1. Ivy #2
Knox's grin widens into something that would probably charm most girls into forgetting their own names. "Could be worse, sweetheart. Could be stuck with people you don't like."
The audacity. "Who says I like you?"
"You don't have to like us."
West's voice is quiet—barely above a murmur—but it slices through the tension in the foyer like a knife through silk. Something about the calm delivery makes it worse. Makes it feel less like reassurance and more like a promise.
"You just have to stay."
My gaze snaps to him before I can stop myself. He's still angled toward the window, but those blue eyes have shifted. Fixed on me now. Steady and unreadable and so damn certain it makes something in my chest constrict.
My stomach does this awful flip-twist thing that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
The air feels too thick. Too warm. The walls of this massive foyer are somehow closing in, and I can't—I need space. Distance. Somewhere they're not looking at me like I'm a puzzle they've decided to solve.
"I'm going to my room." The words come out clipped. Final.
"Good idea." Knox's grin stretches even wider, dimples appearing like he's enjoying this far too much. "Get some rest. Long month ahead."
Every instinct screams at me to snap something back, but I don't trust what might come out. So I just turn on my heel and walk, my footsteps echoing against the marble as I head for the grand staircase.
I can feel them watching. All three of them. The weight of their attention follows me like a physical touch, tracking every step, every breath, until I finally disappear around the corner of the second-floor landing.
My room is on the second floor, overlooking the pool. It's too big, like everything else in this house. King bed, walk-in closet, ensuite bathroom with a tub I've never used. My father bought this place two years ago, right after his last campaign. I've spent maybe three weeks total here.
It doesn't feel like mine.
My feet trace an endless path across the hardwood—window to door, door to window—phone gripped so tight in my hand the edges dig into my palm. The repetitive motion does nothing to settle the buzzing under my skin.
The screen won't stop lighting up. Every few seconds, another notification pulses through, another reminder of what I'm missing.
My group chat is exploding with messages.
Simone, Jade, and Hanna are already at the airport, their feeds flooding with selfies—matching oversized sunglasses perched on their noses, champagne bottles tilted toward the camera, captions about freedom and tan lines and the kind of bad decisions that make good stories.
Four hours. I check the time again, even though I just looked thirty seconds ago. In four hours, I should be boarding that plane with them. Should be laughing too loud in the terminal, should be ordering overpriced cocktails the second we reach cruising altitude.
Instead I'm trapped here. In this pristine prison of a house. With them.
Knox's laugh carries up through the floorboards, low and easy, untroubled. Like nothing in the world could touch him.
The sound scrapes against something raw inside me. What's so funny? Is it me? Are they down there right now, discussing how my father handed me over like some kind of package that needs supervising?
Roman's voice rumbles in response, too deep and muffled for me to catch actual words. Just that steady, unshakeable timbre that somehow makes my stomach flip.
I stop pacing. Press both palms hard against my closed eyes until spots bloom in the darkness. Force myself to breathe—in through my nose, out through my mouth, the way my old therapist taught me before the panic attacks got bad enough that Dad hired someone else. Someone more discreet.
This is fine. Completely fine. One month. Thirty days. I can handle thirty days. The house is massive—I can avoid them. Stay in my room, order delivery, stream movies, pretend the three of them don't exist on the floors below me.
Except I can't stop replaying the foyer scene.
Can't stop seeing the way Roman's dark eyes tracked my face when I realized I wasn't leaving.
The way Knox said sweetheart like the word had been sitting on his tongue for years, just waiting for permission.
The way West's voice dropped into something quiet and almost apologetic when he told me I had to stay—like he knew exactly what he was asking and hated it.
My skin feels too warm, flushed and prickling. My chest constricts, ribs pressing in on lungs that suddenly can't expand all the way.
I grab my phone again. Open the group chat.
Me: Change of plans. Family emergency. Can't make it. Have fun without me.
Three dots appear immediately. Then Simone's reply.
Simone: WHAT
Simone: Ivy no
Simone: We already bought the matching swimsuits
I don't answer. I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
This is insane. I'm not a prisoner. I'm an adult. My father can't just lock me up because he's scared.
But he can. He did.
And the worst part—the part I don't want to admit even to myself—is that some traitorous corner of my brain is curious. Wants to know what a month in this house would feel like. Wants to know what would happen if I stopped running.
I shove the thought down hard.
No. Absolutely not. I'm leaving.
I just have to wait until they're asleep.
By midnight, the house has gone silent. Every light extinguished. Even the faint hum of the air conditioning seems muted, as if the entire building is holding its breath.
My pulse throbs in my throat as I slide out of bed, already dressed—leggings, hoodie, phone and wallet buried deep in my pocket where they won't slip out. The fabric feels constricting against my skin, every fiber aware of itself. My hands won't stop trembling.
This is stupid. Reckless. The kind of half-baked, impulsive disaster that proves I'm still twenty-one and nowhere near as grown-up as I like to pretend.
Don't care. Can't care.
The door opens without a sound—I ease it wider, inch by inch, until there's just enough space to slip through. The hallway stretches empty in both directions. No light bleeding under any of the doors. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing.
My sneakers make the softest whisper against the floor as I move.
Down the stairs, one hand trailing the banister for balance, the other pressed against my chest like I can physically hold my heartbeat in place.
Through the foyer. Every shadow feels like it's watching.
Every creak of the house settling sounds like someone coming.
No one appears.
The front door. My fingers fumble with the lock—once, twice—before it finally clicks open. Cool metal under my palm. Then I'm outside, and the night wraps around me like a second skin.
The air is thick. Humid. Heavy with the smell of cut grass and something floral I can't name. It clings to my throat, makes every breath feel deliberate.
The grounds stretch out ahead, swallowed by darkness except for the neat line of pathway lights that mark the route toward the front gate. It's far. Too far to see the end from here, just a trail of pale gold disappearing into nothing.
My legs start moving before I've made the conscious decision. One foot in front of the other. Walking becomes jogging.
Fast at first, then faster. My sneakers barely make a sound on the pavement. I'm going to make it. I'm actually going to make it. I'll call a car from the gate, be at the airport in an hour, on a plane by morning?—
A shadow moves ahead of me.
The world tilts. Stops.
My stomach plummets somewhere into my shoes.