Chapter 59 Ivy
IVY
One second, I’m rocking on the chair, testing the give in the restraints. The next, the balance shifts, the legs scrape, and gravity takes over.
I go down hard.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Pain blooms sharp and immediate in my shoulder and hip as the blindfold presses tighter, the world tilting and spinning.
Panic surges as I lie there on the floor, tied to a chair.
I suck in air too fast, too shallow, my pulse slamming as my body screams wrong, wrong, wrong.
The door opens, and heavy footsteps pound closer.
“Don’t,” he snaps, hands gripping the chair as he hauls it upright. “Don’t do that, Ivy.”
The chair lands upright with a jolt.
I gasp, fighting the tremor in my limbs, fighting the urge to curl inward.
He steadies it.
I feel his hands linger. His heated, rushed breath hits my skin.
“Sit still,” he says, quieter now. Controlled again. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
I swallow hard and nod once. “Okay,” I say softly.
His hands withdraw.
Silence stretches, thick and loaded.
I test my wrists again, this time subtly. Slow rotations, feeling for slack. The ties bite, but there’s friction there. Just enough to keep hope alive.
I breathe through it.
Time. I need time.
“You didn’t mean for that to happen,” I say carefully.
He doesn’t answer.
“It scared you,” I continue. “Didn’t it?”
A beat of silence before he says, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I nod, like I accept that. “That’s fair,” I say. “I don’t know you, Silas. Not really.”
“Don’t.” His tone is terse. “Don’t say my name.” His voice cracks.
I ignore his warning. “I think you want me to.”
I hear him shift from side to side. Feel the room change, subtle but real.
“Why am I still blindfolded? I know it’s you, Silas.”
“Stop,” he says.
I don’t. “You don’t want to hurt me,” I say quietly. “You want to be understood.”
Silence.
Then he snaps, “You don’t get to analyze me.”
“I’m not,” I say, trying to calm him. “I’m listening.”
“Stop it, Claire.”
My body goes still. “Claire?”
He’s quiet for so long, I’m afraid he’s not going to say anything.
Finally, he says, “You sound just like her.”
My breath catches.
“Like Claire?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral and curious, but not eager.
“Yes,” he says after a few beats.
I file the name away, my heart pounding.
“Claire mattered to you,” I say.
He exhales sharply. “You don’t get to—”
“She mattered,” I repeat, calmly. “And she didn’t understand why you needed what you needed.”
Silence stretches again, heavier now.
“She left you,” I say, not accusing. “Didn’t she?” My tone softens.
The air grows tight.
“She didn’t leave,” he snaps. “She ran.”
I nod slowly, like that makes sense. “That must have hurt,” I say.
The room goes very still.
I don’t know what this will cost. But it’s working.
I hear him move again—slow, measured footsteps. He’s pacing now. Not circling me. Keeping his distance.
“She wasn’t afraid of you at first,” I say gently.
Silence.
“You didn’t start this by hurting her,” I continue. “You started it by wanting her to stay.”
His breath stutters.
“She made promises,” he says suddenly. “She said she understood me.”
I keep my voice soft. Steady. “She wanted to.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No. She liked the idea of me. Until she didn’t.”
I tilt my head slightly, as if that makes sense—even though my heart is hammering.
“People confuse intensity with safety,” I say. “Especially when they’re young.”
That lands.
“She said I was too much,” he mutters. “That I watched her like she was going to disappear.”
My chest tightens.
“You were afraid she’d leave,” I say, listening carefully to his tone. Not accusing. Just naming it.
Another pause.
“She ran,” he says again, quieter now. “Like I was something to escape.”
I let the silence stretch this time. Let him sit with it.
“That kind of rejection rewires you,” I say finally. “It makes you believe the next one will do the same—unless you stop it first.”
He stops pacing.
“You think you’re different?” he asks.
Play it smart. He’s volatile.
“I think I’m honest,” I say. “I tell people when they scare me. I don’t pretend it’s something else.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself.
