19. Ivy
IVY
T he cab ride is short, winding through streets that blur past the window in a haze of flickering shadow and sunlight.
I slide into the backseat and shut the door with a quiet click, the kind that feels final.
The leather is warm beneath me, the scent faintly medicinal, like air freshener meant to mask something older.
I shift slightly, the seat creaking beneath me, and glance once at the driver in the rearview mirror, he doesn’t meet my eyes.
Just keeps driving, eyes fixed forward like nothing behind him matters.
I press my cheek against the glass, watching the city stretch and bend around the corners, but it’s my thoughts that refuse to be still, clattering louder than the traffic, louder than the engine buzzing beneath me.
I clutch Jack’s note in my hand, his handwriting looping and confident across the thick hotel stationery: I didn’t want to leave without a word. Last night meant more than I can say. I’ll tell you everything soon. I love you. – Jack.
It should settle something inside me and for a minute, it does. I rest my head against the seat, let my fingers relax around the paper, and close my eyes.
The taxi turns sharply, and I sway with it, catching my balance against the door. The city glides past, pedestrians crossing, dogs pulling on leashes, someone laughing into a phone on the corner. Ordinary things. But none of it feels real.
I open my eyes just as we hit a red light. My gaze lifts to the sky, a blur of slate and glass, and I wonder if Jack’s thinking about me right now. If he regrets not saying more. If he meant to tell me sooner.
But then I remember what I stopped him from saying. That moment in bed, when he started with, “I should tell you something…” and I silenced him with a kiss.
“I don’t care what it is,” I’d whispered. “Not right now.”
He’d nodded. Agreed. But now, I wonder. What was he going to say? And why did he let me stop him so easily?
The light turns green. The cab surges forward. I sit up a little straighter. The ride is almost over. The cab pulls up to the curb. I slide out, thank the driver, and walk quickly up the steps, my eyes scanning the sidewalk like I’m expecting someone to call me back. They don’t.
Inside, I toe off my shoes and head straight for the bathroom. The city noise fades as I close the door behind me. Steam curls around me as I step into the shower, hot water chasing the tension down my spine. I lean my forehead against the tile and let myself breathe.
By the time I’m dressed, in black trousers, a silk blouse, and my go-to heels, I’ve forced the anxiety into a small, contained box. My hair is pinned back, my lips lined with soft rose, my earrings in place. Small armor, but armor nonetheless.
Still, as I close the apartment door behind me, I feel the unease settle just beneath my skin.
***
At work, the elevator doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and I step out into the gleaming marble lobby of our office floor.
My heels click softly on the polished surface, but the noise barely registers over the thrum of nerves.
I barely take three steps before a voice slices through the hallway, too familiar, too smooth.
“Ivy,” Derek says, his tone practiced, almost amused.
He’s leaning against the glass wall of the main conference room, a picture of polished ease in a charcoal suit. He smiles, too easily.
“You look well,” he says. “New perfume?”
I give him a flat look. “Just trying to move forward.”
He nods slowly. “Of course. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask, if you want to come by the apartment sometime this week to get the rest of your things. I won’t be there. Just let me know what works.”
“Wednesday?”
“Perfect,” he says, all silk and charm. “The place is yours.”
His smile lingers for a second too long. Polite. Rehearsed. Like he’s setting a trap and waiting for me to walk into it.
I walk away, trying to shake it off, but something prickles beneath my skin. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it’s just my nerves still catching up to everything that’s changed.
Still, that look on his face, that perfectly curated charm, makes me feel like I’m being maneuvered, not greeted. Like Derek’s playing a role and I’ve wandered into his spotlight without knowing my lines.
At my desk, I drop into my chair and stare at the screen without seeing it.
I should focus. I should care about the meeting in an hour or the pitch that needs tightening.
Instead, my fingers reach for my phone and fire off a quick text to Sienna: Going by Derek’s on Wednesday to pick up my stuff. Want to come with?
Her reply comes quickly: Obviously. You’re not walking into that lair alone.
I smile faintly, slipping the phone away. Then I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe.
There’s no point in spinning out. I need to pick up my things. That’s all this is. It’s not about trust or suspicion. Or Jack. It’s about closure. The kind you box up and carry out one armload at a time.
I glance across my desk, no photos, no tokens of sentimentality.
I’ve always kept it clean. Professional.
Detached. Still, I feel the weight of invisible things, memories I haven’t framed but can’t forget.
Derek’s never been good at letting go, and deep down, I know, he’s not finished.
Just as I reach for my mouse, my phone buzzes with a new message. Not Sienna this time.
It’s a name I haven’t seen in years, but one I remember instantly: Gina Miller.
