32. Jack
JACK
T he morning light cuts through the warehouse windows in sharp angles, throwing long shadows over the concrete floor.
Dust drifts lazily in the golden shafts, catching the stillness like it’s trying to hold onto something.
I stand in the center of the space, hands in my coat pockets, listening to Ivy’s voice echo from across the room as she speaks with the first contractor.
“It’s not just about functionality,” she says, gesturing toward the rear wall. “We want something that invites people in but also reminds them they’re stepping into something new.”
Her tone is even but firm, her presence commanding without arrogance. I catch myself staring.
The contractor, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and steel-toed boots, nods, jotting something into his clipboard.
I barely register his words. I’m still caught in the way Ivy’s hand rests on her hip, the light playing off the strands in her hair, confidence radiating from her posture.
It hits me again, what we’re building here is more than a space.
It’s a future. And I want to protect every part of it.
By noon, we’ve met with three architectural teams. Ivy’s taking notes in a slim leather notebook, and I’ve already mentally eliminated two firms. One presented an impressive portfolio, but spent too long talking to me and barely addressed Ivy.
Another pushed an aggressive timeline with zero regard for the zoning complexity we flagged earlier.
The third team, led by a woman named Pilar Chen, catches our attention. She listens carefully, asks the right questions, and sketches while we talk. Her renderings are thoughtful. Her tone, confident but collaborative, makes me think she actually understands what we’re trying to do.
After the teams leave, we collapse on the old staircase that leads to the mezzanine, sharing a lukewarm espresso from the deli down the block.
“What do you think?” I ask, watching her flip through her notes.
“I like Pilar. She sees this as more than a project,” Ivy says. “She called it a civic reframe, not a renovation.”
I nod. “She also didn’t flinch when you said you wanted gallery lighting that doesn’t intimidate.”
She smiles. “I’m learning how to ask for things I actually want.”
God, she floors me when she says things like that. Not with drama, just soft power. A woman coming back to herself, and letting me witness it.
There’s something in the way she looks at this space, at each line on a blueprint, that reminds me she’s not just healing.
She’s rebuilding, and not just professionally.
I see it in the way she commands a room now, in the ease with which she challenges opinions without softening the blow.
Ivy doesn’t second-guess herself the way she used to.
And somehow, that makes me want her even more.
***
Later that night, we’re seated at a benefit dinner hosted by a local arts council.
It’s the first public appearance we’ve made since the headlines broke, since Derek’s arrest and our announcement of the new foundation project.
Eyes follow us from the moment we arrive, and the whispers aren’t subtle.
The venue glows under golden lights suspended from exposed beams, casting everything in a soft, burnished warmth. Ivy steps into the room in a midnight-blue satin dress that moves like water and draws attention without demanding it. She doesn’t flinch under the weight of it. She owns the space.
A former Wilson Foundation board member, Gregory Lang, corners me near the bar. He’s tall, trim, with a politician’s smile and a roving eye. His handshake is firm, practiced.
“Jack,” he says, swirling his scotch. “Quite the statement you two made. Starting over. Tearing down what your father and brother built.”
I hold his gaze. “We’re not tearing anything down. We’re building something that reflects what it should’ve been.”
Lang’s expression tightens. “Rebranding isn’t rebuilding. The foundation’s name was legacy. Yours. Derek’s.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, Ivy steps up beside me. Her hand slips into mine, not possessively, but with purpose.
“That’s the thing about legacy,” she says calmly. “It only means something if it holds up under pressure. We’re not rewriting history. We’re choosing to stop repeating it.”
Lang chuckles dryly. “And the press just eats that up, don’t they?”
Ivy tilts her head. “They seem to like integrity these days. It’s rare.”
He mutters something into his drink and steps away. Ivy turns to me, her eyes steady. “You okay?”
I nod, the corner of my mouth twitching. “You handled that like a CEO.”
“Good,” she says, lifting her champagne flute. “Because this thing we’re building? I’m not playing the assistant.”
She’s half-teasing, but it lands right in my chest. “You never were.”
***
After dinner, we walk to the car slowly, the city moving around us. Ivy slips her arm through mine, her heels clicking against the sidewalk in rhythm with my steps.
“Do you ever worry it’s all too fast?” she asks. “That we’re forcing a clean start when nothing ever really comes clean?”
I pause before answering. “I don’t want clean. I want honest. This space, this future, it won’t be spotless. But it’ll be ours. And that’s enough.”
She exhales, leaning her head briefly on my shoulder. “Okay, then. Let’s get our hands dirty.”
The city blurs outside the car window as I drive Ivy home.
Not to my penthouse. Not yet. She’s still staying at her brother’s place, in the same building as me, and as much as I want to pull her into my apartment, to keep her close, I don’t push.
She’s had enough of people trying to control her choices.
