is never a good idea.
The wisest thing would be to toss the phone aside, turn off the light, and either go to bed after ice-cream or just go to bed.
Instead, I scroll deeper, watching our history play out in frozen moments—weekends in the Hamptons, charity galas where we smiled for the cameras, fancy restaurants where he leaned in close, whispering things that made me feel like I was the center of his world.
And I had been, for a while.
I was so young, so eager to be loved by a man who looked at me like I was something rare. He made me feel chosen, as if I were the only woman in the room, the one who mattered most.
Until I wasn’t.
I can still hear the way his voice would shift, the subtle change in his tone when I did something that displeased him. It was never obvious at first, never a raised voice or a slammed door. It was quieter, insidious, disguised as concern, as affection.
"Are you sure you want to wear that? It’s a little… bold for a dinner with my colleagues."
"I just think you misunderstood what I meant, Ivy. You get worked up so easily."
"God, you’re being dramatic again. Can’t we just have a normal night?"
I remember how easily he turned my doubts against me, how he planted seeds of uncertainty and let them take root. Was I overreacting? Had I misread the situation? He never had to yell. He didn’t need to. I had started correcting myself before he even had to say a word.
I let the memories unravel, one after another, until I’m gripping the phone too tightly, my jaw clenched, my breaths uneven.
Those unbearable nights when he’d come home stone drunk, when he’d use words and his hands as weapons to show me what power he had over me, and oh, the disgusting gentleness the morning after when my face and soul would be bruised and broken.
How did I not see it sooner? How did I let myself become someone who apologized for things I didn’t do?
How did I let a man shrink me down until I barely recognized myself?
I swipe past the photos, as if I can erase them, but they don’t need to be on a screen to exist. They’re embedded in me, a part of my past that I can never quite scrub away.
Leaving had been the only way out. The only way to breathe again.
The realization had come like a gut punch one night when I stood in front of a mirror and saw a stranger staring back at me—a woman who second-guessed every word before speaking, who smiled through gritted teeth, who had learned to measure her worth through the rise and fall of Daniel Holt’s approval.
I remember the cold clarity of that moment. The way my heart hammered as I packed a bag, as I walked out without saying goodbye.
I never thought I’d come back. I swore I wouldn’t.
But here I am.
And for what?
To be a supportive sister while my parents implode their marriage in slow motion? To offer comfort when I barely know how to hold myself together? To prove—to whom, exactly?—that I can stand in this city again without letting it suffocate me?
The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence, yanking me from my thoughts. I blink down at the screen, my pulse spiking before I register the name.
Mom.
I hesitate, then sigh and answer. “Hey.”
“Ivy,” she exhales, voice light, a little rushed, as if she’s been waiting for me to pick up. “You’re still awake?”
“Could say the same about you,” I murmur, rubbing a hand over my eyes.
“I just got off the phone with the lawyers,” she says, launching straight into the conversation without preamble. “It’s exhausting, you know? Going over every little detail of a life you spent decades building, only to have it pulled apart piece by piece.”
I stay silent, letting her talk. She doesn’t expect me to answer.
I’m not even sure she wants me to. This isn’t a conversation.
It never really is. It’s more about her needing to say things out loud, to unload everything swirling in her mind, while I play the part of a patient audience. It’s always been this way.
I listen, but my mind drifts, pulled backward by a memory that sneaks in through the cracks.
I must have been seven, maybe eight, standing at the edge of the grand dining room in a dress that itched at my collarbone.
My mother sat at the head of the table, laughing, her champagne glass poised just so, surrounded by friends with perfect hair and perfectly curated lives.
My father leaned back, effortlessly charming, holding court in the way he always did.
The dining room was polished to a quiet shine, the glow from the chandelier casting soft halos over linen-draped tables.
Plates were set just so, knives and forks untouched until the right moment.
Ice swirled lazily in highball glasses, the soft chime of it knocking against the rim blending with laughter that rose and faded like background music, smooth and unhurried.
Everything was effortless, everything in its place, and none of it included me.
I had spent all afternoon making something—a painting, a mess of colors that didn’t quite make sense, but to me, it was important. It was a gift for them, something to make them see me.
I remember standing there, small fingers gripping the edges of the paper, waiting for a moment to speak. My mother’s laughter rose again, my father poured another drink, and I waited. And waited.
Drew found me before they did. He was eleven, already used to reading the room, already familiar with the particular brand of absence that came with our parents’ presence.
He looked at the paper in my hands, then back at me, his mouth pressing into a knowing line.
Without a word, he took my masterpiece and pinned it to the fridge with a magnet, like that was where it belonged all along.
“Come on, Ivy. Let’s go.”
And just like that, I let him pull me away, abandoning my place in a world that had no room for me.
We looked out for each other. We had to. No one else was going to.
Now, sitting here, my mother’s voice filling the space between us, I feel the familiar ache of that little girl still waiting to be noticed. But I know better now.
“I don’t think your father understands,” she continues.
“How much I’ve done, how much I gave up.