My pulse skips, a chill threading down my spine as the name sears into my thoughts like an old scar I’d forgotten was still tender.
Gina isn’t just a name from the past, she’s a shadow of Jack’s.
Once his lover. Nothing lasting. Just a shadow from a different time.
The kind of woman who doesn’t reach out without purpose.
We were never close. Barely more than acquaintances. I only met her once at a fundraiser. She wore a red dress and a colder smile. I remember thinking: she didn’t like being forgotten, and never was.
The text is short: Coffee? Thought we could catch up.
I stare at it for a long moment, unease rippling through me. Why now?
I tap on her name, half expecting more context. Nothing. Just a professional headshot, a LinkedIn title that reads Strategic Consultant . No company listed.
I sit back in my chair, heart beating faster now.
The past isn’t just resurfacing. It’s circling.
I glance out the window, toward the city skyline that feels suddenly more distant than usual.
What does Gina want? I read the message again.
Then a third time. There’s no warmth in it.
No emoji. No false pretense of friendliness.
Just the kind of polite invitation that feels like a trap disguised as civility.
I text back one word: When?
The response comes in under a minute: Today. 4:30. Lafayette Grounds. A neutral spot. Public. Conveniently vague.
I tell myself I’m only going to find out what she wants. That I’m not rattled. But by the time I arrive, I’ve changed my outfit twice, my stomach’s in knots, and I haven’t touched the salad I ordered at lunch.
***
Lafayette Grounds is one of those hip cafés with reclaimed wood counters and baristas who look like they moonlight as DJs. I step in early and choose a seat by the window, back straight, hands folded, trying not to rehearse a confrontation I didn’t agree to.
When she walks in, Gina hasn’t changed. Still modelesque in that effortless, calculated way, waist-length waves, high-necked blouse tucked into tailored slacks, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head like a crown. She spots me immediately, glides over, and sits down without asking.
“Still drink espresso?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I reply, not bothering to answer the question. My hand clenches lightly around the handle of my cup.
A flicker of a smile curves her mouth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Always so polite.”
There’s a silence. Heavy. Intentional. I shift slightly in my seat, crossing my legs, trying to hold onto some version of poise.
Then she leans in slightly. “I’m not here to make trouble, Ivy.”
“Good,” I say, leveling my gaze. “Because you already are.”
Her smile fades just a breath. “Fair. But if I didn’t reach out, someone else would’ve.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She lifts her coffee, takes a slow sip, then sets it down with deliberate grace. “Jack’s not who you think. You deserve to know that before it all breaks.”
The blood rushes in my ears. My voice is low. “You’re here because of Derek.”
Gina tilts her head, as if impressed. “No wonder he fell for you.”
“I’m not interested in games, Gina.”
“I’m not playing,” she says. “I’m warning you.”
She pulls out a sleek manila envelope from her oversized bag and slides it across the table.
“I’m not the only ghost in his past,” she says softly. “But I might be the only one willing to tell the truth.”
I don’t reach for it. Not yet. My fingers twitch slightly. I glance down, then back at her, holding her gaze. Still steady.
“Why now?”
Gina lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe I got tired of being erased.”
She stands, already halfway to the door before I can process what she means.
I look down at the envelope. It's unsealed. Ivy , inked in sharp cursive across the front. The paper is smooth beneath my fingertips, heavier than it looks. I don’t open it, not yet. My thumb drifts along the seam while my other hand trembles against the side of the cup I haven’t touched.
The café around me hums with the comfort of strangers, low music, milk steamers, the clink of ceramic. But I feel like I’m in a soundproof box, the noise muffled by the rush of blood in my ears. My chest is tight, jaw clenched, every cell bracing for something I can’t name.
I don’t even know what I’m afraid of what she said, or what she didn’t. Or maybe I do.
I’ll tell you everything soon.
Jack’s words feel like they’re fading, losing shape under the weight of Gina’s certainty.
I flip the envelope over. Pause. Then, slowly, I slide the flap open and peer inside.
There’s a stack of photos. A printed email.
A screenshot of a bank statement. The top photo is slightly crooked, like someone snapped it in a rush, Jack’s car parked outside a townhouse I don’t recognize. The timestamp is recent.
My reflection stares back at me from the café window, flushed, unreadable, still dressed like the version of myself that believes in clean slates and quiet mornings. But maybe that version doesn’t exist anymore.
I tuck the envelope into my bag and rise from my seat. I smooth my blouse, tighten my grip on the strap, and walk out into the late afternoon sun with my jaw set and pulse unsteady.
I need space. Air. Distance from Gina, from Jack, from the truth I’m not ready to read. Because once I know… I can’t un-know. And right now, I’m still choosing not to look.