5. Ivy
IVY
I sat at my desk and tried to breathe. The office Duncan had assigned to me was larger than my entire kitchen back in Bar Harbor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, and the mahogany desk could have seated six people for dinner.
Everything about the space screamed money and power, two things I had spent years trying to escape.
My hands still trembled from our encounter in his office.
I pressed my palms flat against the cool wooden surface and forced myself to focus on the computer screen in front of me.
The quarterly reports blurred together, numbers meaningless when my mind kept replaying the way his thumb had traced my cheekbone, the way his voice had dropped when he said my name.
I closed my eyes and immediately regretted it.
The memory crashed over me without warning, as vivid as if it were happening again.
Duncan's hands tangled in my hair, his mouth hot against my neck as he pressed me back against the stone wall of my parents' garden.
The Fourth of July party had ended hours earlier, but we had lingered on the patio, sharing wine coolers and conversation that grew more intimate as the night wore on.
I had been twenty, raw from Jake's rejection and desperate to feel wanted by someone.
Anyone. Duncan had been the perfect target—older, sophisticated, carrying the kind of quiet confidence that made women notice him across crowded rooms. I knew about his previous scandal, the headlines that had painted him as a predator who took advantage of younger women.
But that night, sitting beside him as he listened to me ramble about college and my father's expectations, he hadn't seemed predatory at all.
He had seemed lonely.
When I kissed him, he pulled back immediately. His hands came up to frame my face, his expression serious and conflicted.
"Ivy, this isn't a good idea. Your father?—"
"My father doesn't have to know." I leaned closer, emboldened by the wine and the way his pupils dilated when I bit my lower lip. "Besides, you're not exactly averse to the age-gap thing, are you?"
It was a cruel thing to say, using his past against him, but I was young, ready to start my life, and hurting. I wanted him without apology. Or maybe I wanted him to prove that he wanted me more than he feared another scandal. Some would call that a "daddy issue."
"This would be rebound sex, Duncan. Not a relationship or something serious." I kissed him again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against his until he groaned and pulled me against him. "No one has to know."
The wine had made me bold, reckless in a way I had never been before. When he tried to protest again, I pressed my body against his and felt him harden through his pants. The evidence of his desire dissolved whatever noble intentions he might have had.
What happened next was nothing like the gentle, awkward fumbling I had experienced with Jake.
Duncan touched me like he was mapping territory he intended to conquer, his hands sure and demanding as they roamed over my body.
He lifted me onto the stone ledge that bordered my mother's rose garden and stepped between my thighs, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder.
I gasped his name and felt him smile against my skin.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, even as his fingers found the hem of my sundress and pushed it higher. "Tell me this is a mistake."
But I couldn't. I was already lost, already drowning in the way he made me feel powerful and desired and completely out of control all at once.
When he slipped his hand between my legs and found me wet and ready, I arched against him and begged him not to stop, and when he slid into me, my entire world tilted on its axis.
I ignored every self-preservation instinct I had and let him suck me in and spit me out—not once but three times that night.
We found the blanket left draped over Mom's sunbed and made a nest in the shadowy spot of the yard not visible to the back porch, and he, more than anything else I'd experienced in life up to that point, made me a woman that night.
It was a blur of desperate kisses and whispered endearments, of clothes pushed aside and boundaries crossed.
He took me there in my parents' garden, under the apple trees, with the scent of roses heavy in the summer air.
It was wild and intense and perfect, and when it was over, I knew I would never be the same.
I opened my eyes and stared at the computer screen, my cheeks burning with the memory. Almost four years later, and I could still feel the phantom touch of his hands on my skin, still hear the way he had whispered my name when he came inside me.
The pregnancy test two months later had changed everything.
I had been preparing for college abroad when the nausea started.
At first, I thought it was stress from my upcoming internship interviews, but when my period was three weeks late, I knew.
The two pink lines had stared back at me from the bathroom floor of my dorm room, and I had cried until there were no tears left.
The paid internship at the marine research facility in Bar Harbor had been a lifeline.
When they offered me the position, I accepted immediately and told my parents I was taking a gap year to gain experience.
My father had been furious, but my mother had supported my decision, probably sensing that I needed space to figure out my life.
I never told them about the baby. By the time I realized it was triplets, I was already too deep in the lie to find my way out.
The first year had been brutal. Three newborns, no sleep, and no help except for what I could afford to pay for.
My father sent money regularly, enough to cover rent and groceries, but he never visited.
He was always too busy, always had meetings or deals that couldn't wait.
My mother called every week, begging me to come home for Christmas or Easter or just a weekend, but I always had an excuse.
Work. School. Anything to avoid the conversation that would inevitably come if they saw the children who looked so much like their father.
My phone buzzed, pulling me back to the present.
A text from Lauren telling me the triplets were asking for me, wondering when Mommy would come home.
I stared at the photo she had sent—Sammy with chocolate on his face, Elena hugging her stuffed elephant, Chrissy building a tower with blocks—and felt the familiar ache of missing them.
I glanced at the clock on my computer screen.
It was almost noon, which meant my mother would be starting her chemotherapy session soon.
I had promised to be there, and there was no way I could concentrate on quarterly reports when she was sitting in that sterile room, poison dripping into her veins.
I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote a quick note.
Had to go to the hospital to be with my mother. Will make up the time later.
- Ivy
I left it on Duncan's desk on my way out, avoiding eye contact with his COO, who watched me with barely concealed curiosity. The elevator ride to the parking garage felt endless, and by the time I reached my car, my hands were shaking again.
The drive to Massachusetts General took twenty minutes in midday traffic.