I walk her to the door. She unlocks it and turns, leaning against the frame. Her eyes are soft in the dim hallway light, tired but steady.
“Thanks for today,” she says. “It felt... like something real.”
I nod, but my voice sticks in my throat. I want to ask her to stay the night. I want her in my space, in my bed, where I can convince myself that the chaos of the last few months is behind us. But I don’t say it. Not yet.
Instead, I brush her cheek with the back of my hand. “Get some rest, Ivy.”
She nods. “You too.”
And just like that, the door clicks shut. I linger outside longer than I should, staring at the closed door like it might open again. It doesn’t.
Back in my penthouse feels colder than it should. I walk through the darkened space, past the empty wine glasses we didn’t use last night, past the worn sweater she left draped over the arm of the couch. I pause there, fingers grazing the fabric. It still smells like her.
I should be used to this. The shape of my life before Ivy took up space in it.
But tonight, it feels different, emptier, somehow.
Not because she isn’t here, but because of how much of her lingers in everything.
A stray bobby pin on the bathroom counter.
Her favorite tea shoved between my coffee tins.
The soft echo of her laughter in a room that hasn’t quite let go of her presence.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the city lights blinking outside my window.
They flicker like static, restless and constant.
I wonder if she’s awake too, just down the hall.
I wonder if she’s second-guessing this like I sometimes do, not the relationship, but the timing.
The weight. The pressure of trying to build something whole out of the ruins of everything we walked away from.
What if she doesn’t say yes? I want her here, but I also want her to choose to be here.
Not out of obligation. But because she sees a future in this space too, and wants it as much as I do.
I pull out my phone, instinctively scrolling. A push notification from a business outlet flashes across the screen, an opinion piece dissecting the fall of the Wilson Foundation. I swipe it away without reading it.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I know who I need.
“Rhys,” I say when he picks up. “You up?”
“It’s midnight, Jack. Either something’s on fire or you’ve finally decided to do something about Ivy.”
I exhale a laugh, sinking onto the couch. “I think I’m going to propose.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then: “It’s about damn time.”
“I want it to be perfect,” I say. “But I also want it to be... hers. Not some spectacle. Something honest.”
“Then don’t make it a stunt. Make it something she feels, not something she sees coming.”
“You think she’s ready?”
“You already know she is,” he says. “The real question is: are you going to do it before someone else throws a party in your honor and forces your hand?”
I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t want to wait until the gala.”
“Then don’t. Do it in the new space. Do it when she’s looking at blueprints or arguing about light fixtures. That’s when she’s most herself.”
I close my eyes, picturing her again, standing in that raw space with sunlight in her hair, eyes full of vision.
“Thanks, Rhys.”
“Then don’t screw it up, Wilson. You might only get one chance to do this right.”
I end the call and sit in the silence for a while. Then I open my laptop and start searching. Not for a ring, I already have one. For the words. For the moment. For the promise that doesn’t come with cameras or boardroom applause.
She doesn’t need grand gestures. She needs truth.
She needs a man who sees her clearly and doesn’t flinch when she takes the lead.
I already know how I’ll ask. But what comes after, that matters too.
So while the proposal will be just the two of us, raw and real in the space we’re building together, I’m also planning something else.
A celebration. Not a spectacle. Just a moment that feels like us, surrounded by the people who matter.
A rooftop venue downtown, all glass and skyline, candlelight and quiet elegance. I’ve already reserved the space.
I’ve even scheduled a meeting with a planner, someone discreet, highly recommended by one of Rhys’s clients. I probably should’ve told Ivy... but I want this part to be a surprise. Just one thing she didn’t see coming. Because this time, I’m not holding back.
***
In the morning, I’m back at the warehouse before sunrise.
I unlock the side entrance and step inside, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by the vast emptiness.
The concrete floor is cold beneath my shoes.
The air smells faintly of sawdust and old steel, the kind of scent that settles into your bones.
I don’t turn on the lights. I just stand there, letting the dark wrap around me as the first sliver of daylight slips through the windows.
This space doesn’t feel like a project anymore.
It feels like a heartbeat. Like something waiting to become.
I walk to the spot where Ivy stood yesterday, her hand on her hip, her voice steady as she redefined what this place would be.
I imagine her there now, eyes bright, brows knit in focus, passion radiating from her in a way that’s more powerful than any headline or press release.
That’s when it hits me. This isn’t just where I want to propose. It’s where I want to begin.
Not in some penthouse suite or glittering ballroom. Here, on this worn concrete, where she’s fought to rebuild herself and dared to imagine a different life. Where her strength lives in the blueprints and her name is stitched into every beam we’ll raise.
I take out the small velvet box from my coat pocket, not to open it, just to feel the weight of it in my palm. It’s not just a ring. A future I’m no longer afraid to want out loud.