“She got away,” I continue. “She rebuilt her life. Whatever she felt for you—whatever happened—it didn’t end her.”
The air in the room shifts again.
I push forward, the words rushing out. “You don’t want my story to end the way hers almost did.”
Then he says, very quietly, “You talk like you know her.”
I swallow.
“I know what it’s like to be mistaken for someone’s second chance,” I say. “And I know how dangerous that can be.”
He’s quiet for several beats. I tense, worried I pushed him too far.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” I ask. “Because they’re true?”
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t leave either.
“Can you... take off the blindfold?” I ask.
The silence stretches so long it starts to itch beneath my skin. I listen for his breathing, for movement—anything to tell me where he is.
Finally, I hear him step closer. “You don’t need to see,” he says, his voice steady again.
“I know,” I reply. “I just want to.”
Another pause.
I feel him reach for the knot at the back of my head, fingers brushing my hair—careful, almost reverent. My pulse spikes. Every muscle in my body locks down, waiting for the wrong move.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t change what’s happening.”
“I understand,” I say. And I do. I’m not asking for freedom. I’m asking for a connection.
The fabric shifts. Light bleeds in slowly, painfully bright at first. I blink hard, vision swimming as shapes come into focus.
Him.
He’s closer than I expected. Kneeling in front of me, his face tense, unreadable. His eyes flick over mine like he’s bracing for something—recognition, maybe. Judgment.
I don’t give him either.
I keep my expression soft. Open. Human.
“You look different,” he says.
“So do you,” I reply.
That earns me the faintest crease between his brows. “I won’t untie you,” he says, like a warning.
“I know.” I glance down at the restraints, then back up at him. “Thank you for trusting me anyway.”
He scoffs, but there’s no heat in it. “This isn’t trust.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s hesitation.”
The word lands heavier than anything I’ve said so far.
He shifts back, rising to his feet, creating distance without leaving.
“You shouldn’t be this calm.”
“I’m not calm,” I say honestly. “I’m choosing where to spend my fear.”
He looks at me sharply then, like that surprises him. “Claire used to say things like that.”
I hold his gaze without flinching.
“She survived,” I say again. “So will I.”
Something tight flickers across his face—anger, grief, or maybe something unresolved.
“You think this ends with you walking away?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “I think this ends with you making a decision.”
The room feels smaller now. Closer. As if the walls are listening.
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t put the blindfold back on either. And that tells me everything I need to know. Time hasn’t run out yet.
He’s still standing there, not moving or speaking.
“You’re not angry,” I say quietly. “You’re afraid.”
His head snaps up. “Don’t,” he warns.
“I’m not saying that to provoke you,” I continue, forcing myself to stay still even as my pulse pounds. “I’m saying it because I recognize it.”
He laughs once, sharp and brittle. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know what it feels like,” I say, carefully. “To realize someone sees you clearly—and to be terrified of what they’ll see next.”
His jaw tightens. He turns away, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake something loose.
“You keep talking like this,” he says, “and you’re going to make me angry.”
I swallow.
This is the line. One more step and I fall off the edge.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. “I think you’re already angry. I think what scares you is that I’m not.”
He turns back to me slowly.
Danger hums in the air now, hot and sharp.
“You should be begging,” he says.
I lift my chin. “Why?” I ask. “Because that would make you feel powerful again?”
His eyes darken. “Because it would make this easier,” he snaps.
“For who?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t answer.
I press on, knowing exactly how reckless this is. “You didn’t bring me here to hurt me,” I say. “You brought me here because you didn’t want to be alone with what happened before.”
His breath stutters. “Stop talking about her like you know her.”
“Then stop seeing her when you look at me,” I reply.
The words hang there—too sharp and honest. For a terrifying second, I think I’ve gone too far.
He steps closer.
My heart slams against my ribs, loud enough I’m sure he can hear it.
“You think you’re in control,” he says quietly.
“No,” I shake my head. “I think I’m almost out of time.”