3. Ivy
IVY
T he envelope lies open on the kitchen counter, its contents fanned out like evidence in a crime scene.
I stand in front of it, my breath shallow and measured, as though stillness could somehow undo what I’ve just read.
Photographs. Hotel receipts. Time-stamped text messages.
Each item meticulously cataloged. Derek didn’t just cheat, he scheduled it.
Like business lunches or gym sessions. Like I was a meeting he could reschedule when something more interesting came along.
There’s a selfie buried between the receipts.
A woman smiles confidently in the mirror, a towel wrapped loosely around her chest. Hanging from her neck is my necklace, the one Derek gave me for my birthday.
The one he said he’d had designed specifically for me.
I remember the way he watched me open the velvet box, how he told me it was as unique as I was.
He wasn’t lying. It was one of a kind. A limited-edition betrayal, now flaunted by a woman who didn’t even bother to hide her face.
I stare at the photo for a long moment, waiting for something inside me to crack.
Nothing does. Not yet. I don’t cry, instead, I pull out the rest of the stack, methodically sorting through it.
One of the texts is from the night Derek claimed he was in Boston for a deposition.
Another features a dinner reservation at our favorite restaurant, only his name is paired with someone else’s.
The woman from the selfie again, this time wearing a different dress.
One I now realize had been hanging in our shared closet for weeks.
My stomach twists. There is a particular kind of devastation that comes from realizing the betrayal wasn’t impulsive.
It was organized. Patterned. A parallel relationship built on the bones of ours.
Still, I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I don’t even pack everything, just the essentials, enough for a few nights away, until I figure out what comes next.
I fold a cashmere sweater, roll a pair of jeans.
I pack my laptop, my grandmother’s silver bracelet, and the external hard drive with the latest mockups for Ivy Stone Creative.
I take only what matters now. No photographs of the life I’m leaving behind.
No keepsakes from a relationship built on performance.
The silence in the apartment grows heavy, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. This space, once filled with laughter, plans, and the illusion of partnership, now feels hollow. A showroom version of love for a man who never fully showed up.
The smell of the wine we opened earlier still lingers in the air, sweet and cloying.
I pour the last of it into a glass, take a slow sip, and then set it down next to the engagement ring on the table.
The ring sparkles beneath the under-cabinet lighting, flawless, cold, and precise, a perfect illusion.
A promise made for optics, not love. I slide it off my finger and place it beside the wine without hesitation, no note, no farewell, just the truth, sitting in plain sight.
I take the elevator down alone, small suitcase in hand.
When I climb into the cab, the driver asks for my destination.
I hesitate for a beat before giving him the address to a place I haven’t stayed in a while, my brother, Graham’s apartment on the Upper West Side.
He still lives there, in the building we once loved for its sense of permanence.
The ride uptown is silent. The city rushes past in a blur of streetlights and shifting shadows.
I lean my forehead against the cool window glass and try not to think.
Not about Derek. Not about the woman in the photo.
Not about the thousand signs I ignored to keep something intact that was already falling apart.
When we arrive, the building greets me like an old friend.
Warm lighting glows through tall windows.
The marble lobby looks untouched by time.
I nod to the doorman and pull my suitcase inside, the sound of its wheels echoing softly across the floor.
I step into the elevator, heart pounding.
The number to Graham’s floor glows. I inhale deeply, bracing myself, not for him, but for the new version of myself I’ll have to carry through that door.
The hallway upstairs smells faintly floral. I tug my suitcase along the plush runner toward Graham’s door and send a quick text before unlocking it.
Ivy: I'm here. Hope it’s still okay I crash.
Graham: Of course, Red. My place is your place, always has been. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Try to sleep.
His message is short, classic Graham, but it calms something raw in me.
I let myself in and flick on a single light.
The apartment is spotless. Masculine but warm.
Dark wood furniture. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with architecture books and sketches.
A lived-in leather sofa that still remembers the shape of his long frame.
I drop my bag by the door, shrug off my coat, and breathe in the comforting scent of cedar and graphite.
