Chapter 12
IVY
“Imade us a dinner reservation,” says Soren. “Somewhere I think you’ll like.”
“Great!” I say, excited to be going out somewhere new.
Adrian had taken me around a few places in Miami, but it always felt like he was doing me a grand favor that I should be forever grateful for. Deigning to spend a few hours with me doing something I liked.
Then I remember my suitcase situation, and I look down. “Does it have a dress code? Are joggers going to cut it?”
He looks unfazed. “Take a look in the closet in the spare room,” he says, gesturing to a door partway down the hall.
I wander down the wide corridor and enter the room. It’s tastefully decorated, lots of dark and neutral tones. The kind of spare room you hope for when visiting friends or family—the type that makes you feel like you’re staying in an upscale hotel.
There’s a huge closet facing the bed. I slide the large doors open.
It’s completely full, every hanger filled.
And the contents aren’t mismatched or random.
Everything is black. Structured. Deliberate.
I run my hands over the fabric, and the hangers clink against the rail.
Pulling a few pieces out, I quickly realize that everything looks to be about my size.
Like I was expected.
Every item is stunning, exactly my style, but better quality than I’d usually buy for myself. The fabrics are luxe—the kind that don’t lose shape after a couple of washes. No fast fashion or thrift store buys here.
I notice Soren watching me from the hallway, his mouth curved as if he’s pleased to be watching me explore the wardrobe.
“You bought all this?”
“It’s easier,” he shrugs. “Wear the black one.”
I glance at the monochrome contents of the closet and then back to him, confused.
He laughs softly to himself. “Just teasing. Wear the cocktail dress.”
I scan through the clothing and spot the dress he’s talking about.
Like everything else, it’s black—but not flat black. There’s a gloss to it without being a full shine. Something ethereal about the fabric that I haven’t seen before.
To tease him, I walk to the door. “I’ll be getting changed now.” I close it gently in his face with a grin, a smirk forming on his face as the door shuts in front of him.
Yanking off my joggers and tank top, I pull the dress on over my head and, as anticipated, it fits like it was made for me.
I twirl in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, furthest from the door, and it catches the light in a way that makes it look almost liquid when I move.
The top isn’t structured like a corset, but it’s close-fitting and intentional—a soft, sculpted bodice that dips into a clean, low neckline. The mounds of my breasts hug firmly inside, a hint of cleavage peeking out the top. Not overdone. Just enough to draw attention without trying.
Thin straps. Delicate. Almost deceptive. The fabric hugs me through the ribs and then releases at the waist, and the skirt shifts completely. Layers. Soft. Slightly chaotic.
Very me.
It’s a short, tiered tulle skirt that flares out just enough to feel playful—almost like a tutu, but darker. Less ballerina, more don’t touch me unless I let you.
It moves when I walk.
It looks like it was designed to be pretty, and then disrupted.
And it has pockets.
Beaming, I take one last look in the mirror, nod to myself and then walk out into the living room and take another twirl, the skirt flaring, filling me with something like whimsy I haven’t felt in a while.
Soren, sitting on the couch now, nods, a lopsided grin forming as he soaks in my updated appearance. “Wow, Ivy,” he says. “You’re a vision. You always look stunning, but there’s something about this… and it fits perfectly. Just like I made sure it would.”
I head to finish getting ready, grateful my makeup made its way with me in my backpack. And while I swipe on some mascara, lipstick and eyeliner, a sense of giddiness pervades me.
Like I’m the princess in a dark story, and I can’t wait to find out what happens next.
Soren doesn’t tell me where we’re going, other than that he made a reservation. He just opens the door, steps back, and waits.
He’s dressed in a dark button-up shirt with black pants, held up by a leather belt with a silver buckle. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his strong forearms, ink curling out the cuffs.
He has his hair tied back, out of his face. And his scent, the cedar wood cologne a little stronger than before. I want to inhale him.
I hesitate—not because I don’t trust him or I’m scared of trying out new restaurants. But when I do, I like to plan. To research the crap out of the menu online. To read the reviews. To know what to expect.
I like the idea of surprises much more than the reality.
“Come on, Ivy.” There’s a hint of urgency. Like this was always the next step and I need to get with the program.
