18. Duncan
DUNCAN
I stared at my computer screen, the cursor blinking against a sea of unread emails. Quarterly reports. Contract negotiations. Board meeting requests. All of it felt distant and meaningless, words on a screen that had no connection to the restless energy coursing through my body.
My mind kept drifting back to Saturday night. To Ivy in my arms, the way she'd responded to my touch, the soft sounds she'd made against my mouth. Then the sudden shift when that monitor crackled to life. The way she'd bolted from the car, leaving me sitting there with more questions than answers.
Something of that nature.
The phrase had been rolling through my head for two days now.
It was evasive, careful, the kind of response someone gave when they didn't want to lie outright but couldn't tell the truth either.
I'd built a career on reading people, on understanding what they weren't saying, and everything about that moment felt wrong.
I pushed back from my desk and grabbed my jacket, slipping it on.
Physical exertion usually helped when my thoughts spiraled, but today I felt like if I started working out, I'd break the equipment when the adrenaline surged and my intrusive thoughts began making me angry.
All I could think was that Ivy was keeping a secret from me—some other man's baby she never told me about because she was too ashamed.
And I'd been nothing but open with her about my past, the scandal—Meranda.
Climbing past the executive floor, I headed to the rooftop terrace. The Boston skyline stretched out before me, glass and steel reaching toward gray clouds that threatened rain. Up here, with the wind cutting through my jacket, I could almost breathe again.
I pulled out my phone and called Nick.
"Walsh Industries' most eligible bachelor," he answered, his voice warm with familiar humor. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I need to talk."
The levity in his tone shifted immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything's wrong. I don't know." I walked to the edge of the terrace, resting my forearms on the concrete barrier. "How's the transition paperwork coming along?"
"That's what I should be asking you. I sent over those documents last week, and I haven't heard back. Are you dragging your feet on purpose?"
"No." The answer came too quickly, too defensive. "I'm not dragging my feet. I'm just… distracted."
"By what?"
I hesitated, watching traffic move through the streets below. "Something's bothering me. About Ivy."
"Your assistant? The one you've been mooning over for weeks?"
"I haven't been mooning."
"Duncan, you've mentioned her name in every conversation we've had since she started working for you. You're mooning." His voice gentled. "What's going on?"
I ran a hand through my hair, searching for the right words. "I don't know if I trust her. Something feels off, and I can't put my finger on what it is."
"Off how?"
"Saturday night, I went to see her. We were… together. Then she heard something through this monitor she was carrying and rushed off. When I asked if she was babysitting, she gave me this vague non-answer and practically ran away."
Nick was quiet for a moment. "Maybe she really was just babysitting for someone. So she had a monitor running and one of the kids woke up. No big deal."
"Maybe." But even as I said it, I didn't believe it. "It's more than that, though. She's secretive about everything. Her past, her family situation, why she came back to Boston. Every conversation feels like she's holding back."
"Some people are private, Duncan. Especially people who've been hurt before."
"Or people who have reasons to be secretive."
The line grew silent, and my hearing filled with the sound of wind and distant traffic. Finally, Nick spoke again carefully. "What are you really worried about here?"
I pressed my palms against the concrete, feeling the rough texture bite into my skin. The honest answer sat heavy in my chest, too raw to voice easily.
"I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something," I said finally. "And I'm about to get my heart broken again."
"Duncan…"
"I know how that sounds. But Meranda taught me that people lie.
They pretend to be someone they're not, they make you believe in something that isn't real, and then they destroy you when it serves their purpose.
" The words came out bitter, edged with old pain I thought I'd buried.
"What if I'm doing it again? What if I'm seeing what I want to see instead of what's actually there? "
"What if you're not?" Nick's voice was gentle but firm. "What if she's exactly who she appears to be, and you're sabotaging yourself because you're scared?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
"Look," Nick continued, "I've seen you with a lot of women over the years. You've never talked about any of them the way you talk about Ivy. Maybe that's worth fighting for instead of running from."
"Maybe," I grunted. "I gotta go, man." Nick started to say something else but I hung up, too impatient with myself to stand there listening to yet another lecture.
I stayed on the rooftop for another hour, watching the city move beneath me.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust, and I finally headed back downstairs to my office.
The emails were still waiting, but I ignored them. Instead, I pulled up the guest list for Saturday's fundraiser. The annual charity gala for the children's hospital—formal attire, seven-course dinner, the kind of event I usually attended alone and left early.
This year felt different.
I reached for my phone before I could second-guess myself, and dialed Ivy's number. Maybe this year I wouldn’t have to go stag.
"Hi." Ivy's voice was soft when she answered, slightly breathless as if she'd been running.
"Hi. Are you busy?"
"Just handling dinner…." I heard her say something to someone in the background, then a door closing. "Sorry, what's up?"
"I have a company function this weekend. Saturday night. It's formal—a fundraiser for the children's hospital."
"That sounds nice." Her voice dropped to a low flirty tone and I pictured her smiling.
"I want you to come with me," I told her. I figured announcing it rather than asking would show her how I really felt.
The silence lasted long enough that I wondered if the call had dropped. When she spoke again, her voice was careful and uncertain. "Duncan, I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"It's a company event. People will see us together. They'll talk."
"Let them talk." I leaned back in my chair, surprised by how much I wanted this. "Ivy, I'm the CEO. I can invite anyone I want to these things. But this isn't about the company. This is personal."
Another pause. "I don't have anything to wear to something like that, and what if my father finds out?"
"I'll take care of it."
"That's not?—"
"Please," I said, cutting her off so she couldn’t give me excuses. I was desperate to help her see how good we could be together. "It matters to me. Having you there, on my arm, matters to me."
I could hear her breathing, could almost feel her internal struggle through the phone. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes. I'll go with you."
Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by something else—anticipation mixed with fear. After we hung up, I sat at my desk for a long time, staring out at the darkening sky.
I was taking a risk. Opening myself up to someone who might not be who she seemed, who might have secrets that could destroy whatever was building between us. The smart thing would be to keep my distance, to protect myself the way I had for years.
But I couldn't. Whatever Ivy was hiding, whatever reasons she had for being evasive, I needed to know. I needed to try.
I walked back to the windows, pressing my palms flat against the glass. If she was lying to me—if I opened myself up again only to be blindsided—I didn't know if I'd recover this time.