13. Ivy
IVY
W hen I wake, the apartment is hushed, the soft glow of morning creeping in through the edges of the curtains.
The sheets still hold the warmth of Ethan’s body, and I find myself curling into that space without thinking, breathing in the traces of him that linger on the pillow.
There’s a soreness between my thighs, sharp and sweet.
It pulls a blush from me and makes me press my face deeper into the cotton, eyes closed, heart slow.
He’s gone. I knew he would be. There’s no sound of him moving through the apartment, no kettle whistling, no firm footsteps crossing the floor with surgical certainty.
Still, for a moment, it feels like he’s here.
I stay like that longer than I should, tangled in sheets that smell like sex and warmth and the kind of comfort I forgot how to want.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand. I roll onto my side and reach for it without opening my eyes.
A message from Drew.
Lunch today? Blair’s craving Thai and I want to see your face. Noon? XO.
Beneath it, I see another notification. Then another. Messages from unknown numbers, timestamps scattered across the last few days. I tap once.
Your taste in men is getting worse. I wonder what Ethan would do if he knew the whole truth. You’re not very good at running, baby girl.
My chest goes tight. I set the phone down face-down, swallow the nausea clawing at the back of my throat, and pull the blanket tighter around myself.
There’s a bitter taste that rises every time I think of last night.
Not because I regret it. I don’t. Not even close.
But because I know I’m dancing on a blade's edge, and I just handed Ethan a better grip on the hilt.
He hadn’t asked for anything when he left. No promises. No lingering words. Just a warm brush of lips to my shoulder, a hand smoothing the hair from my cheek, and the sound of his voice low against my skin.
“I have to go. Emergency page.”
I’d kept my eyes closed, too afraid of what I might say if I looked at him. He’d dressed quickly, methodically, like he was used to leaving things behind. When the door finally shut, I’d counted to sixty before letting myself breathe.
Now, in the quiet aftermath, I try to rebuild the walls I’d so carefully dismantled the night before. It was a moment. A slip. Nothing more.
By the time I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, the lie is already becoming easier to believe.
Warm water scalds the ache from my limbs, but not the tension wound tight beneath my skin.
I dress in a loose sweater and dark jeans, pull my hair into a low knot, and force myself to face the day.
First, groceries. Then the pharmacy. Then the coffee shop two blocks over with the bitter espresso I hate but the seats near the window I love. I tuck myself in with my laptop, half-answering work emails, half-listening to the low murmur of conversation around me.
It helps a little, the noise, the motion, the normalcy.
But there’s a sour sensation I can’t name. The back of my neck prickles every time the door opens. I glance up at every tall man in a dark coat. I pretend not to notice that my hands keep drifting to my belly, flat but no longer empty. A shield I carry with me even when no one else can see it.
At eleven thirty, I close my laptop and make my way to the restaurant Drew mentioned.
It’s a quiet little spot tucked beside a row of florists and stationery shops.
The kind of place that smells like lemongrass and basil the moment you open the door.
He’s already there, waving me over with one hand while holding Blair’s in the other.
“You’re late,” he teases as I slide into the booth across from them.
“I’m pregnant. I’m legally allowed to be late to everything.”
Blair laughs. “She’s not wrong.”
We order quickly—pad Thai, red curry, extra rice.
The conversation moves easily, looping through family gossip and city traffic and Blair’s new obsession with sour candies.
Drew asks a few careful questions about the rental, about how I’m managing, but he doesn’t push.
He’s trying. I can tell. Trying to be present without hovering. Trying to keep things light.
But beneath the surface, I know he’s watching me, noticing the slight tightness in my smile, the way my shoulders don’t fully relax. He always was too perceptive for his own good.
“Everything okay?” he asks when Blair’s gone to the bathroom and there’s no one else near enough to hear.
I meet his eyes, force the curve of my mouth just enough. “It’s fine.”
He studies me. I can see it—the part of him that wants to dig, the part that’s wondering if he should go full big brother and press until I crack. But he doesn’t. “Okay,” he says finally, voice calm. “But if it stops being fine?—”
“I know.”
He nods, and something softens in his expression. “Good.”
Lunch ends before I’m ready. That same uneasy sensation curls around my spine. The sidewalk feels too quiet. The shadows stretch a little longer. I glance over my shoulder and see nothing, but my feet still move faster. My hand curls tightly around the strap of my bag.
There’s no one behind me.
No footsteps out of sync with mine.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching. Waiting.
