14. Jack
JACK
T he Wilson Foundation Gala is one of those nights that tries too hard.
Too many cameras. Too much crystal. Too many people pretending not to watch each other while calculating the exact social return on every compliment.
I’ve played this game most of my life. But tonight, the rules feel different.
Because tonight, I’m not walking in alone.
I arrive at Ivy’s door on time. My tie’s already tight, jaw tighter, hands flexing at my sides like they’re bracing for something I can’t name.
When she opens the door, I forget every practiced line in my head.
She’s breathtaking, draped in black silk that looks like it was stitched onto her body by a designer who understood temptation too well.
The slit up her leg is unapologetic. Her hair is swept up, neck exposed, collarbone kissed with gold. For a moment, I just look at her.
Her eyes meet mine. Like she sees right through the silence.
“You just made every other woman in this city forgettable,” I say before I can stop myself.
She smiles, barely. “Careful. You’re making it hard not to fall for you right here in the hallway.”
She takes my arm. We ride in silence, but it’s not comfortable.
Our hands stay locked together between us, and still, I want closer.
By the time we reach the gala, the tension in my chest feels like a storm I haven’t earned the right to release.
When she steps out of the car, heads turn.
Cameras flash. And I don’t care who’s watching. She’s mine tonight.
Her dress is black silk, sharp and fluid all at once, hugging the line of her waist and flaring just slightly at the hem.
There’s a slit up one leg, not too high, but high enough to command attention.
Gold detailing at the collarbone draws the eye, daring anyone to look longer than they should.
Her hair is swept into an intricate updo that reveals the graceful line of her neck, a choice as deliberate as it is disarming.
Her expression holds steady, serene on the surface, but with a charge that simmers just beneath.
Every tilt of her chin, every measured blink, broadcasts control.
She’s aloof in a way that feels almost dangerous, feminine and untouchable, like a goddess sculpted from obsidian and silk.
As she moves beside me, my mind betrays me.
I imagine pulling that dress up in the dark, one slow inch at a time, her breath hitching as my hands slide over the curves hidden beneath silk.
I wonder if her skin would be warm against my tongue, if she’d arch into me or whisper my name in that barely-there voice she uses when she’s holding back too much.
I picture her thighs tightening around my cock, her lipstick smudged, her composure cracked, just for me.
She’s all control in public, but I can’t stop thinking about what she’d be like when that control slips, when she lets go completely.
The way she tilts her head, it’s not just elegance.
It’s a dare. She's dangerous tonight, not because she demands attention, but because she commands it without trying. She doesn’t dress like someone who wants to disappear.
She dresses like someone who wants to be remembered, and tonight, no one is going to forget her.
We walk in together, and every step we take feels like it drags a thousand stares behind us.
I offer my arm. She takes it without hesitation.
Her posture is flawless, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted just enough to say: I belong here, and I dare you to question it.
Her presence doesn’t just occupy space. It bends it around her. A force field of poise and mystery.
I watch her in profile as we pass beneath the chandelier light, and I wonder how anyone ever thought she’d blend into the background. She’s not just beautiful, she’s electric, and I’m charged by every second she’s beside me.
We greet the board, the press, the clients I don’t particularly like but still have to nod at. Ivy smiles when necessary but never overdoes it. She moves with the precision of a woman who’s decided her presence is the point.
"Jack, this must be Ivy," says Caroline Bishop, one of our legacy donors, offering Ivy a thin smile. "We’ve heard so much."
"All good things, I hope," Ivy replies smoothly, extending her hand.
"That dress is divine," Caroline adds, eyes scanning it a beat too long. "Chanel?"
"Vintage Mugler," Ivy says with a polite smile. "From a friend’s private archive."
"Ah, of course," Caroline replies, clearly impressed.
I catch Ivy’s eye, and she hides her smirk behind her champagne flute. We make our way through the crowd, and I introduce her to two members of the tech committee.
"This is Ivy Stone," I say. "She’s the reason last quarter’s marketing campaign didn’t fall apart."
"Ah, the strategist," one of them says. "Nice to put a face to the brilliance."
"It’s all a team effort," Ivy replies smoothly. "But I appreciate that."
Derek spots us from across the ballroom.
His glass pauses halfway to his lips. I catch the flicker of something in his eyes, surprise?
Resentment? There’s something darker in his eyes, a flicker of intent that feels more dangerous than anything he’s said.
He watches us for a long moment, then holds his position.
He’s not approaching yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
My jaw is tight all night. I can feel the muscle ticking every time Derek glances our way.
He’s simmering, each look thrown like a lit match, daring something to ignite.
Our mother’s expression doesn’t waver, frosted lips, frosted heart.
It’s all painfully familiar, this dance of civility stretched over barbed wire.
A family portrait with too much static beneath the surface.
But Ivy, she doesn’t flinch. She wears the room like armor, like it was made for her.
She doesn’t just survive the scrutiny. She masters it.
***
Later, I find her alone on the balcony. Her arms are resting on the railing, her posture unguarded in a way I rarely get to see. The city moves beneath us, blurred lights stretching out like a map of everywhere we haven’t said aloud.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly, eyes still on the skyline.
“You should be wherever the hell you want,” I reply, stepping closer until her perfume finds me again, sharp citrus, warm skin.
She turns. Our eyes meet, and something breaks loose in me.
A pressure valve I’ve held too tight for too long.
I kiss her, slow, certain. It’s not a tactic.
It’s not a dare. It’s every restrained impulse finding shape in her lips.
She kisses me back. Her hand slips into my jacket like muscle memory.
Like she’s always known this was coming.
Her breath is hot against my cheek. I tilt her face gently, deepening the kiss, letting it say everything we’ve never dared to voice.
My fingers graze the bare skin at her back, and she shudders slightly, not from cold, but recognition.
I start to lose myself. I want to press her against the glass and let the whole world see that she’s not his, never was. But I stop.
“Not like this,” I breathe, pulling back even though it feels like a wound.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. Her eyes stay closed, like she wants to stay suspended in that stolen second between restraint and surrender.
I step back, run a hand over my face, trying to collect what’s left of my control. My pulse is wrecked. I glance at the doors behind us, then back at her.
“We have to go,” I say, quietly.
Her eyes open slowly, searching mine for something I haven’t said yet. I offer my hand, and she takes it.
We don’t return to the ballroom. Instead, we make our way downstairs, saying nothing, the silence thick with everything unspoken. The gala noise fades behind us as the doors close and the night air hits us, cool, sharp, electric. Ivy’s hand is still in mine, her grip steady.
I walk to the curb and raise my arm. A yellow cab slides to a stop like it’s been waiting for us. I open the door for her, and she hesitates for just a second, her eyes flicking up to mine. Then she climbs in, and I follow. Neither of us says where we’re going, but we both know.
I think of the first time I saw her, how she stood across from my father, spine straight, voice clipped, already negotiating her future like it was a chessboard.
She was barely out of grad school, yet there was something fearless in the way she spoke, something that didn’t need permission to exist in a room full of power.
Even then, I knew she’d never truly belong to Derek, not if she ever learned the truth.
This moment on the balcony feels like checkmate.
All the rules I’ve lived by, don’t want what you can’t have, don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you, collapse in her presence.
It’s not about seduction, it’s about inevitability.
I’ve been moving toward this since the day she challenged my father across a boardroom table and didn’t blink.
I’ve wanted her with a kind of hunger that scares me.
This kiss isn’t just a slip, it’s a reckoning. A moment I can’t walk back. It’s not about power or timing. It’s about her. It’s always been about her.