6. Ivy
IVY
T he bed is too soft.
The air is too still.
Too clean.
My brain starts firing before my eyes open.
Something’s wrong.
The scent of linen, clean and expensive. The absence of sound. The strange pressure at the base of my skull.
I jolt up.
Too fast.
The world tilts and I clutch at the blanket, breathing hard. The room spins for a moment, then sharpens into terrifying clarity.
This is not my apartment.
I don’t even own a real blanket like the one I’m holding.
The ceiling above me is smooth white plaster with soft recessed lighting. There’s a chandelier. A fucking chandelier. Across from the bed is a wall of glass. Not a window, but a sealed pane overlooking a private garden drenched in moonlight. Everything is pristine. Sleek. Cold.
I’m not in the city.
Not with a view like that.
My fingers dig into the silk sheets. They’re real. Heavy. I run my hand over the mattress. California king. Way too big for one person.
I look down, ready to catalogue injuries and inspect my body which is still clearly in shock.
Still dressed. Same hoodie. Same leggings. My shoes are gone, but my socks are on.
There’s no pain. No bruises. No cuts.
But there’s a dull ache where my neck meets my shoulder. I touch it. A small puncture. I already know what it is.
I’ve been drugged.
I thought I was dreaming when I opened my eyes and saw him in my apartment again.
He’s come almost every night in my dreams.
Always silent.
Always beckoning.
I slide out of the bed on instinct, keeping low, keeping quiet. My legs are unsteady, but I force them to move. The room is soundless. The door is closed, but not locked. I don’t open it.
Not yet.
I need a weapon.
To take stock of my options.
I need a plan.
I scan the room. There’s a closet, a bathroom door ajar, and a long marble console table tucked under a massive painting. On the table, there’s a single item.
A small, black velvet box.
My stomach turns.
I walk to it like it might explode. Open it with trembling hands.
Inside is a silver chain. Dull with age. Worn. Bent just slightly at the clasp from years of use.
My necklace.
My only Christmas present. The one I got when I was seven years old and still believed that maybe, somehow, I’d been good enough to deserve something. I kept it buried in a box under a floorboard in my closet. Hidden from anyone who might look.
It’s the only thing I own that I care about.
It’s here.
Which means he’s been in my home more than once. It means he didn’t just take me.
He took everything .
My hand closes around the chain like it might still protect me.
Like it still means something other than the truth.
But I already know?—
It means I’m not going to survive this.
The necklace is still in my hand when the door opens.
I don’t turn around. I don’t breathe. I just stand there, spine straight, fingers curled so tightly around the chain that it cuts into my palm.
His footsteps are soft. Measured.
Like he’s walking into a meeting he’s already won.
I finally turn.
He’s exactly what I remember from the coffee shop. Tall, sharp suit, emotionless face and eyes that shine with a challenge. But this time he’s not across a room or staring from a window. This time he’s here . Between me and the only exit.
His eyes find mine instantly. Then they drop to the box on the table. To the necklace in my hand. And there’s a flicker of something there—satisfaction, maybe. Or pride.
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember that,” he says.
His voice is like his suit. Expensive. Tailored. Custom-fit to disarm and control.
“It’s mine,” I say. “Of course I remember it.”
He nods once, like that confirms something for him. Then steps further into the room.
I hold my ground.
“Why do you have it?” I ask.
“You mean, why did I go into your apartment and find the only thing you ever kept hidden?”
I don’t answer. He already knows I know the truth.
“Or do you really mean to ask me why I took you?”
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t try to soften the blow.
“I took it,” he says. “Because it mattered to you. Because you would’ve looked for it when you ran. And now you don’t have to. I’ve given you everything you need.”
I flinch before I can stop myself.
He notices.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Ivy.”
I laugh, unable to help myself. The sound is sharp, short, humorless. “You drugged me. You broke into my home. You took me. You really think ‘I’m not going to hurt you’ counts as reassurance right now?” I’m starting to panic. “I don’t even know your fucking name !” I practically scream.
