13. Ivy
IVY
S ienna shows up with champagne, and three garment bags slung over one shoulder.
“Tonight isn’t about blending in,” she declares as she sweeps into my living room. “It’s about a reintroduction. You, on your terms. And the Wilson Gala is the perfect stage.”
She unzips the first bag: deep emerald velvet, sleek and soft.
The second is a structured column of silver that glints under the light.
Too cool. Too distant. Then she reveals the third, a black silk gown, sharp and fluid, with a slit that climbs scandalously high and gold piping so subtle it catches only when the light wants it to.
I reach out, run my fingers over the fabric. It feels like power.
“That one,” I say.
Sienna smirks. “Knew it.”
She helps me with my hair, twisting it into a loose, low chignon that frames my face with soft strands. My makeup is bolder than usual, winged liner, a deep wine lip, skin glowing with highlighter and nerves.
She circles me as I step into the dress, her eyes narrowed in approval. “You look like a woman who’s about to destroy the narrative. Dangerous in all the right ways.”
“Good,” I murmur, sliding my feet into gold stilettos.
I take one last look in the mirror. My posture is straight, my eyes steady. I don’t just look ready. I look armed.
The invitation came last night. Jack had shown up at my door close to midnight, exhausted but unshaken. He asked me to come with him, not for appearances but for truth. For clarity. For us. And I said yes.
***
The knock comes at exactly seven. When I open the door, Jack is standing there in a black tux tailored to brutal perfection, the satin lapels catching just enough light to make him look like he stepped out of a sharper, darker version of a dream.
His gaze starts at my eyes and slowly, reverently, drags down the length of me before returning to my face. He doesn't speak at first, he just looks. Then…
“You’re going to ruin me.”
“Promise?” I say, my voice just barely steady.
He offers his arm. “Let’s go burn the world down.”
The car ride is silent, but not empty. Jack sits beside me, his gaze flicking between the dark city skyline and the reflection of me in the window.
His hand brushes against mine once, then again, and finally stays there, his thumb lightly grazing the side of my hand like he's memorizing the shape of me.
I feel the pull of his attention. The way his eyes linger a little too long when the streetlights flash across my bare shoulder, the dip of the dress, the length of leg the slit reveals.
His breath stutters, a quiet hitch like he's trying to hold it back and failing, a sharp exhale that gives him away. There's hunger in it. Awe.
When I turn my head to look at him, his jaw clenches slightly. Like he’s trying not to say something or do something.
“You’re staring,” I say, softly.
He doesn’t deny it. “I’ve been trying not to since the second you opened that door.”
My cheeks flush, and I glance away, but he leans in, close enough for his voice to rumble low between us.
“You’re dangerous like this. And I like dangerous.”
By the time the car rolls to a stop in front of the limestone building, the tension has built to something taut and electric, pressing against my skin like a live wire.
I don’t breathe until the door opens and the outside air rushes in, cool and sharp.
And still, I feel the heat of his gaze on me as I step out into the night.
The moment I step out, the camera flashes begin. Jack steps beside me, and the look on his face as he watches me adjust the hem of my gown is nothing short of pride. Possession. Admiration.
He leans in. “Ready?”
I look up at him. “I was born ready.”
We walk in together, a slow, deliberate procession through marble and whispers. People turn. People stare. People talk. But Jack? He doesn’t look at them. He looks at me.
Inside, the ballroom gleams with polished excess.
Golden light spills from crystal chandeliers, painting everything in soft opulence.
Waiters in crisp black uniforms weave through the crowd with trays of champagne and caviar, and the hum of old money and calculated charm fills the air like perfume.
White orchids drape from tall glass centerpieces, and a string quartet plays something soft, familiar, and just formal enough to keep everyone postured.
People turn to watch as we enter. I can feel the weight of their glances, the whispers that follow behind us like silk trains.
Jack walks beside me like we own the floor.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t falter. Every step is deliberate, confident, perfectly measured.
He doesn’t just escort me. He presents me.
He introduces me to board members and executives, each time with an ease that makes it clear: I’m not a plus-one. I’m not a placeholder.
“Ivy Stone,” he says with quiet authority, his hand never leaving my lower back. “You should know her work.”