The building doesn’t look like anything. No signage. No windows at street level. Just a black door set into stone, flat and uninviting, like it wasn’t meant to be noticed.
I slow. “This is—”
“Fine,” Soren says, already closing the distance between us. “You’ll see.”
I glance up. A camera shifts above the door—subtle—easy to miss unless you’re looking for it.
Soren doesn’t knock. Doesn’t reach for the handle. He just stands there.
A soft click soon follows. The door unlocks.
Something in my stomach tightens.
Inside, everything changes. The sound disappears first. Not completely, but enough that it feels deliberate. Like the noise has been filtered, stripped down to only what’s allowed.
Then it’s replaced by soft music, indiscernible. Just enough to know it’s there, creating ambience.
The lighting is low. The walls dark. Velvet, shadow, something heavy in the air that smells expensive with another layer underneath it. Not smoke, but slower.
A man in a dark suit and unnecessary sunglasses stands at the front. He doesn’t greet us. Doesn’t ask for a name. He looks at Soren. And then he nods. We’re let through.
Soren puts his hand on the small of my back and ushers me through.
The space opens up as we move deeper inside—sections carved out of shadow, people speaking close, leaning in, voices kept low like they belong.
No one’s on their phone. No one looks bored. It’s the opposite of public. It feels contained and exclusive and more than comfortable.
Soren doesn’t look around. Doesn’t pause. He moves like he’s been here before. Like he knows exactly where everything is without needing to check.
I keep pace with him, his strong hand continuing to guide me along. My gut twists as I realize he must have brought other women here.
He stops at a corner booth, tucked back far enough that it disappears unless you’re looking for it. Positioned so you can see the room without being seen properly in return.
He gestures once. “Sit.”
I slide in.
The table is already set. No menus. No choices.
A server appears without being called. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just places two glasses down and pours something dark into both.
Soren doesn’t thank him. Doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Like this is expected.
The server disappears just as quietly.
My pulse is louder now. “What is this place?”
He looks at me then, his full attention on me. “Somewhere you don’t get bothered,” he says.
That should feel like a relief. It doesn’t. I reach for the glass, more to do something with my hands than anything else.
His hand closes over mine before I can lift it. Warm. Firm. Immediate. “Go on.”
My breath catches. For a second, I consider pulling back. Testing the line.
I don’t.
Because he’s watching me again—steady, focused, like the outcome is already decided.
I take a sip. It’s stronger than I expect. It burns slower than it should. Lingers.
His grip loosens, but doesn’t fully leave. “You’re tense,” he says.
“I’m not.”
His thumb presses once against my hand—not enough to hurt, just enough to be felt. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”
This time, I pull my hand back. Small. Controlled.
He lets me. But something in his gaze sharpens as he continues to watch me. “You don’t have to do that here,” he says.
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like you’re deciding whether something’s safe.”
My stomach drops. “I’ve had to.”
“I know.” The answer comes too easily.
I swallow. “How?”
There’s a pause—not long, just enough to register. “I pay attention.”
Something cold slides down my spine. I take another drink, faster this time.
He notices. Just like he seems to notice everything. “Slow down.”
I don’t, and take another sip.
His hand moves again. This time to my thigh. Not testing or asking. Just settling there like it belongs.
My breath stutters. “Soren—”
“Relax,” he says quietly. His fingers press slightly, holding me in place without looking like he is. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you here.”
The words should calm me. Instead, something in his tone suggests they’re not entirely a guarantee.
I shift, trying to create space.
His hand tightens. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop me. “Don’t move.”
My pulse spikes. I could move anyway. Push his hand off. Laugh it off. Make it light. I don’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to make him. And that realization lands heavier than anything else.
My phone buzzes in my bag. Sharp. Out of place. Too loud for a room like this. I reach for it.
His hand catches mine again. Faster this time. Tighter. “Don’t.”
I freeze.
His eyes lock on mine. No anger, no edge. Just that same steady certainty. “Not right now.”
The room fades. The sound. The movement. The people.
Everything pulls back until it’s just him. And the way he’s looking at me. Like this was always going to happen. Like I was always going to end up here.
With him.
And I feel something shift deep in my chest. I’m not afraid. It’s something warmer. Something that leans toward him instead of away.
And he sees that too.
His grip loosens. Just enough.
But his hand doesn’t leave my thigh.