His expression doesn’t change. But his voice softens just slightly.
“I took you because you weren’t safe there. Because that apartment, that job, that life, all of it was killing you slowly. No one saw it. No one cared.”
He takes another step forward. Close now. Too close.
“But I did. I saw you.” His voice is so low. So melodic. A siren’s song meant to ensnare me and drag me to my death. “My name is Roman O’Rourke.”
“I don’t know you,” I whisper. But that’s a lie. I know that name. He owns Everview. He owns the company I work for.
“You will.”
I shake my head. “You think this is some twisted version of saving me? You’ve erased my life.”
“No,” he says. “I’ve replaced it. With something better.”
I stare at him and realize I’m not looking at a man who lost control.
I’m looking at one who planned every second of this, and probably enjoyed doing it.
I don’t ask the obvious questions.
Not yet.
I already know the answers won’t help me.
So instead, I look at him and take in every single detail I can. This man who claims I was invisible to the world until he decided to see me, perfection in the form of an obviously flawed man. And I ask the one thing that actually matters.
“What about the man on the corner?”
He tilts his head, a faint crease forming between his brows. “What man?”
“The one who sits outside the bodega. The one who watches the street every night.” My voice is sharper now, more urgent. “He’s the reason I’m still breathing. He stepped in. He protected me when someone tried to hurt me.”
Roman studies me like I’ve surprised him.
Like I’ve said the one thing he didn’t calculate for.
“I know he’s nothing to you,” I continue, stepping forward. “But he’s something to me. And he’s going to notice when I don’t come back.”
Roman is quiet for a beat.
Then, “He’s already noticed.”
My stomach twists. “What did you do?”
He blinks, slowly. “I made sure he’s warm. Fed. Safe. One of my men offered him a place in a private shelter two blocks over and cash in hand, no ID required. He took it.”
I don’t know if I believe him.
But I want to.
That man didn’t owe me anything, and he still protected me when no one else did. He cared when I thought I was surrounded by apathy.
“Don’t hurt him,” I whisper. “Please. If you want to punish someone, punish me. Not him.”
He steps closer. Closer than he should. And when he speaks, his voice is quiet and terrifying in its sincerity.
“I would do unholy things to protect you. Kill a woman? Absolutely. Slit a man’s throat and bathe in the blood? Without a doubt. I would burn a man alive if he tried to take you away from me. And I’d smile while doing all of that.”
My heart stutters at the blatant truth in his words.
His eyes lock with mine.
“So no,” he says. “I won’t hurt the man who protected what’s mine.”
I swallow hard.
“You can’t say that,” I murmur. “That I’m yours.”
“You are.”
“You haven’t even touched me.”
He leans in, close enough that his breath hits the edge of my jaw.
“I don’t have to touch you to own you,” he says. “Not yet.”
He turns away first.
Just walks across the room like we didn’t just pull a live wire between us and stand in the sparks that ignite.
Like my panic, my resistance, my begging him not to hurt someone else is just another detail he anticipated.
And maybe it is.
Clearly he’s a master manipulator and I’m just a pawn in some fucked up game.
He reaches the door, then stops. One hand on the knob. The other in his pocket like he’s got nowhere better to be, like this is casual. Like we’re not living in two different versions of reality.
I want to scream.
I want to throw something.
But all I do is hold the damn necklace I’m still clenching in my fist.
He glances over his shoulder.
“I won’t keep you locked in here forever,” he says. “You’ll have choices soon.”
I don’t answer.
“But don’t mistake that for freedom. This isn’t something you get to walk away from.”
My heart pounds again. Hard. Or maybe it never stopped and I’ve just been stuck entranced by the man in front of me.
He steps out into the hallway. Half-lit. Silent.
And just before the door clicks shut, his voice cuts through the space between us. Just as low and calm as before, now tinged with finality.
“You don’t have to understand yet. You just have to stay.”