I put everything into making sure you and Drew had a life full of opportunity, full of…
” She exhales sharply, frustration bleeding through the words.
“I just don’t think it’s fair, Ivy. That I have to explain why I want something for myself now. ”
I shift in bed, my grip on the phone loosening. “You don’t.”
She pauses. “What?”
“You don’t have to explain,” I say, softer now. “You don’t have to justify wanting a life of your own. If you feel unloved, if you feel unseen, you have the right to walk away from what doesn’t serve you.”
There’s a beat of silence. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know.” I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temples. “But you’re doing it nonetheless, Mom. All I’m saying is you don’t need to justify the why of it all to me because I get it.”
“Thank you.”
She can’t see my smile, so I keep my voice light, offering a quiet, “No problem,” before ending the call.
I set my phone down, staring at the ceiling, my mind still tangled in her words. The weight of the conversation lingers, pressing into my chest, but exhaustion is finally creeping in, my limbs heavy, my thoughts sluggish.
A few moments later, common sense finally shoves its way to the front of my mind, reminding me that if I don’t get some sleep, I’ll wake up feeling like I got hit by a small but determined truck. With a sigh, I throw myself under the blankets.
The sheets are cool against my skin, the quiet hum of the night settling around me.
I shift, trying to get comfortable, but the ache in my chest refuses to fade.
My body remembers too much—Ethan’s hands, his mouth, the way he had looked at me in the dark.
I force my eyes shut, exhaling slowly, willing sleep to take me before my thoughts can unravel any further.
It comes eventually, pulling me under in slow waves.
I wake up tangled in sheets that aren’t mine, in a bed that smells faintly of lavender and old books. For a second, I forget where I am, caught between sleep and memory, my mind hovering in the space where dreams linger before reality slams them into the ground.
Then I remember last night.
My pulse stirs, but I force myself to stretch, to breathe, to act like my body doesn’t still hum from what we did.
The golden light spilling through the curtains is soft, warming the wooden floors, but it does nothing to ease the restlessness creeping into my chest. I exhale sharply and push the blankets aside, rolling my shoulders as I sit up.
A cup of sweet milk tea. That’s what I need. Something strong enough to wake me up, hot enough to burn away the lingering taste of recklessness.
I shuffle to the door, pulling the robe tighter around me as I step into the hallway. The stairs creak as I move down, the kind of noise that belongs in an old house where the walls remember everything. I wince, walking lighter, trying not to think about what ghosts might be listening.
I round the corner into the living room, and that’s when I see him.
Ethan. On my couch.
I freeze. Why is he still here?
He’s stretched out, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. The blanket he must have grabbed at some point has slipped, half pooled onto the floor, baring the full length of his torso to the early light. And what a torso it is.
It should be illegal to look that good while unconscious. The sharp lines of his chest, the taut definition of muscle leading down to the band of his sweats, the way his dark lashes rest against his cheekbones—it’s all too much.
Jesus. I swallow hard, willing my heart rate to slow. This is fine. Just a man. A very attractive, very naked-from-the-waist-up man. I can handle this.
Except I can’t.
Because the room is too still, too intimate, too full of something I didn’t invite but can’t seem to escape. Last night was supposed to be reckless, a single moment where I let go, where I grabbed at something real for once instead of running from it.
But now, in the daylight, I see the danger in this.
Ethan doesn’t do casual. He is controlled, disciplined, the kind of man who doesn’t let things slip through his fingers once he’s decided they belong to him. Even in sleep, his fingers twitch, curling like they’re searching for something that isn’t there.
The problem is that I liked last night too much.
Because I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Standing at the edge of something that looks like desire but feels like a leash. I’ve known what it’s like to be possessed, to be held onto too tightly, to mistake control for love.
Ethan is not Daniel. I know that.
But my body doesn’t care. My body only understands survival, and right now, every inch of me is screaming that I need to run.
I take a slow step back. The floorboard betrays me, creaking under my weight.
Ethan stirs.
I hold my breath, watching as his brow furrows slightly, his chest rising with a deeper inhale. His fingers flex, like he can feel me watching.
Nope. Not doing this.
I spin on my heel and make a beeline for the kitchen.
The second I step inside, I grip the counter and let out a sharp exhale. Breathe. Focus. Make the damn tea.
I move through the motions automatically. Fill the kettle. Set it on the stove. Measure out the tea leaves. The scents of cinnamon and cardamom curl into the air, wrapping around me like something warm, something familiar. I tell myself to focus on that instead.
Not on the man asleep in the next room.
Not on the ghost of his hands still on my skin.
Not on the way my fingers tremble slightly as I pour the water, as if some part of me already knows I’ll never be able to forget last night.
Just as I reach for the pan to heat the milk, my fingers slip, and it crashes onto the stovetop with a loud, metallic clatter that shatters the fragile morning quiet.
“Shit.” I wince, scrambling to steady it, my heart lurching in my chest as the sound echoes through the kitchen.
Before I can fully recover, a low, rich baritone hums from behind me, smooth and edged with sleep.
“Good morning.”
I freeze.
Oh, hell.