31. Ivy
IVY
T he space is raw. Exposed beams, concrete floors, and enough dust in the corners to make it clear no one’s loved this place in a while.
I think of every space I’ve walked through before this one, every gallery, every office, every home that never really felt like mine.
But here, now, something shifts. It’s not just what I see, it’s what I feel.
Like the walls are waiting for a new story. Our story. Our foundation.
I step in slowly, the echo of my heels bouncing off empty walls. Light pours through a wall of tall windows, the kind that stretch nearly to the ceiling, flooding the space with golden afternoon haze. It’s massive, but not impersonal. Not to me.
Jack watches me with a gaze that’s half-assessment, half-affection, but there’s something else there too, an edge of vulnerability, like he’s holding his breath, waiting to see if I’ll say yes to more than just the space.
“It used to be a furniture warehouse,” he says.
“I’ve owned it for a few years. Never figured out what to do with it. ”
I walk toward the far end, letting my fingers graze the exposed brick. “Why now?”
He shrugs, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Because it’s time. Because I want something that’s ours.”
That word, ours , lands deeper than I expect. I turn to face him fully. “Jack, this place is…”
“Too much?” he offers, arching a brow.
“It’s perfect.”
Relief flickers across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He walks over, pulling a folded sketch from his coat pocket.
“Ari helped me draft a few ideas. Nothing locked in yet. But I figured, something hybrid. Gallery meets startup incubator. Your design clients. My investment connections. A foundation wing for young artists, maybe. We could build something that bridges both our worlds.”
I unfold the sketch. It’s rough, but it’s real. Shared desks. Lofted gallery walls. A private studio in the back with skylights penciled in. I blink hard against the rush of emotion.
“You really want this?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack’s hand finds mine. “I want you to have a place where your work doesn’t have to fit anyone’s mold. And I want a space where we can make decisions without asking permission.”
I look back at the room, the beams, the windows, the light, and for the first time since everything fell apart, I feel possibility rise in my chest instead of fear.
“I want that too,” I say. “All of it.”
We explore the rest of the space together, side by side.
Jack shows me the freight elevator, the mezzanine level he wants to convert into a conference loft, the rear patio with potential for rooftop access.
He talks logistics, zoning permits, fire code, cost estimates.
But through it all, his excitement never dims.
“You already talked to Rosenthal about this?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the mezzanine.
He nods. “She thinks it’s a good idea. A clean slate. A new chapter for the Foundation, one that’s ours, not just mine.”
I pause at the railing, looking down at the open floor below. “Then we’ll name it together.”
Jack smiles, stepping behind me, his hands resting on my hips.
I let out a slow breath. For the first time in ages, I feel like maybe I don’t have to brace for something going wrong.
Maybe I can trust this. Trust him.. “We could call it Stone & Wilson. Or… no names at all. Just a symbol. Something new.”
I turn to face him, aware of how close we are now. His breath brushes my cheek. My pulse skips.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, softer than before.
His brow furrows. “You okay?”
I nod, then lean my forehead against his chest. “I think I’m more than okay. I think for the first time in a long time, I can actually breathe.”
His arms wrap around me, and we stand there, still and quiet, in the center of everything we haven’t built yet. I can feel the steady beat of his heart and wonder if he can feel mine racing.
As he holds me, I let my guard down, just enough to feel how far we’ve come. Not just from the chaos of Derek and everything that almost broke us, but from ourselves. From the parts we hid behind strategy and silence. This new space, this idea, it’s more than a project. It’s a promise.
***
Later, we sit on the edge of the mezzanine platform with our legs dangling over the side, a thermos of coffee between us that Jack pulled from the car. It’s lukewarm, but neither of us cares.
“Do you think people will believe in it?” I ask.
“In us?”
“In what we’re trying to do.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he brushes his thumb over my knuckles. “They will if we believe in it first.”
I let the silence stretch, the weight of everything we’re about to start pressing gently into my ribs, not crushing, but grounding.
“We’ve both spent so much time trying to fix broken systems,” I say. “What if we stopped trying to fix them and started building new ones instead?”
Jack’s voice is low. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
I glance sideways at him, feeling the way his shoulder brushes mine. “You were sure I’d say yes to all of this?”
“I was hopeful. You’re not the easiest person to predict.”
“Neither are you.”
His mouth quirks. “Guess we’re even.”
When we finally head back down, Jack stops in the center of the room. “We’ll need permits. Contractors. Probably a structural engineer.”
I laugh. “And branding. And lighting. And, God, don’t let me near a color wheel unless you want an all-neutral nightmare.”
He grins. “I like your nightmares.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You just like watching me flustered with paint swatches.”
“True,” he says, inching closer. “But I also like the way you look when you’re focused. Mouth slightly parted. That little furrow between your brows.”
I arch a brow. “That furrow means I’m about to throw something at you.”
“I live dangerously.”
“Clearly.”
He steps closer again, tugging me into his arms. “I like you. I love you. I want to build a life with you, and this is where we start.”
Outside, the sky has softened into dusk. The windows tint everything gold. The space looks warmer now, more alive. Before we leave, I pull out my phone and snap a photo.
“What’s that for?” he asks.
“For us. So we remember what it looked like before we filled it with everything we are.”
Jack leans in, kissing my temple. “Someday, we’ll hang that photo on the wall. First page of the story.”
I nod, my chest tight with something close to peace. “The story we wrote ourselves.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides his fingers between mine and looks back at the building like it’s already filled with art and voices and purpose.
I follow his gaze. The soft glow of the windows reflects our silhouettes in the glass, two people stitched back together by choice.
Just the stubborn belief that we could be more than what we were handed.
“Can I tell you something?” I say, the words barely louder than the hum of traffic.
Jack nods. “Always.”
“I used to think love had to be earned,” I whisper. “Proven. Performed. But this?” I glance down at our joined hands. “This feels like something I didn’t have to beg for. And that terrifies me in the best way.”
His thumb traces a slow arc across my palm. “Then we’re both terrified.”
We stop at a corner deli on the way home, the kind of place that still smells like warm bread and linoleum, where nothing feels curated.
Jack insists we split a pastrami sandwich and grab two bottles of cream soda, and we eat it in the car with the windows rolled down.
For a moment, we’re just two people in love with nothing urgent ahead.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” I say, unwrapping half the sandwich and handing it to him.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Now. While it’s still just us and the dust and the ideas.”
He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. Then: “When I was sixteen, I snuck into a competitor’s charity gala. Fake name. Borrowed tux. I’d heard rumors one of their board members was siphoning money through offshore accounts. I wanted proof.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I got caught. My father nearly lost it. But I kept the notes I took that night. That’s when I realized I didn’t want to inherit power. I wanted to understand it. Question it.”
I reach over and brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “That’s both ridiculous and kind of hot.”
Jack leans closer. “You’re the only person who’s ever thought financial espionage was sexy.”
“Only when you do it in a suit,” I murmur, stealing a quick kiss.
We drive home slow, windows open, fingers laced like a promise.
At a red light, Jack shifts in his seat, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel for just a second before relaxing.
He glances at me, something unreadable in his eyes, then turns fully toward me.
“I think this space might save us, in a way.”
“From what?” I ask.
“From forgetting,” he says. “From letting what we just went through define everything that comes next.”
I reach across the console and touch his cheek. “Then let’s fill it with something better.”
“We will,” he says. “We’ll build something that belongs to no one but us.”
I smile. “And we’ll leave the doors open, just enough for others to walk through it too.”
He leans in and kisses me, slow and certain. “That’s the whole point, Ivy.”
I hold his gaze as the light changes and he drives on. “Then let’s make it count.”