26. Jack
JACK
I re-read her note this morning, even though I already know it by heart. Her tone calm, but I know the tremble beneath it. I can feel it. I can feel her. The last line burns: I love you.
It should ground me. Instead, it fuels everything I can’t contain. I haven’t slept. Barely eaten. The penthouse is silent except for the pacing of my own footsteps and the occasional buzz of my phone. Even the skyline feels different now, harsher somehow, like the city itself knows she’s not in it.
Ari calls.
“We got a hit,” he says when I answer. “A financial transfer from one of Derek's holding companies hit a flagged account in Zurich. Offshore, previously dormant. Tied to a shell corp Jack Sr. once used. Someone's ghosted the server, and not with our usual protocols.”
My pulse kicks. The air in the room thickens, the shadows lengthen around me like they’re closing in.
“Someone on the inside?”
“Or someone smarter than us. But whoever it is, they're not sloppy. They knew exactly what to bypass.”
I glance back toward the console table. Ivy didn’t say goodbye. That has to mean something. That has to be a thread I can still follow.
“Keep tracing it. Let me know the second you get more.”
I end the call and pull up the building’s security feed. Nothing. No Ivy. No movement. Just a city spinning forward without her. Even the familiar hum of the elevator feels wrong now, like the rhythm of my life has been thrown off. Then I scroll to a number I haven’t dialed in years. Marcus Grant.
He answers on the first ring. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again.”
“I need a location. Ivy Stone. She disappeared two nights ago. No trail.”
“You looking to find her or protect her?”
“Both.”
“Give me several hours.”
I hang up. Grab my coat. My reflection in the hallway mirror is all jagged edges and bloodshot eyes. Good. Let Derek see what he’s made me become.
I slide into the back seat of the town car, door closing with a finality that feels earned.
As the driver pulls away from the building, I send three messages, to the journalist Ivy trusts.
To Ari. And to a name pulled from a file Ivy once showed me, a contact Rosenthal would recognize.
This doesn’t end quietly. We go nuclear.
***
Before I head downtown, I stop by the café on 52nd. The one with the back booth and low lighting that makes everyone look like they’ve got something to hide. The kind of place built for secrets, for the kind of truths that can ruin lives.
Talia’s already there when I arrive. Coffee in hand, phone out, hair pulled into a knot that signals war. Her coat is draped over the seat beside her like she’s not staying long, but she will. I slide into the booth across from her.
“This better be good,” she says, eyes scanning me like she’s already halfway through the story.
“You know who I am. You know what my brother’s capable of. I have a story that’ll change everything. But I need it told right. I need it told now.”
She narrows her eyes. “You trying to protect someone or bury him?”
“Both.”
I hand her the file. Bank statements. Internal memos. Leaked emails. Screenshots from Ari’s tracker. The ones that show Derek’s fingerprints all over accounts that should’ve been frozen a decade ago.
She sifts through it slowly, her brow tightening with each page. The silence between us is heavy, but not empty, charged with the gravity of what this could mean.
“This… is enough to make him bleed.”
“I don’t want a bruise. I want a goddamn collapse.”
She looks at me for a long time. Then nods.
“Give me three days,” she says.
“You’ve got one,” I reply.
“Then I hope you’re ready to torch every bridge you’ve ever crossed.”
I lean forward. “If it means Ivy comes out of this alive and untouched, I’ll burn the whole damn city.”
***
By the time I reach the Lower East Side, Marcus has already left a message with a single location: a townhouse in Brooklyn tied to one of Rosenthal’s nonprofit shells.
I don’t know if Ivy’s there. I don’t even care.
It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a lead, and I need to believe she’s still somewhere I can reach.
I don’t knock. I watch. From the street, through my windshield, hidden under the awning of a laundromat that smells like steam and bleach. It’s cold. Too early for movement, too late for excuses. If she steps outside, I’ll follow. If someone else does, I’ll make them talk.
Thirty minutes pass. I scan every detail, the curtains, the lighting, the subtle hum of a generator out back. Then a man exits. Tall, coat collar up, moving like he’s not used to being watched. He checks his phone, looks both ways, and walks with purpose, like he’s timed.
I take a picture. Send it to Marcus.
He replies instantly: Name: Daniel Dawson. Ex-D.O.J. He’s Rosenthal’s fixer.
I stare at the photo, then fire off a second message: Find out what he’s doing in Brooklyn. Find out who he’s protecting.
If she’s with Rosenthal, she’s building something. A counterattack. That means there’s still a chance to meet her in the middle before this explodes. Before one of us ends up broken in ways we won’t recover from.
***
That night, I meet with Marla, the journalist Ivy once trusted to bury a story about Graham’s private life. This time, I need her to do the opposite.
“You want me to expose Derek?” she says, crossing her legs and lifting one brow. “That’s not small-time revenge. That’s reputational warfare.”
“He threatened Ivy. He’s laundering money through old family channels. And I have documents. Enough to make your next cover story. Enough to bury him under every floor of the empire our father built.”
She taps her pen, expression unreadable. “And you? You’re not worried about how deep this might cut?”
“Let it. If the foundation has to crack, better now than when it buries someone I care about.”
I pause, hearing my own words echo. The cost of this war might be everything, my name, my future, my relationship with Graham. But if it means Ivy walks free, untouched by this legacy of control and corruption, it will be worth it.
Marla leans back, lips twitching into a thin smile. “I hope you’re ready for the storm you’re about to unleash.”
We shake on it. Not with trust. With necessity. With war in our eyes.
***
Ari sends another update just before midnight: Zurich account accessed again. Someone moved the funds. Not Derek. Possibly Ivy. Or someone working with her.
I sit back in the car, jaw clenched, staring at the skyline. She’s out there. Not hiding. Working. Fighting. Every breath I take feels like I’m borrowing time until I see her again. The thought steadies me. For a moment.
Then I remember what Marcus said when he sent me Daniel Dawson’s file: If Rosenthal brought him in, it means she thinks someone might not make it out of this clean.
My hand curls tight around the leather armrest, the city lights reflecting off the window like sparks waiting to ignite. The tension burrows deep in my spine.
I scroll to the photo again, Dawson’s grainy silhouette stepping out of the Brooklyn townhouse.
He wasn’t looking around. He didn’t have to.
That kind of calm only comes from knowing someone’s already watching your six.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because Ivy’s smart enough to align with people like that now.
Which means she doesn’t need me to save her.
But she might still need me to shield her from what comes next.
I lean my head back, eyes burning, throat tight. Maybe I waited too long. Maybe in protecting her from the truth, I gave Derek the room to weaponize it. Maybe I’ve already lost her, not to distance, but to the fight I should’ve joined sooner.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Ari: Unknown IP traced to a private terminal in Tribeca. High probability Ivy’s team is using it as a jump point. We’re close.
Close isn’t good enough.
I type back fast: Scramble the backup protocols. Ghost every mirror. If we’re being watched, we go dark.
And then I do the one thing I haven’t let myself do since she left. I say her name out loud.
“Ivy. Hold on.”
Because I’m coming. Even if it breaks me.