Everything about this place feels safe, familiar.
His presence lingers in every detail. The neatly stacked blueprints on the desk. The slightly crooked pencil cup filled with drafting tools. The pair of work boots tucked just inside the closet. Graham has always been the steady one. The one who never asked questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
He calls me Red, and always has. A nickname from childhood summers in Montauk, when my sunburned cheeks would match the sunset.
He’s protective in a way that borders on feral, and loyal in the way that makes silence feel like understanding.
He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.
He’s always known how to read between the lines.
The night passes in fragments. I shower. I try to eat. I scroll through my phone only to set it down again. The bed smells like detergent and safety. I fall asleep sometime after midnight, curled on my side, the bracelet on my wrist a small, cold circle against my skin.
***
Morning comes slowly. I slip into jeans and a soft sweater, barely brushing my hair before stepping into the hallway. I need coffee or air. Something to break the weight pressing down on my chest. I don’t hear the elevator until it opens.
“Ivy?”
I turn instinctively. Jack Wilson stands at the other end of the hallway.
Derek’s older brother. The one who always watched too closely.
The one I tried too hard not to think about.
He’s dressed in dark joggers and a charcoal henley with the sleeves pushed up.
His hair is tousled. His jaw shadowed in stubble.
He holds a phone in one hand, a takeout bag in the other, and looks like someone who expected a quiet morning, not to run into a ghost from the past.
His eyes sweep over me, slowly. Taking in the faint smudges beneath my eyes, the way my sweater slips slightly off one shoulder.
There’s something unflinching in the way he looks at me.
Something deeply masculine and quiet and unnerving.
And God, he looks good. The kind of good that makes your stomach flutter for reasons you wish you could ignore.
The kind of good that reminds you he was always the dangerous one, not because he broke hearts recklessly, but because he wanted deeply and said nothing.
We stare at each other. My arms fold across my stomach. Jack blinks once, slowly, like he’s convincing himself I’m real.
“You…” he begins, but doesn’t finish.
I clear my throat. “Just for a few days. Graham’s out of town. He said I could stay.”
Jack nods. He doesn’t move, but something in his expression shifts. The hallway, usually so quiet and composed, suddenly feels too small for all the things we’re not saying.
He steps forward, slowly. Not close, but not far either. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
The silence between us stretches, thick with tension. The air hums with something unspoken.
He looks at me again, longer this time. “You look… different.”
“Different how?” I ask.
His eyes move across my face like he’s tracing a story only he can read. “Like you’ve finally stopped pretending you were ever okay with any of it.”
I hold his gaze. There’s a sting behind my eyes, sharp and hot, but I blink it away. “Maybe I was, in the beginning. But not anymore.”
He doesn’t look away. Just shifts the takeout to one hand and leans against the wall. His voice lowers, soft but sure. “Do you want to come in for a minute? I made too much coffee.”
I hesitate, just long enough to feel the pull between caution and curiosity. I shouldn’t walk into his apartment, not like this. But there’s something in his voice, steady, certain, that makes me want to trust it. Just for a minute. I nod.
He unlocks the door, and I follow him inside. The scent of roasted beans and cedar greets me. His place is sleek, glass, steel, clean lines softened by dark leather and warm wood floors. It’s masculine, like him. Composed, but lived in, and unexpectedly inviting.
He pours coffee into two mugs without asking how I take it. Hands me one. Then leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his.
I take a sip. The quiet between us stretches again, but this time it feels intentional. Easy. Jack doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t press. He just looks at me like I never left. Like he always knew I’d come back.
My pulse flutters. Something shifts in the space between us. Subtle. But unmistakable. I glance down. He steps closer.
“You should know,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t care that you’re here.”
The heat between us is careful, but it’s alive.
I look up and meet his eyes. “I don’t think I want you to.”
He sets down his coffee. Takes mine too. His fingers graze my wrist, a light touch, but grounding. We don’t move closer. Not yet. But the space between us narrows with every breath, like we’re circling something inevitable, and for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel like running.