23. Ivy
IVY
T he curtains in this borrowed house don’t quite shut, and the morning light cuts in with precision, carving out the edges of everything I’ve been trying to keep soft. I’m on the couch in a robe that isn’t mine, drinking coffee, staring at my phone like it’s a live wire ready to spark.
It doesn’t, not because the silence is comforting, but because what I’m afraid of can’t be delivered through a phone.
It’s already here, under my skin, in every breath I take.
The coffee is good, almost indulgent, and I let it ground me for a second.
Still, the silence in the house presses against my ribs like something waiting to break.
No matter how rich the taste, it can’t mask the tight, persistent dread knotting itself low in my gut.
I turned it off after I sent the note. Folded it once, left it just inside the door where I knew he’d find it. I didn’t write much, because if I let myself explain, I would’ve written myself into staying. All I said was the truth: it wasn’t safe. Not for him. Not for us. And that I loved him.
Sienna appears from the hallway, her hair in a bun, wearing a hoodie that says “Hell No.” She surveys the scene: me curled up on the couch like a woman who made the right decision and already regrets it.
“You look like guilt in an HBO drama.”
I glance up. “I’ll take that over ‘idiot in a soap opera.’”
She drops beside me, balancing her mug on her knee. “You know he’s not going to listen. You told Jack not to look for you. That’s basically a dare.”
“I know.” I exhale slowly. “But if he comes after me now, Derek wins.”
Her voice softens. “You think you scared him off?”
“No,” I say. “I think I just lit the match he’s going to use to set something on fire.”
We fall silent. The borrowed townhouse is sleek, anonymous, and a little too perfect, the kind of place that hides you in its symmetry.
We’re north of the city, just far enough to be off anyone’s radar.
My laptop is open on the coffee table. I’ve already sent out three emails, encrypted, flagged.
One to a reporter I trust. One to a woman I interned for who now runs a private intel firm.
One to a lobbyist I once threatened to expose and who now owes me his silence and cooperation.
I don’t want revenge. I want leverage, power that doesn’t come with Jack’s name on it. Power with my fingerprints on every inch of it.
Sienna watches me like she’s afraid I might float out the window. “So what exactly is the plan, Miss Bourne Identity?”
“Get ahead of the story. Get inside Derek’s network. Find out who he’s paying to bury Jack and me.”
“You think it goes that deep?”
“I think the man who just threatened to make someone disappear isn’t bluffing.”
Sienna presses her lips together. “If you die, I’m haunting him.”
“That seems fair.”
My phone buzzes. Not a text. An encrypted ping. I lean forward and open the message. The subject line reads: Thought you’d want to see this.
There’s one attachment. A security cam still: Derek. Standing in a luxury building lobby, next to my father.
My fingers go still. The mug slips in my hand and clinks against the table. My pulse hammers in my ears. I grip the edge of the couch, grounding myself with force, like if I hold on tight enough I won’t come apart.
Sienna leans over, catches sight of the screen. “What the hell?”
“They met yesterday.” I whisper it, like saying it louder might crack something open. “Derek went to him.”
My father and I haven’t spoken in what feels like a long time.
The last real conversation was after I left Derek, when I told him why.
That Derek had cheated, and I couldn’t stay in a life built on performance and lies.
My father had surprised me then. Said he supported my choice. Said he respected me for it.
But I remember the shift that followed, subtle at first, less warmth in his voice, shorter replies, fewer calls returned.
I remember being eight years old, watching him pull the art off my bedroom wall before a client dinner because it didn’t look “serious.” He’s always chosen the clean narrative over the messy truth. And this? This means he’s chosen again.
“Do you think your father knew what he was doing?”
I shake my head. “He knew. Even if Derek didn’t say it aloud.”
Sienna grabs her phone. “Then we need to move faster.”
“No,” I say. “We need to be smarter. Derek wants a reaction. We give him a strategy.”
My pulse is erratic now, buzzing in my wrists.
“What are you going to do?” Sienna asks.
