17. Ivy
IVY
S unlight streams in through the sheer hotel curtains, soft and golden, warming the white duvet wrapped loosely around my bare body.
For a second, I don’t move. I lie there in the tangled in sheets that still smell faintly like Jack, clean soap, cedar, and something deeper. The kind of scent that clings.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
The ache between my thighs is delicious and real, and every part of me still hums with memory.
Jack wasn’t careful last night. He was hungry.
Focused. Like he’d been waiting years to touch me.
And maybe, in some twisted way, he had been.
I glance at the empty side of the bed, already missing the weight of him.
There’s a folded note on the nightstand.
I read it. My smile grows before I can stop it.
I fold the note carefully and press it to my chest for a moment.
It feels like a turning point, like maybe I’m allowed to believe in something again.
Last night, when we were lying there, tangled in each other, Jack looked like he was about to say something.
Something serious. I remember the shift in his eyes, the way his fingers brushed my shoulder like a question but I stopped him.
Told him none of it mattered, not right then.
That the only thing I wanted was to stay in that moment. He hesitated. Then nodded. Said okay.
Now, with the weight of his absence and that note still warm against my skin, I can’t help but wonder what it was he held back. What truth he tucked behind his teeth. And why it suddenly feels so terrifying not to know.
Maybe it was something about us. About him.
Maybe it was a secret meant to come with warning signs, and I silenced it before it could be spoken.
At the time, I thought I was preserving the quiet between us.
Protecting something rare. But after that anonymous message, after seeing the photo, I wonder if I was shielding myself from a truth I didn’t want to face.
The moment doesn’t last. My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, still half-drunk on warmth and memory. The screen lights up with a notification: You were tagged in a post.
I tap into the app. It’s a gossip account.
A deep-dive thread. The first image is harmless: Jack and me stepping out of the limo together.
The second is worse, a blurry photo of us on the balcony.
I’m facing him, head tilted slightly, lips parted.
His hand rests low on my back. It’s not explicit, but it doesn’t have to be.
The framing suggests everything. The implication is clear. My stomach twists.
There’s commentary, of course. A caption that says: The Wilson brothers really know how to share.
My throat tightens. A scroll further down reveals a breakdown of Jack’s dating history.
His exes. The rumors. The spin. One headline flashes by in bold: Jack Wilson’s fiery breakup with gallery owner ends in NDA.
I don’t even know if that’s real. I don’t want to.
I drop the phone onto the sheets, then it buzzes again.
Unknown number: He’s not who you think.
No name. No punctuation. Just a line of digital venom that sinks deep into my skin. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath. It’s noise. I know it’s noise. But I also know what noise can do when it hits the right frequency.
Jack was single. I was engaged. Logically, none of this should matter. But it does. Because the image it paints isn’t just about his past, it’s about how much of it I never saw. And if I didn’t know that part of him, what else don’t I know?
I get dressed slowly, slipping into wide-leg trousers and a silk blouse.
Casual, but not careless. My makeup is minimal, just enough to say I’m holding it together.
My earrings are mismatched, but deliberately so.
My mother always says fashion is a declaration, not a disguise. Which is probably why I call her.
“Clara Stone,” she answers like she’s onstage.
“Hey,” I say. My voice wavers slightly. “Can we meet?”
“Already on my way to La Grange,” she replies. “You buying me coffee?”
“I’ll buy you silence and an almond croissant.”
She laughs, and just like that, I feel steadier.
***
La Grange is empty for a weekday, tucked on a side street in Tribeca, the kind of café where everyone wears vintage sweaters and pretends not to notice each other.
My mother is waiting in the corner, already sipping something dark and herbal, sketchpad beside her, sunglasses perched on her head.
She looks up as I approach, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“Someone’s carrying weather,” she murmurs.“You’d lead the creative direction from inception to execution. Shape the entire visual language, set the emotional tone, and define the brand voice that carries across every platform, print, digital, experiential,” I explain.
I sit across from her. “That obvious?”
“To me? Always,” she replies.
We’re quiet for a moment as I unwrap my croissant and stir sugar into my coffee.
The croissant flakes against my fingers, delicate and warm.
It smells like childhood. Like Saturdays in Paris with her, back when we still traveled together and love felt uncomplicated.
I stare down at it like I’ve forgotten how to eat.
“Something happened,” I say finally.
She arches a brow. “Did it happen to you, or inside you?”
I smile faintly. God, she always does that. “Both,” I admit. “I slept with Jack.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just takes another sip.
“I see,” she says calmly.
“It wasn’t… impulsive. It felt right. More right than anything has in a long time.”
“But?” she prompts.
“There are pictures. Online. A balcony shot from the gala. It looks intimate. Like something secretive.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It was,” I say. “But now people are speculating. There’s a thread. About him. About his past. His exes. Someone even sent me a text from an anonymous number. Said he’s not who I think.”
My mother sets her cup down.
“And do you know who you think he is?”
I blink. “I think he’s… good. Complicated, maybe. Guarded. But good.”
She watches me. Her expression doesn’t shift, but I know she’s weighing my words. Clara doesn’t react impulsively. She reads context, angles, the fine print behind emotions. It’s what makes her dangerous in a boardroom, and devastatingly effective as a mother.
“Sweetheart, anyone worth loving is complicated. But if someone has to tell you who a person isn’t, it’s usually because they’re afraid of what happens when you trust your own instincts.”
I nod slowly. “I just don’t want to be blindsided again.”
“Then ask him. Don’t let the world define your relationship for you.”
My phone buzzes again, but this time, I don’t look.
She reaches for my hand, her fingers cool and steady.
Her nails are short, unpainted. A silver ring gleams on her middle finger, the one she’s worn since I was a child.
I remember staring at it during gallery visits and red-eye flights, holding that hand through places I didn’t understand.
She’s always been fearless. Today, I just need her to be sure.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” she says. “You’re not allowed to disappear into that fear.”
Her words anchor me more than she knows. I glance at the sketchpad beside her. She’s drawn a woman, back turned, wind in her hair, standing at the edge of a pier. It looks like me.
She follows my gaze. “Sometimes the hardest thing is trusting a feeling that hasn’t hurt you yet.”
I exhale, slow and shaky. “I don’t know if I love him.”
Her smile is gentle, quiet, and fierce. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be brave enough to find out.”
Her words settle between us, quiet but unflinching. Outside, a bus rumbles past, a cyclist swerves through traffic, and someone on the corner is arguing with a parking meter. Life goes on in its chaotic, indifferent rhythm, but in here, everything feels suspended.
I glance back down at my croissant, untouched and flaking apart at the edges.
That’s how I feel, whole on the outside, crumbling beneath the surface.
Part of me still wants to disappear into a hotel bed and pretend the world doesn’t know.
But the larger part, the one that's tired of waiting to be chosen, wants answers even if it stings.
I glance toward the window, where the city stretches wide and indifferent. Somewhere, Jack is probably bracing for fallout. Maybe he’s staring at the same screen wondering if I’m going to run.
He told me he loved me. That he wasn’t walking away.
And I believed him. But love isn’t just a promise, it’s what you do after the world starts asking questions.
After it gets hard. After someone whispers that you shouldn’t trust it.
I don’t know what’s coming next, but I do know one thing. It’s time to talk to him, tonight.