7. Ivy #2
The compliment should have made me feel confident, desired. Instead, it triggered a wave of anxiety that threatened to drown me. Beautiful women didn't disappear for four years without explanation. Beautiful women didn't hide life-altering secrets from the men they claimed to care about.
"Duncan, what we did?—"
"Was incredible." He cut off my protest with a soft kiss, his lips barely brushing mine. "And I meant what I said earlier. Whatever happened in your past, whatever you think might change how I feel about you, it won't. I'm not going anywhere this time."
His words were meant to reassure me, but they only intensified the guilt gnawing at my stomach. He was making promises based on incomplete information, declarations of commitment without knowing the full scope of what he was committing to.
I nodded anyway, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I tried to speak.
Duncan reached over and pressed the button to restart the elevator before quickly righting his own clothing and putting his still-moist dick back in his pants; the machinery hummed back to life around us.
The display showed we were still on the ground floor, though it felt as if we had traveled much farther.
"Your meeting," I said, grasping for normalcy as the doors opened to reveal the familiar marble lobby. "The board meeting at nine. Do you need me to reschedule anything else on your calendar?"
Duncan stepped out beside me, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as we walked toward his office suite. The gesture was possessive and protective, and I wondered if anyone watching would be able to tell what had happened between us.
"The Peterson contract review at eleven can be moved to next week," he said, falling easily into work discussion. "And cancel my lunch with the Hartwell Group. I'd rather spend the time going over the quarterly projections with you."
I pulled out my phone and made notes as we walked, grateful for the distraction of scheduling and logistics. Work was safe territory, neutral ground where I could function without the constant fear of revealing too much.
"What about the Morrison files? They've been sitting on your desk since Tuesday."
"I'll handle those personally. If you see any other documents related to Morrison Industries, forward them directly to me without reviewing them first."
His tone was casual, but I caught the underlying emphasis on the word personally.
The Morrison files had seemed routine when I'd first noticed them—merger agreements and financial statements that looked standard for any mid-level acquisition.
But Duncan's insistence on handling them alone suggested they were more significant than they appeared.
"Of course. Is there anything specific I should know about Morrison Industries?"
"Nothing that affects your work directly." He held open the door to my office, waiting for me to enter first. "They're a long-term strategic consideration. I'll brief you if it becomes relevant to your daily responsibilities."
I settled behind my desk and powered on my computer, already mentally organizing the day ahead.
Duncan lingered in the doorway for a moment, his eyes taking in the way I had arranged the space over the past few days.
I had added a small plant to the windowsill and reorganized the filing system to match my own preferences.
"Ivy."
I looked up to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Tonight. Dinner. My place at seven."
It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite a command either. More like a hope expressed with the confidence of a man who wasn't accustomed to being refused.
"Duncan—I can't."
I wished the expression on his face would've been a smile, but the tight nod was all I seemed to draw from him. Guilt needled at my conscience but I absolutely couldn't do this again.
Before I could explain or find an excuse, he was gone, disappearing into his own office and leaving me staring at the space where he had been standing.
I tried to focus on the stack of correspondence that needed sorting, but my mind kept drifting back to the feeling of his hands on my body, the sound of my name on his lips when he came inside me.
The memory made me shift uncomfortably in my chair, hyperaware of the lingering soreness between my thighs.
My phone rang, startling me out of my distraction. Lauren's name appeared on the display, and I answered immediately.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Ivy, thank God. I'm at the park with the kids and Sammy fell off the monkey bars. He hit his face on the way down and his lip is bleeding pretty badly. I think he might need stitches."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "How bad is it? Is he crying?"
"He's being very brave, but there's a lot of blood. I'm taking him to the urgent care on Commercial Street. Can you meet us there?"
"I'm leaving now." I was already grabbing my purse and car keys, my heart racing with the particular terror that only came with injured children. "Tell him Mommy is coming, okay? Tell him he's going to be fine."
I hung up and rushed toward Duncan's office, knocking briefly before pushing through the door. He was on the phone but looked up when I entered, his expression immediately shifting to concern when he saw my face.
"I have to go. Family emergency." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I'm sorry, I know you have the board meeting, but I have to leave right now."
He covered the phone with his hand. "Is it your mother?"
"No, I—I can't explain right now. I'm sorry." I was already backing toward the door, desperate to get to Sammy. "I'll make up the time later."
"Ivy, wait?—"
But I was already gone, running through the outer office and toward the elevators. The same elevator where Duncan had pressed me against the wall and made me forget everything except the feel of his mouth on mine. Now it seemed to move impossibly slowly as I watched the floor numbers tick by.
The drive to the urgent care center took fifteen minutes that felt like an hour. I found a parking space near the entrance and ran toward the building, my heels clicking frantically against the pavement.
But when I burst through the automatic doors, it wasn't Lauren waiting for me in the reception area. It was my father, holding Sammy on his lap, and a soft towel cover his face.
My heart stopped.
"Dad. What are you doing here?"
Bill Whitmore looked up at me with the same stern expression he had worn throughout my childhood whenever I had disappointed him. Sammy's lower lip was swollen and crusted with dried blood, but he seemed alert and uninjured otherwise.
