9. Ivy
IVY
I t's the day after I learned I’m pregnant. Well, Ethan and me.
The floor creaks softly beneath my feet as I pace the narrow hallway of the Airbnb.
It’s past noon but the blinds are drawn, the filtered light casting pale streaks across the hardwood floor.
I haven’t touched my laptop, though it sits open on the table next to a half-finished mug of tea.
Work was supposed to be my escape today.
I was going to dive into client edits, lose myself in color palettes and ad copy for a boutique candle company that thinks phrases like “scent journey” are the peak of branding.
Instead, I’m walking tight circles in my rental like I’m preparing for battle.
My body still aches in strange, unfamiliar ways.
The soreness is more than physical, as if my cells are trying to catch up with the fact that I’m no longer just Ivy Dawson.
There’s another presence inside me now, quiet and still, but there, nonetheless.
This morning, I pressed my palm flat against my lower stomach and tried to imagine the heartbeat forming there, tried to picture a future with a child that feels both impossibly far and terrifyingly near.
Daniel cannot know. That truth sits at the center of everything. I’d burned my way out of his life with the last of my strength and if he hears this, he will do everything in his power to destroy me.
I groan and rub my eyes tiredly. Ethan’s face still lingers behind my eyelids, all steel and heat, filled with the kind of masculine fury that vibrates under the surface but doesn’t lash out.
When he’s angry, he gets quiet. The only sign is the way his hands flex, the subtle flare of his nostrils, the stillness that wraps around him.
I’ve only seen that look a few times. Yesterday, in that hospital room, was one of them.
And I lied to him.
To protect him , I remind myself. To keep him far away from the fallout that’s coming.
Because Daniel may not have me under his roof anymore, but he still has claws in this city.
The kind of power that doesn’t disappear when you move out—it follows you, disguises itself in social niceties, resurfaces at the worst possible moments.
One headline, one whisper in the wrong boardroom, and Ethan’s career could unravel.
And I know him. He would take the blow, would walk straight into the fire with his jaw set and his fists ready if he thought I needed him.
I sink onto the couch and pull my knees up to my chest. My phone lies facedown on the cushion beside me, vibrating against the fabric with a muted urgency I’ve ignored for too long. I swipe it open and dial Drew.
He answers on the second ring. “About time.”
“I didn’t realize I was on a schedule,” I say with a grimace.
“You sort of are. Mom’s lawyer wants to schedule mediation this week and Dad’s pretending he doesn’t know how to use a calendar. It’s like refereeing two toddlers in designer shoes.”
I sigh and cup my chin with my free hand. “Are you free for dinner?”
There’s a beat. “That depends. Are you actually cooking or is this going to be a frozen pizza situation?”
“Cooking,” I reply. “I need to talk to you.”
His tone shifts immediately. “Serious?”
I nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Seven?”
“Done.”
I hang up before I can lose my nerve, then tap Cassie’s name and hold the phone to my ear.
“Are we plotting world domination or just talking trash about our exes today?” she answers breezily.
“I need you tonight,” I say, the words a little raw. “Dinner. Seven. My place.”
She doesn’t tease me. “I’ll bring wine. Do I need to dress like I’m intervening or celebrating?”
“Both,” I answer.
The call ends, but the pressure in my chest doesn’t ease. I lean back, eyes unfocused, the ceiling above me suddenly too far away.
It’s strange, this being growing inside me.
It terrifies me in ways I don’t know how to admit.
Not because I don’t want it—I do, fiercely—but because I do.
Because already, I’m making choices with someone else in mind.
Because this tiny, unnamed thing is going to make me fight harder than I ever have, and I’m not sure I have any strength left to give.
Still, when I press my hand to my stomach, the panic quiets. Just for a moment. There’s a rush of something warm beneath my ribs, a soft thrum of love I wasn’t expecting. I’m not alone.
But God, do I feel lonely. The thing about people who are forced to run to survive is we don't get to keep a lot of friends.
Our parents usually never care enough until it's too late, and sometimes, it's not because they don't love us but because they don't know how to show love in a way that counts.
My eyes mist as I look at a framed picture of my family.