I found my mother in the oncology wing, already hooked up to the IV that would pump chemicals through her system for the next four hours.
She looked small in the hospital bed, her normally vibrant presence diminished by the clinical surroundings.
"There's my girl," she said when she saw me, her smile brightening her pale face. "I was hoping you'd make it."
I settled into the chair beside her bed and took her hand. Her skin felt papery and thin, so different from the strong hands that had braided my hair and bandaged my scraped knees throughout my childhood.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck, but the doctors say that's normal." She squeezed my fingers gently. "Tell me about my grandbabies. I still can't believe I have three of them to spoil." I hated the sad smile on her face because I knew it didn't have to be that way… that sad.
Guilt was my new best friend, apparently.
It clung to every word out of her mouth and tormented me, but it wasn’t her fault.
She had missed three years of their lives because I had been too ashamed and afraid to tell the truth.
Three years of birthdays and first words and bedtime stories that she would never get back.
"They're good. Elena learned how to tie her shoes last week, and Sammy can count to fifty now. Chrissy still refuses to eat anything green, but she'll devour an entire bowl of blueberries if I let her."
My mother's eyes filled with tears, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. All the moments she had missed, all the milestones she should have been there to witness.
"I wish you had felt safe enough to tell me," she said quietly. "I would have helped. I would have understood."
"I know." The words came out thick with unshed tears. "I was scared. You know how Dad gets when I don't meet his expectations. I couldn't handle disappointing him again."
My father and I had been at odds since I was old enough to have opinions of my own.
He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, to study business and join the family company.
I wanted to study marine biology and work with sea turtles.
He wanted me to date the sons of his business associates, nice boys from good families who would enhance the Whitmore name.
I wanted to date whoever made me happy, regardless of their pedigree.
The fight we had when I chose my major had lasted for weeks. He accused me of being naive and idealistic, of wasting the advantages he had worked so hard to provide. I accused him of trying to control every aspect of my life, of caring more about appearances than my happiness.
In the end, we had reached an uneasy truce, but the underlying tension never went away. Every conversation felt like a potential battlefield, every decision I made subject to his judgment and criticism.
When I found out I was pregnant, the thought of facing his disappointment and anger was overwhelming. It was easier to disappear, to start over somewhere he couldn't reach me with his disapproval.
"Your father loves you," my mother said, though her voice carried a note of uncertainty. "He just doesn't know how to show it sometimes."
"He loves the version of me he wishes existed. The one who would have married Todd Henderson and given him legitimate grandchildren and a son-in-law who looks good at charity galas."
My mother was quiet for a long moment, her eyes studying my face with the intensity that had always made me feel like she could see straight through to my soul.
"Ivy," she said finally, her voice careful and measured. "Are they Duncan's?"
The question seared my conscience, branding me a liar and a rebellious daughter. I had been dreading it for three days, ever since she first laid eyes on the triplets and I saw the recognition flicker across her face.
"What makes you ask that?"
"Because your father is going to ask the same question, and they look an awful lot like Duncan did when he was younger." She shifted in the bed, the IV pole rattling softly. "And because you ran away right after his Fourth of July party four years ago."
I closed my eyes and felt the weight of four years of lies crushing down on me. There was no point in denying it anymore. The truth was written in the shape of Elena's eyes, in the stubborn set of Sammy's jaw, in the way Chrissy tilted her head when she was thinking.
"Yes."
The word came out as barely a whisper, but it felt like a shout in the quiet hospital room.
"Oh, sweetheart." My mother's voice was full of compassion and sadness and something that might have been relief. "You've been carrying this alone for so long."
"You can't tell anyone. Please." I gripped her hand tighter, desperation creeping into my voice. "If Dad finds out, if Duncan finds out?—"
"I'll take it to my grave if that's what you want," she said firmly.
"But honey, they both deserve to know the truth.
Duncan especially. Those children are his too.
" Her eyes were searching but soft. This wasn't the reaction I assumed she'd have, and it almost brought tears to my eyes to feel accepted instead of judged.
"He doesn't want children. He's never been married, never even had a serious relationship that lasted more than a few months. He's focused on his career, and he's got a multi-million-dollar company to run. The last thing he needs is three toddlers complicating his life."
"Have you asked him what he wants?" She gently squeezed my hand as she studied my face, which probably gave away how awful I was feeling.
Before I could answer, there was a soft knock on the door. Dr. White entered the room, his expression serious as he approached my mother's bed.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I'm afraid I have some concerning news about your latest blood work."
My mother and I exchanged glances, and I felt my stomach drop. The doctor's tone was gentle but grave, the voice of someone who had delivered bad news many times before.
"We're going to need to pause your chemotherapy treatments for now. Your T-cell count is lower than we'd like to see, which means your immune system is compromised. We need to give your body time to recover before we can continue."
"What does that mean?" I asked, though I was afraid I already knew the answer.
"It means the treatment isn't working as well as we'd hoped," Dr. White said carefully. "We'll need to reassess your mother's treatment plan and possibly explore other options."
The room seemed to tilt around me. My mother's hand tightened around mine, and I could see the fear she was trying so hard to hide.
"How long?" my mother asked, her voice steadier than mine would have been.
"We'll monitor your levels over the next two weeks and see how you respond. If they improve, we can resume treatment. If not…" He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.
After he left, my mother and I sat in silence, both of us processing what we had just heard. The weight of secrets and lies and unspoken truths felt heavier than ever, and I wondered how much longer I could carry them all.
"Maybe it's time to stop running," my mother said quietly.
I looked at her, this woman who had always been my anchor, and realized she was right. But knowing what I needed to do and finding the courage to do it were two very different things.