Chapter 51
IVY
Iwake up alone. The room is still dim, the light not yet fully through the blinds, and his side of the bed is empty. He must be in his office already.
I lie there for a moment, checking in with my body before I'm fully conscious. The soreness is still there—low, persistent—the kind that comes from being used thoroughly.
Usually that registers as something good, but this morning it doesn't quite land that way. I don't think about it too hard, just notice it.
And I notice something else, too. A quiet. Not outside, because outside is the same low hum it always is.
Inside.
In my chest.
A stillness that feels different from the settled calm I've been living in. And this one has edges.
I push myself up slowly, moving through my morning routine without thinking too much about it. Bathroom. Water. Get dressed. It's while I'm pulling on my shoes that the thought surfaces, clear and simple.
I need to leave. Now.
I hate how my brain works sometimes. I let things soften until I can’t feel the edges anymore. And then it hits all at once, and they all find their shape again. Realizing what hasn’t been right or okay all along.
An icy tendril of panic spiders its way down my core, like cold fingers tapping on each vertebra. I’ve felt this sensation before, right before I found the courage to escape the man who nearly destroyed me.
Not that these scenarios are anything alike. Not like these men are.
If I think about it too much, I know I’ll stop. I already know that. I’ll stand there, overanalyze it, wait for something to feel right before I move—and it won’t.
So I don’t wait. I grab my phone, open the app, request the ride before I can second-guess it.
Three minutes away.
My chest loosens a little. That’s easier than I expected.
I move quickly after that, grabbing my bag, keeping myself in motion so I don’t stall out halfway through.
It’s just leaving.
People leave places all the time.
There’s nothing strange about it.
I just need to get outside.
Not to meet anyone or go anywhere specific. I’ll figure that part out later.
Just—out. Air that isn't this apartment. Space that isn't shaped around him. A few minutes where nothing is being directed or redirected or handled. Somewhere I have an opportunity to think.
Before he sees me trying to leave.
Before his hand finds my waist and everything softens again without me deciding it should.
I head into the hallway to the small dish on the table by the door and reach for my keys, but grab only empty space. I double-take, confused, glancing at the table again. They're definitely not there. That’s strange.
I put them there yesterday evening, didn’t I?
My stomach tightens faintly, but I shake it off, stepping back further into the apartment, scanning surfaces, checking places that don’t make sense. Couch. Kitchen counter. Bathroom sink.
Nothing.
My phone buzzes softly in my hand. I glance down.
Searching for driver.
I slow. That’s not what it said before.
I refresh it once, then again, watching the screen like I can force it to correct itself.
Nothing changes.
Then the request disappears entirely, like it was never there.
A thin edge of irritation cuts through the quiet. “Seriously?” I try again.
Same result. No driver. No confirmation. Just that blank screen waiting for input like I didn’t already give it one.
I switch to messages instead, my thumbs moving faster now. If the app’s being weird, I’ll just call someone. It’s not a big deal.
The message hangs halfway. Doesn’t send.
I stare at it, willing it to go through. It doesn’t.
My signal flickers—one bar, then nothing.
I shift a few steps to the side, like that might fix it.
It doesn’t. The message fails.
My chest tightens. This is starting to feel—off. There’s never been anything wrong with the reception in this apartment. In fact, my experience has been the opposite—the fastest wifi, full bars of data at all times.
I hit call.
The screen doesn’t even try to connect—no ringing or any type of tone. Silence.
My irritation sharpens. “Okay,” I mutter.
But still, not a big deal. I can still physically leave without an app.
I head back to the front door and reach for it, fingers curling around the handle, twisting. It sticks—resistant. Like something isn’t quite aligned.
I tighten my grip, pulling harder. It gives a little, then stops again, like someone is holding it. My pulse ticks up.
What the actual fuck?
That’s never happened before.
I try again. This time it opens halfway.
Then—a sound behind me. A voice, soft and close. “You’re going somewhere, Ivy?”
