18. Jack
JACK
M y father’s office hasn’t changed since I was eighteen. Same leather chairs, same framed polo photos, same air of old money and quiet command. The walls still smell faintly of cigars, even though no one’s lit one in years. Everything here exists in service of power, curated, controlled, immutable.
I run a hand over my jaw, smoothing the tension there as I walk in. My shoes sink slightly into the thick Persian rug, muffling my steps. I pause by the window, watching the late afternoon light bleed over the skyline, before I finally turn to face him.
Richard Wilson sits behind his desk like a monarch on his throne, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.
“I need Derek off my back,” I say.
His eyes gleam. “So you’re finally here to make a deal.”
I don’t answer. Not yet. Instead, I walk the slow path to the chair across from him, lowering myself into the seat like I’m stepping into a ring.
“He’s digging into Ivy, into me. He found out about the envelope. He hasn’t moved yet, but he will. If you want this family name intact, you need to get him in line.”
My father leans back, considering. “You always thought you could navigate this family on your own terms. You were wrong. Power has terms, Jack. Legacy has cost.”
“What do you want?” I ask tightly.
He taps a pen against his desk, a deliberate metronome of control. “Marry her.”
I blink. “What?”
“The press is already watching. You want to silence Derek? Cement your position? Then put a ring on her finger. Own the narrative.”
“You think I can treat her like a pawn?”
His smile is thin. “I think you already did when you sent her that envelope.”
I stand, brushing invisible dust from my jacket sleeves, fists clenched at my sides. “I sent it because she deserved the truth, not because I wanted to win.”
“Intent doesn’t matter. Perception does.”
I stare him down. “I’ll marry her if she wants me. Not because you say it’ll fix the optics.”
He gives a low chuckle. “You always were sentimental.”
I take a step toward the door, jaw tight. But before I reach it, I pause. For a brief second, I think I’ve survived this round, that the damage is measured, contained. I reach for the handle.
“Jack.”
I stop, spine straight. I don’t turn.
“There’s something else,” Richard says, voice lower, more measured now. “The girl. The one from London. She never asked for anything, never wanted a spotlight. But she had your child.”
My blood stills.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” he replies. “And we’ve taken care of it. Monthly payments. No headlines. The mother’s cooperative, but that kind of secret doesn’t stay buried forever.”
He lets the silence linger before delivering the knife.
“Ivy might find out, Jack. I can’t stop Derek from digging, but I can persuade him to keep this particular truth off the record. If you make the right choices.”
I stare at him, jaw locked. “You’re threatening me with my own past.”
“I’m protecting your future and the family name, but it’s your move.”
I say nothing. Because he already knows.
I walk out stiffly, heading down the marble corridor, nodding once to the assistant who pretends not to be listening.
The elevator ride is cold and silent, mirrored walls reflecting a man I barely recognize.
When I finally step into my own office, I hang my coat with care, loosen my tie, and rake a hand through my hair like I’m trying to rearrange the past. Then I sit. And I plan.
There’s one person I haven’t spoken to in years. Someone I’ve avoided for good reason. But if Derek pushes this story, I’ll need him.
My mind drifts back to London. I was young and reckless.
I thought I was invincible. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and wanted nothing from me, until the night she cried and told me she was pregnant.
I didn’t love her. I told her that. And she didn’t love me either, not really, but we made arrangements.
My father took it from there. Payments. Discretion. Silence.
I didn’t run. But I didn’t claim the child, either.
Not publicly. Not because I was ashamed of the kid, but because I knew what this family would do with it.
The headlines. The spin. They’d turn something human into a weapon.
That’s the difference between Derek and me.
He’ll marry for power, for legacy, for leverage.
I won’t. I never have. I’ve made mistakes, but I won’t lie to a woman’s face just to keep a crown I never asked for.
With Ivy, it’s different. What I feel isn’t strategic.
It’s real. And that’s what terrifies me.
Because in the public eye, Derek looks cleaner.
Safer. He knows how to smile for cameras.
I’ve always been the complication, the reckless one who never followed the script.
The Wilson heir who made headlines for the wrong reasons, whose instincts leaned toward rebellion instead of tradition.
In a family built on image, I’ve always been the mistake they kept behind closed doors.
And if this child becomes public now, if Ivy finds out from anyone other than me, it will seem like I’ve deceived her from the start.
Like I never intended to tell her the truth at all.
I know I have to come clean. The risk of silence outweighs the comfort of pretending. Tonight, I’ll tell Ivy everything. If this is going to fall apart, I want it to be on my terms, but just as I stand, I hesitate.
