Chapter 48 Ivy
IVY
I stare at the locked guest room door for several beats, holding Mr. Pickles like an emotional support cat. Or feline armor.
I’m still pissed at Sebastian, and I don’t think he gets why.
I’m self-aware enough to know that if I hadn’t walked away when I did—putting a solid barrier between Sebastian and me—I might’ve said something I couldn’t take back.
Mr. Pickles yowls in protest as I lower him onto the bed, his indignation vibrating through the room like he’s personally offended by the vibe.
“I know,” I tell him softly. “I don’t like it either.”
The guest room smells like linen spray and disuse. Everything here is neutral colors. An untouched space no one lingers in unless something has gone wrong. Which feels appropriate.
Mr. Pickles’s tail is puffed up, eyes bright and accusatory as he looks around. He circles the bed once, twice, then plops down with a dramatic sigh like a creature who has seen some things tonight.
“Horrible day,” I agree, moving beside him. “Shot. Needles. Masculine posturing. Honestly, you handled it better than the humans.”
He flicks his tail in what I choose to interpret as validation.
My chest still feels tight, and the house is too quiet. So quiet I can hear Drew’s voice sliding beneath the door.
Sebastian paces. I hate that I know the rhythm of his footsteps so well.
I lean back against the headboard and stare at the ceiling, replaying the vet’s office like my brain is determined to learn something new if it just runs through it one more time.
Silas showing up outside the vet’s office.
Sebastian stepped in front of me, saying, “I’ll do anything to keep you away from her,” echoing inside my head.
Part of me had leaned into it. But that part is inconvenient, loud, and already on probation.
The other part is tired.
Tired of being managed.
Tired of having decisions made for me instead of with me.
Tired of being protected in ways that erase my agency and then being told it’s protection.
I stroke Mr. Pickles’s fur. He leans into my hand, rumbling like a tiny engine.
“Sometimes I wish I were a cat,” I murmur. “Life seems simpler.”
Muffled voices slip beneath the door. I hear Drew and Sebastian talking, but the only thing I make out is Drew yelling, “…the hell did you do now?”
I almost smile.
Sebastian’s voice sounds tight. Defensive.
Good. I hope Drew gives him hell.
Either way, I’m not ready to hear anything Sebastian has to say yet.
Mr. Pickles kneads the blanket like he’s settling in for a long stay. I watch him, my anger softening at the edges but not disappearing.
That’s the difference now.
Before, I would’ve soothed it away. Talked myself into understanding him instead of demanding he understand me.
But that’s the old me. The one who stalked and chased, begging for crumbs of affection.
But tonight?
I’m allowed to be mad.
I’m allowed to walk away when he disrespects me.
I pull my phone from my pocket, scroll absently, then stop when I see the time. I should eat. I should do something productive.
Instead, I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan that doesn’t move.
Sebastian hasn’t knocked, which is surprising.
I’m grateful for that. Because if he did, I don’t know which version of me would answer—the one who wants to climb into his lap and feel safe, or the one who wants to ask him why safety always seems to come at the cost of my voice.
Mr. Pickles shifts closer, curling against my side like he’s chosen sides.
I press my lips into his fur and whisper, “We’re okay. We’re just… recalibrating.”
Down the hall, Drew’s laughter breaks the tension—sharp, incredulous.
I picture Sebastian standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, pissed at his brother for calling him out. Maybe even teaching him something new.
And despite everything, I hope he does learn something.
Because this isn’t working.
We aren’t a partnership.
Not today, anyway.
And that’s what I want. The thing my parents used to have. They were a team. Mutual respect. Two people who relied on each other.
As I stare blankly at the ceiling fan, it hits me that part of the reason my dad went off the deep end is because of what he had—and lost.
First, he drowned in grief.
Then, he searched for something to repair him.
And part of me wonders if I’m doing the same—mistaking intensity for depth. Grief for connection.
I care about Sebastian. The more time I spend with him, the more I fall for him.
But I don’t want a superficial relationship. I want something deep.
There are two big problems with Sebastian and me right now. First, he took away my agency today, silencing my voice when he took control like he knew what was best for me.
But the second is him. His heart is still locked inside a cage.
Until he trusts me enough to open up, our relationship will remain superficial.
With a sigh, I roll onto my stomach, staring at the closed door.
I didn’t slam it to punish him.
I slammed it to protect myself.
And this time, I’m not apologizing for that.