Every time someone’s eyes linger too long, every time someone dares to glance at my legs or whisper about Derek, Jack shifts slightly closer. Subtle, but unmistakable. And when he smiles at me, it’s not performative. It’s personal.
We don’t see Derek until halfway through the night.
He’s leaning against the bar, drink in hand, surrounded by smug entitlement.
When he sees me, his smile fades, and his gaze sharpens.
Jack feels it. His grip tightens around my waist. Derek doesn’t come over.
But he watches. And Jack makes sure that if he’s watching, he sees everything.
Then there’s Jack’s mother. Standing tall near the dais, wrapped in cold silk and judgment. Her glance is brief. Her disapproval is palpable.
“They don’t define you,” Jack murmurs.
“I know,” I say, but the ache beneath my ribs still lingers.
He stays close. Through the toasts, the speeches, the photos, Jack never steps more than a breath away. When the foundation director clinks his glass and begins his remarks, Jack doesn’t turn to the stage immediately. He looks at me. Like I’m the only thing in this room that matters.
During dinner, he brushes his fingers along the back of my chair. Not possessive, just present. Grounding. When someone across the table tries to needle him about his sudden change in company, Jack doesn’t flinch.
“I go where the substance is,” he says, and his hand grazes mine under the table.
People notice. I can feel it. But I don’t shrink.
And neither does he. Not even once. We’re not just walking through a gala.
We’re making a statement. He brushes a piece of hair off my shoulder with a touch so deliberate it feels like punctuation.
When a board member leans in to greet him, Jack doesn’t shift his stance, he keeps one hand firmly at the small of my back, eyes scanning the room not for approval, but for witnesses.
When I excuse myself to speak to someone from the museum, I catch him watching me from across the room, a soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Not because he’s proud of the optics. Because he’s proud of me .
Every look he gives me says what his words don’t: I’m with her. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
When I excuse myself, I don’t go to the powder room. I slip out onto the balcony, a stretch of limestone framed by iron railings and ivy-wrapped columns, lit just enough to feel intentional.
The air is cool against my skin. For a moment, I just breathe.
Inside, it’s all chaos, clinking glasses, curated smiles, sharpened social games.
Out here, it’s quiet. But even silence has weight.
I press my palms to the railing and let my shoulders relax, even as my mind spins.
I saw Derek tonight, for the first time since I walked away.
And the moment our eyes met, it hit me like a punch in the chest. The way he looked at me, like I was a miscalculation he never got the satisfaction of correcting. A wound he couldn’t cauterize.
His gaze wasn’t just bitter. It was territorial.
Dismissive. A silent accusation that I dared to survive without him.
That I dared to become something outside the script he wrote.
I wasn’t supposed to leave. I wasn’t supposed to rise.
And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be standing next to Jack, radiant, seen, steady in my heels and unshaken in my skin.
The way Jack looked at me tonight, like I wasn’t just someone he wanted, but someone he chose. Like I mattered more than the whispers, more than the press, more than the history that hung between all of us and I let him.
I let myself be seen. And yet, the longer I stand here, the more that visibility starts to sting. As if some part of me knows this isn't where I'm supposed to be. Not yet. Not like this. Not with Derek in the crowd, not with Jack’s mother looking through me like I’m an interruption.
The gown suddenly feels tighter across my ribs.
The city lights blur a little at the edges, and I blink hard, grounding myself in the railing’s cold metal.
It should feel like a victory. But it feels like standing in the center of a room that still doesn’t want to claim me. I shouldn’t be here. But I am.
A few minutes pass before I hear the soft creak of a door behind me.
Jack. He steps out quietly, hands tucked into his pockets, jacket now unbuttoned, eyes locked on me like he’s checking to see if I’m okay without asking.
“You disappeared,” he says gently.
“Just needed a breath.”
He nods. Then joins me, standing close but not crowding.
“I hate that he was here,” I admit quietly. “That he looked at me like I was... nothing.”
Jack turns, his voice low and certain. “He looked at you and saw what he lost. And what he’ll never get back.”
I don’t speak. I just let the city fill the silence between us. For once, it’s enough.