Chapter 54 Ivy
IVY
I’m sitting at my dad’s kitchen island, scrolling on my phone while takeout bags sit on the counter. The windows are open, sunlight spilling across the floor, the house quiet in that comfortable, familiar way that makes me forget—just for a moment—that things have been complicated lately.
My phone buzzes.
Dad: Running late, sweetheart. Meeting went long. Be there in about twenty.
I sigh, but a smile blooms.
Me: No rush. Food’s here. I’ll try not to eat all the dumplings.
Dad: Lies. Save me two.
I set the phone down and glance around the kitchen. It smells like sesame oil and ginger. Safe smells. Childhood smells. The kind that convinces you nothing bad happens in the daylight.
Empty containers sit haphazardly on the kitchen table, leftover Chinese food my dad must’ve had last night.
I gather the empty containers and stack them neatly. It’s an old habit. My mom used to say clutter made the house anxious.
I carry them to the trash can outside on the patio, humming under my breath as I lift the lid. As I toss them inside, I grin. The memory of Sebastian tripping over the trash can fills me with nostalgia. The moment that changed everything.
So much has happened since then. The thought softens something in my chest.
I close the lid, and that’s when it happens. A hand clamps over my mouth, firm enough to steal the breath from my lungs. A body presses against my back, solid and immovable, heat and weight pinning me in place before my brain even catches up. My heart slams violently against my ribs.
“Don’t scream,” a low, familiar voice murmurs in my ear. A rasp I recognize in the worst possible way.
My stomach drops like the ground vanished beneath me.
“Be good,” he whispers. “I just want to talk.”
The voice clicks into place in my head—too smooth, too familiar.
Silas.
His arm tightens around my middle, and every instinct in my body detonates at once—panic, fury, survival.
I bite down hard against his palm.
He hisses softly, annoyed rather than surprised.
“Still feisty,” he murmurs. “I missed that.”
My vision blurs as I twist, driving my elbow back with everything I have. It connects—barely—and he grunts, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.
“Easy,” he says calmly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
My thoughts race.
The door is unlocked.
My phone is on the counter.
My dad isn’t here.
Silas shifts, dragging me inside the kitchen and shutting the patio door. Then he hauls me backward toward the hallway, my shoe slipping on the tile floor. His grip is bruising, impatient, and punishing.
“You shouldn’t have let him stand between us,” he murmurs into my hair, his tone dark. “Men like him always get in the way.”
Fear spikes sharp and clean.
But beneath it, something else ignites.
Anger.
I fight, twisting, clawing, and kicking at him.
I’m not going down that easily.