I look at the screen again. At my father’s face. At Derek’s.
“I’m going to disappear for a few more days.”
“Ivy…”
“Not forever. Just long enough to collect proof. To dismantle whatever this is from the inside.”
Sienna studies me. “You sound like Jack.”
I manage a smile. “Maybe I finally understand what it means to protect someone you love.”
A pause. Then she nods. The screen goes dark, but I don’t move, because the last part of the message wasn’t just a photo.
It was a sentence: He said you’d come looking. And he said if you did, he’d be ready.
My blood runs cold. This isn’t just a power play anymore, it’s a trap. And I just walked straight into it.
***
Later that afternoon, Sienna paces while I stay glued to my screen, collecting fragments.
Photos. Transfer logs. Social media burner accounts.
A financial consultant in Zurich just flagged one of Derek’s holding companies, an offshore account showing activity two days before he threatened me.
That money went somewhere. That money means intent.
This wasn’t improvisation, it was calculated.
“I know someone,” Sienna says suddenly, fingers tapping her thigh. “Remember Lila Rosenthal? Went rogue after that biotech scandal in D.C.? She freelances now. Discreet digital forensics.”
“Is she good?”
“She makes the FBI nervous.”
“Perfect. Reach out.”
Sienna types with a speed that borders on violent. I email Lila what I’ve gathered so far. We’ll see if it’s enough to crack something open.
There’s a part of me that wants to run, again. But that’s the difference now. I’m not running from something. I’m running toward it. Toward the truth. Toward control. Toward the man who deserves more than silence and shadows.
I think of Jack’s hands, steady even when mine shook.
His voice, low and unshakable, telling me I wasn’t alone.
He doesn’t know what I’m doing. But I hope, when this is over, he’ll understand why I had to disappear to protect him.
And to come back stronger. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to tell him that face to face.
Not with an apology, but with something that sounds more like a vow.
A second beginning instead of a final goodbye.
Because if I fail at this, if I move too fast or trust the wrong person, it won’t just cost me.
It’ll cost him. His name. His work. His future. And I won’t let that happen.
***
By nightfall, I have two burner phones, a signal scrambler, and three spreadsheets cross-referencing dates Jack’s name surfaced in the press with Derek’s travel history.
There’s a pattern, barely. But it’s there.
Every time Jack’s been poised for public success, Derek’s had proximity.
Anonymous tips. Sourced rumors. Coordinated leaks.
“You think he’s been orchestrating this for years?” Sienna asks.
“Not years. But long enough to know how to hide it.”
I stare at a photo of Jack from a gala two years ago. He’s laughing, relaxed, radiant in a way I rarely let myself see. I press two fingers to the screen.
“We have to outmaneuver him, not just expose him,” I say.
“What do you need?”
“An inside source. Someone Derek trusts. Someone willing to betray him.”
Sienna thinks. “I might have someone. A PR girl he used to sleep with. They parted messy. She owes me a favor.”
I nod. “Call her.”
She leaves the room. I close my eyes and take a breath. The plan is forming, jagged and imperfect, but there.
I don’t care how long this takes. I’m going to untangle Derek’s web, because if I don’t, Jack won’t just lose his reputation. He’ll lose everything. And so will I.
I open a fresh file. Title it: Contingency . A list forms, journalists who’ll listen, donors who can be persuaded, foundations Derek is quietly tied to, names I’ve stored but never used.
I tap my pen against the edge of the table, my thoughts louder than the room. I can’t afford mistakes. Not now. Not when Jack’s entire future is balanced on how well I navigate this.
Sienna returns, phone in hand.
“She’s in. She wants to meet tonight. Neutral ground.”
My mind shifts into motion. “We’ll go. But I need a backup route, a burner set to silent, and eyes on the meeting spot before we arrive.”
Sienna grins. “You’re terrifying when you’re like this.”
“No,” I murmur, reaching for my coat. “I’m terrified. There’s a difference.”
And I have every reason to be. Because Derek might have been ready. But so am I.