The coffee I’d planned to grab becomes a forgotten intention. The street has gone too still.
It takes me a second to understand why I’ve stopped breathing. One moment, I’m walking beside Drew and Blair, their voices easy, laughing over something I barely registered. The next, my feet halt without warning, as if caught by a current I can’t see.
Across the street, just beyond the parked row of cars, is Daniel.
Leaning against a glossy black vehicle that doesn’t belong to this part of town, he looks exactly as I remember—immaculate in an open-collared shirt and tailored coat, his posture casual, his expression anything but.
He isn’t pretending to look elsewhere. He isn’t hiding.
He’s watching me, only me, like this has been the plan all along.
My blood ices over. There’s no mistaking the slow curve of his mouth, that familiar smirk he always wore when he knew he’d won something. The kind that never reached his eyes.
I must blink. I must do something, because the next sound I hear is Drew calling my name, the syllables distant and sharp-edged like they’re cutting through water.
I manage a nod. I even force a small laugh, pretending I was distracted by a storefront.
But my legs are trembling and I’m already calculating how fast I can get back to the Airbnb.
Daniel doesn’t move. He just stands there, one hand resting lightly on the roof of the car, as if he has all the time in the world. As if he’s been waiting for me to notice him.
And God, I do. I notice every detail. The calm in his face. The precision in his stance. The certainty that he’s still in control.
I don’t remember saying goodbye to Drew or Blair. I don’t remember walking away. Only that my breath is short by the time I round the corner and that the noise of the city no longer makes me feel invisible.
Somehow, I make it home without collapsing. I don’t remember unlocking the door. I just know that it closes behind me too hard and that my fingers tremble as I press each lock into place. One. Two. Three. Then again, just to be sure.
The silence inside is worse than whatever noise the street had offered. It hangs heavily in the room, filled with the echo of what I didn’t say out loud. That he saw me. That he let me see him. That everything I’ve done to keep ahead of him wasn’t enough.
I move like someone trying not to be seen, even though I’m alone. My coat falls onto the back of a chair. My shoes land near the door with none of their usual clatter. My phone buzzes against the table where I left it earlier, and I jump.
It’s just a message from Blair, asking if I made it back okay. I start to type something reassuring and stop halfway through. My hand lowers, the screen still glowing. And beneath the message thread, I see the others. The older ones. The ones I should have deleted but didn’t.
You’re so easy to follow, baby girl. Did you think I wouldn’t know where you are?
I stare at the words until they blur.
All the warmth from lunch, from Drew’s easy laughter and Blair’s gentle teasing, drains from my body like someone opened a valve.
I slide down onto the couch without meaning to, my knees pulled to my chest, the phone clutched between my hands like it might morph into a weapon or a shield depending on how hard I hold on.
I want to believe it’s a coincidence. That maybe he was just passing through. That maybe he didn’t see me at all. But I know better. Daniel never does anything halfway. If he showed his face today, it was intentional.
He wanted me to see him. He wanted me to remember that he’s always a step behind, never fully gone, always circling.
My breathing picks up again. I press a palm flat against my chest, trying to ground myself. But the weight of it is too much, too fast, and for the first time in days, I feel that horrible ripple of panic rise through me without mercy.
I stand. I pace. I try to tell myself that this doesn’t change anything, but it does. It changes everything.
I know what I should do. I should call the police.
I should report the sighting, give them every message he’s sent, beg them to take this seriously.
But I also know how this game is played.
Daniel has money. Influence. Friends in all the right places.
A long history of making women feel crazy before the system finally listens.
They’ll need proof. And I don’t have any. Just texts from a blocked number and a name I’m too scared to say out loud. I stare at my phone again, thumb hovering over a different name. A different number.
Ethan. He wouldn’t ask for proof. He wouldn’t wait.
I shake my head, willing the thought away. I can’t call him. I can’t drag him back into this. It’s dangerous, and not just for me. If Daniel suspects Ethan means anything to me, it won’t end with threats. He’ll twist it into something darker. He’ll find a way to punish him.
Still, I don’t move. My thumb is frozen over the screen, caught between fear and need.
For one fragile second, I close my eyes and imagine what Ethan would say if he were here. He wouldn’t let me downplay this. He’d see through every lie I tried to tell. And he’d be furious that I didn’t call him sooner. My hand tightens around the phone.
I don’t want to pull him into this storm. But the storm is already here.
And I might not have a choice anymore.