It's up on the kitchen desk, visible through the partition from beyond which I sit, to the side.
I placed it there the first night and it's been there since.
Drew and I are holding hands. My face is defiantly red and he looks like he's trying to contain me.
Mom and Dad are smiling blankly for the camera. It sums up what we are to each other.
I get up and go to the kitchen, start slicing vegetables more out of need for distraction than hunger.
The knife moves easily under my grip, the rhythmic scrape of it against the cutting board the only sound in the room.
And yet, my thoughts drift. They always find Ethan Cross.
The boy who used to ruffle my hair and call me Squirt .
Unbidden, a smile comes to my lips and I chuckle.
I remember the summer I turned twenty-one.
We were at the lake house. The fire had burned low and most of the adults had drifted inside, but I stayed.
So did he. I’d been drinking, a Solo cup in one hand and a bad idea on my lips.
I remember laughing too loudly, pretending not to see the way Ethan was watching me from the shadows.
Some guy had come up behind me, touched my waist without asking.
I laughed then, too. For show, but specifically to see what Ethan would do.
He moved the way gravity does, pulling all of us into his orbit. I didn’t even hear what he said to the guy, just saw the look on his face, how he seemed terrified and impressed all at once and how he vanished from the scene not too long after.
The moment he was gone, Ethan hauled me aside. “Be smarter, Ivy,” he growled, his fingers digging into my arm just enough to anchor me. “You deserve better than guys who only want one thing.”
I was flushed, tipsy, and angry that he wasn’t the one touching me like that boy. “And what if that’s all I want?”
He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw something crackle between us—raw and hungry. But all he said was, “Then pick someone who isn’t a fucking idiot.”
I didn’t sleep a wink that night.
Even now, that memory stays with me, the way he looked like he wanted to kiss and kill me in the same breath. I haven’t let myself think about that night in years.
And now he knows.
And I lied.
I finish chopping, hands moving without thought. I need to pull myself together before they arrive. I need to be composed when I tell them the truth.
But as I stare at the kitchen counter, heart thudding in my chest, all I can see is Ethan’s face. And all I can feel is the ache of wanting him.
It’s ridiculous how much I miss him. My body still remembers the feel of his touch, the searing heat of his gaze, the calm certainty of his presence. I tell myself I’m strong for walking away. For choosing silence over destruction. But right now, strength feels a lot like heartbreak.
My throat feels dry as I go upstairs to take a shower.
The steaming water helps, as does the little self-care routine I follow it up with.
I apply moisturizer to my face, a dab of balm to my lips, and comb out my hair until it's smooth.
Then, I tie it up into a loose bun and stare at my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror of the Airbnb and tell myself to get it together.
No more moping.
Tonight matters. I need to do this right.
Drew is going to overreact—he always does—but maybe if I soften the edges, ease him into it, the explosion won’t be nuclear.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I go downstairs where the vegetables are already prepped and I cook.
I clean. I pour every ounce of myself into herbs and spices and the quiet comfort of recipes that never betray me.
Cooking has always been my way back to balance.
The chop of the knife. The heat of the pan.
The way a sprig of thyme can make everything feel a little more manageable.
I start with my signature lemon-herb roast chicken, crisping the skin to golden perfection while garlic simmers in olive oil on the side.
Rosemary potatoes follow, then a butternut squash soup I season slowly, carefully, until it tastes warm enough to hold a secret.
By the time I pull the last tray of roasted carrots from the oven, the kitchen smells like home—whatever that means these days.
Cassie is the first to arrive, as always, right on cue and holding a bottle of wine she probably picked for the label.
“Wow,” she says, stepping inside and giving an exaggerated sniff. “Okay, so you’re either panicking or trying to prove a point.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She arches a brow. “What’s going on, Ivy?”
I sigh. “I’m trying not to give Drew a heart attack.”
“Mm. Good luck with that.”
She flops down at the table and starts popping roasted carrots into her mouth like popcorn. I love her for it.
A few minutes later, Drew and Blair walk in together, Drew’s hand resting protectively at the small of his wife’s back. He pauses at the threshold, nose twitching like a bloodhound.
“You made that rosemary thing, didn’t you?”
“I made a lot of things.”