***
It’s nearly sunset when I see Ivy again.
She meets me at a corner bar tucked between a flower shop and an antique bookstore.
I walk the length of the block before I spot the place, located beneath an old green awning, its windows glowing with golden light.
I pause outside, checking my reflection in the glass.
I smooth my shirt collar, rake my fingers through my hair, then pull the door open.
She’s already seated when I arrive, wine glass in hand, black blouse buttoned to the collar, earrings like tiny pieces of armor. She doesn’t smile. Not at first. She studies my face for a beat before speaking.
“You look... distracted,” she says carefully, her voice softer than expected.
I hesitate, then give a half-shrug. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
She takes a slow sip, then sets the glass down carefully. “There was something you wanted to tell me last night.” Her tone is even, but her eyes carry something sharper, like she’s been turning it over all day.
My throat tightens. I wrap my hand around my glass, not drinking, just grounding myself in the cold weight of it. I break eye contact, just for a second and in that breath, I make the wrong choice.
“I thought it didn’t matter,” I say. “But now I need to know.”
The silence between us expands, thick with tension. I open my mouth. The truth trembles on the edge of it. For a second, I come close, so close, to saying everything but instead, I seal it shut with a lie I hate myself for.
“It wasn’t important,” I say, voice low. “Not compared to what we had in that room.”
Her eyes search mine. “Are you sure?”
I nod, maybe too quickly, trying to steady the ground beneath us before it splits open.
She leans back, jaw tightening. “Okay.” Then, after a pause: “A gossip account posted something this morning. Just a blurry photo but enough to start a thread.”
The distance between us is subtle, but it’s there. A shift in the air.
I reach across the table, brushing her hand. “I meant what I said in the note.”
She looks at our hands, her fingers unmoving beneath mine. Then her gaze lifts, steady and searching. “I want to believe you.”
Her voice is quieter now. Raw.
“Then do,” I whisper, even though I can see the crack already forming.
She looks incredible tonight, shining eyes framed by lashes that still carry a trace of last night’s heat.
Her blouse hugs the curve of her waist before disappearing beneath the table, and I find myself remembering how she felt beneath my hands, how she tasted when she whispered my name in the dark.
My dick twitches. I shift in my seat, forcing the thoughts away, but her scent lingers, bergamot and skin and something distinctly hers that ruins my focus.
I want to pull her close again, remind her with my mouth what last night meant but the air between us is different now. She’s here, but not fully.
We step outside together. She raises her hand to hail a cab, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as headlights skim the curb. The city hums around us, but something in her is retreating.
I move to open the cab door for her just as it slows to a stop, fingers brushing hers again.
Before she gets in, she turns to me. “You’re not the only one with ghosts,” she says softly. “But if you keep yours buried, they’ll haunt us both.”
I nod once. It’s all I can manage.
She climbs in, then hesitates, her hand on the door. “Tell me next time,” she adds. “Before someone else does.”
Then she’s gone.
As the cab pulls away, I’m left on the sidewalk, lit in the pale gold of a city that never stops watching. Her absence hits fast, like a door shutting on something fragile and half-formed. I thought I could protect her by holding back the truth but all I’ve done is give it more power to hurt her.
Tomorrow, I make my move, before Derek does. Before this spirals further. I’m not losing her. Not again.
But just as I sit down to prepare myself, my phone vibrates.
A message from an old contact at the New York Ledger , someone who owed me a favor once: Hey. Heads up. Your name’s about to hit print. Derek’s pushing a story about London. They’re running with it tomorrow unless you kill it fast.
My pulse spikes. I grip the phone tighter, the screen glowing in my hand like it’s lit with a fuse. The story hasn’t broken yet, but it’s coming. I lower the phone slowly and close my eyes.
I was going to tell her. God knows I wanted to but now I have to put out this fire first. I have to protect her from the worst of it before the blast hits.
The truth can wait. It has to, because right now, damage control isn’t about me.
It’s about shielding her from the wreckage Derek’s about to cause.
But just as I stand, I hesitate. There’s one more option.
One more person I haven’t spoken to in years. A fixer I swore I’d never owe again.
I scroll to his name: Leo Santiago.
I hit call.
“Jack Wilson,” he answers on the second ring, voice smooth as ever. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I need a story killed. Fast. Discreetly. And I need to know what else Derek might be feeding the press.”
Leo whistles low. “Someone’s been busy.”
“You owe me, Leo.”
“That I do,” he replies. “Send me the details. I’ll call you in an hour.”
I hang up and exhale. This isn’t a favor. It’s a deal with the devil. But right now, the devil’s on my side.