My breath catches. I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. Of course it’s Soren—who else would it be? Santa Claus? I exhale slowly, letting my hand fall from the door. “It’s nothing,” I say, quieter than I intend, still not turning. “I was just going to get some fresh air.”
His footsteps are slow and measured as they approach me. I feel them more than I hear them. And then his hand is at my waist, warm and familiar—exactly the way I feared. My body reacts instantly—that same pull, that same quiet heat.
I squeeze my eyes closed for half a second. This feels off. Everything about this feels off.
And still I don’t move away.
“You’re trying to leave.”
I turn slowly now, phone still in my hand. “It’s not working,” I say, holding it up slightly. “My signal’s gone. The app—everything’s glitching or something.”
He watches me. Doesn’t look surprised, or attempt to ask any questions. His gaze drops briefly to the phone, then back to my face, like that’s the part that matters. “Give me that.”
My fingers tighten automatically, just for a second, as if reacting to the memory of what he did last time my phone displeased him.
Then they loosen.
I don’t remember deciding to hand it over. It’s just… gone from my hand.
He glances at the screen, thumb moving once, twice—quick, precise. Something disappears.
I don’t even know what. I just feel it.
I take a small step forward, reaching for the phone. “Soren—”
His hand catches my wrist before I get there, just enough to stop me.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t let go right away. Just holds it there, like he’s waiting for something—like he’s giving me a second to decide if I’m going to push this. “You were trying to leave me.”
I shake my head, the movement small, automatic. “I’m not—”
His hand slides from my wrist, back to my waist in one smooth motion, like the shift was always going to happen. He steps in, the space between us disappearing. “You don’t understand. You don’t need anything out there. Not unless I’m there with you.”
My chest tightens, a thousand angry flapping butterflies threatening to burst from my lungs. Because this time, it doesn’t just sound like him being possessive.
It connects—the ride, the messages, the signal, the keys, the door—all of it. The thought lands fast and sharp, but so does the realization that if I tried to string these things together and explain them to someone external to the situation they’d think I was crazy.
And then his thumb moves slightly against my waist.
Heat flares low in my stomach, immediate. Unwanted. My breath stutters. I hate that. I hate how quickly everything else starts to blur when he touches me.
“Look at me.”
I don’t even think about it—just obey.
His gaze holds mine, steady, unbroken, like he’s waiting for me to settle. His eyes are clear, honest. True.
And I do settle. My body softens before my thoughts catch up. The tension in my chest loosens, the sharp edge of it dulling until it’s harder to hold onto.
“You’re fine here.”
My fingers twitch slightly at my sides. I should argue that. I should push back, ask what he did, why everything stopped working the second I tried to leave. The questions are there. They just don’t feel as urgent as they should.
I glance toward the door. Still slightly ajar, just enough to remind me that I could go.
But I don’t move. His hand remains at my waist. Steady. Present. Anchoring. Like it belongs there more than anything else does.
His hand presses in slightly. Grounding. Pulling. Keeping me right where I am. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”
I exhale slowly. The fight in me—the part that wanted to leave, that was already halfway out the door—it’s still there. Just… quieter. Further away. Like it’s behind something I can’t quite push through.
I lean into him before I realize I’m doing it. Barely. Just enough to close the last inch of space between us.
His grip eases almost immediately. “There you go,” he murmurs. Like that was all he was waiting for. Like nothing about this was strange.
My eyes drop for a second, my thoughts trying to catch up. Because this keeps happening. Every time I try to reach outside of him, something gets in the way. Something shifts. Stops me.
My body follows before I decide to. One step back, then another. Away from the door, and back into the apartment. My breath catches slightly. That wasn’t a decision. Or was it?
Just like that, the thought of leaving slips and fades.
I don’t move. I don’t reach for the door again. I don’t ask for my phone back. I stay exactly where he put me.
And this time, I know I’m choosing it.
He reaches out a hand. Mine meets it without thought.
“Come,” he says. “I have something to show you.”