"Lauren called me when she couldn't reach you immediately. She was frightened and didn't know what else to do." His voice was calm, controlled, but I could hear the underlying anger. "I was closest to the park, so I came to help."
"Where is Lauren now?"
"I sent her home with the girls. Told her I could handle this." He stood, lifting Sammy easily despite the boy's solid three-year-old weight. "The doctor wants to do an X-ray to make sure he hasn't chipped any teeth, then we'll know about the stitches."
A nurse appeared at the reception desk and called Sammy's name. My father followed her toward the examination rooms, and I had no choice but to gather myself and trail behind them.
The examination room was small and sterile, with cartoon animals painted on the walls in an attempt to make the space less intimidating for young patients.
Sammy sat on the paper-covered table while the doctor examined his mouth, occasionally whimpering but mostly being remarkably stoic for a three-year-old.
"We'll need to take him for a quick X-ray," Dr. Matthews explained to my father, completely ignoring my presence. "Just to rule out any damage to the teeth or jaw. It should only take a few minutes."
"I'll go with him," I said quickly.
"Actually, we prefer to limit the number of people in the X-ray room. Dad can wait here with the girls while we take the little man for his pictures."
Before I could protest, they were wheeling Sammy away on a small gurney, leaving me alone in the examination room with my father and the foreboding sense of dread swelling in my chest.
The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortably stiff and hot. I could feel his eyes on me, studying my face with the intensity he usually reserved for hostile business negotiations.
"Ivy."
The way he said my name made me look up from my wringing hands. His expression was serious, implacable, the face of a man who had built an empire by refusing to accept evasive answers.
"I think it's time you told me who their father is."
The question I had been dreading for three years hung in the air between us. I had imagined this conversation countless times, rehearsed dozens of different responses, but now that the moment had arrived, my mind went completely blank.
"It's not your business, Dad."
"When I learn I have three grandchildren I've known about for less than a week and then I'm called to the hospital because my daughter can't be reached, it becomes my business."
"I'm handling this. I've been handling it for three years without any help from you."
"That's not handling it, Ivy. That's hiding, and secrecy." He leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping to the low, dangerous tone I remembered from my teenage years. "These children deserve to know their father. You can't raise them in a vacuum forever."
"It was a one-night stand," I said, the truth bitter on my tongue. "I never spoke to him again. He doesn't even know they exist."
"Don't lie to me."
The words were sharp enough to make me jump in fright.
My father had never laid a hand on me and I knew he wouldn't start doing it now, but the very idea of him being angry with me was soul crushing.
I wanted to make him proud of me, but I was nothing more than a disappointment in his eyes. I hated that.
"I'm not lying. It was a mistake, a rebound after Jake and I broke up. I was young and stupid and I made a bad decision. But these are my children, and I can handle this myself without Daddy rushing to my aid."
My father's jaw tightened at my sarcastic tone, but before he could respond, Dr. Matthews returned with Sammy. The boy looked tired but alert, a small bandage covering the worst of the damage to his lip.
"Good news," the doctor said cheerfully. "No breaks, no chips, nothing serious. He will need a few stitches to help the lip heal properly, but it's a minor procedure. We can do it right here with some local anesthetic."
"I want to go with him," I said firmly, standing abruptly so he knew I was serious.
"Of course. We'll get him all fixed up and send him home with some instructions for care."
I followed the doctor and nurse out of the examination room, grateful for the escape from my father's interrogation. But I could feel his eyes on my back as we walked away, and I knew this conversation was far from over.
Stitches took thirty minutes, and the drive home took longer than usual because of traffic, but eventually all three children were settled in for naps and I had a moment to breathe.
I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and tried to process everything that had happened.
Lauren had brought the girls back and insisted I rest, but I sent her home after paying and thanking her. I needed space.
My phone buzzed with a text message, and I looked down to see Duncan's name on the screen. I had missed a message while at the hospital and there was a new one. My heart rate immediately accelerated as I opened the message.
Duncan 12:17 PM: How is everything? Please let me know if there is anything I can do…
The second text was a string of emojis: fire, peach, eggplant, water droplets, and a grinning face. Below them, he had typed words that made me feel charged with adrenaline.
Duncan 2:21 PM: This morning was incredible. You are incredible. I want to see you again—outside of work.
I stared at the message until the words blurred together, my hands shaking as I held the phone. The casual flirtation and obvious sexual innuendo felt surreal after the morning I'd had, the fear and confrontation and narrow escape from my father's questions.
Duncan wanted to see me again. He thought I was incredible. He was planning dinner and making promises about not holding my past against me.
But he didn't know what my past actually contained. He didn't know about the three sleeping children upstairs, about the years of lies and deception, about the way my father was already suspicious and asking questions I couldn't answer.
I turned off my phone and buried my face in my hands, overwhelmed by the impossibility of the situation I had created.
This morning, for a few precious moments in that elevator, I had allowed myself to believe that maybe, somehow, I could pretend he would actually accept me and my past, even with the lies.
Now, sitting in my kitchen surrounded by the evidence of the life I had built without him, I knew that belief had been nothing more than a beautiful, dangerous fantasy.