33. Ivy
IVY
S unlight filters through the windows, casting shadows across a space that feels far from hollow.
I walk slowly, tracing the length of the new foundation space like it’s something sacred.
My boots click softly on the concrete, the sound quickly swallowed by the vastness around me.
I’m alone, but not entirely. Not here. Here, I feel… rooted.
I run my hand along the exposed brick wall, imagining what it will look like once it’s painted, once the gallery lighting is installed, once this place is full of life and art and people who believe in something bigger than themselves.
Jack and I are still finalizing permits and architect plans, but it already feels like ours.
The echo of footsteps behind me doesn’t startle me, I already know they’re his. “I thought you had meetings,” I say without turning around. “I moved them,” Jack answers simply.
Of course he did. The man has learned how to shift mountains when he wants something. I half expect him to wrap his arms around me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks beside me in silence, both of us staring forward like we can already see the future here.
“What are you thinking?” he asks. “That I’ve never built something like this before. Not just the space. The whole thing. The intention behind it.”
He nods, quiet for a beat. “That’s the point. It’s new. It’s supposed to feel unfamiliar.”
I glance up at him. “Are you ever afraid we’ll mess it up?” Jack’s lips curve slightly. “All the time.”
That surprises me more than it should. “You don’t show it.”
“I don’t have the luxury of fear,” he says. “But I feel it. I just trust you more than I trust the noise around us.”
I blink at him. The tension in my chest softens a little. “That’s a good answer.” “I’ve been working on those.”
I laugh, and the sound bounces off the walls. Jack smiles, but it’s the quieter kind, the one he saves for me when no one else is around.
We spend the next hour walking the space, debating flooring samples and arguing over whether we need a skylight above the conference loft. I want one. Jack’s skeptical. Somehow, even that feels intimate. Like we’re learning how to compromise, how to plan, how to be a team.
At one point, he crouches to inspect a patch of concrete, muttering something about sealing issues, and I catch myself watching him.
Not just as a partner, but as a man I’ve let in far deeper than I ever planned.
There’s a steadiness in him when we work together, something I trust more than I should.
Something that scares me more than I’ll admit.
***
Back at the building, Jack insists on walking me up to my brother’s apartment, even though his penthouse is on the same floor.
His hand grazes mine in the hallway, and I almost reach for it, but I don’t.
Not with the tension in his jaw. Not with the way his eyes have been drifting to his phone all day like he’s waiting for something.
As we reach my door, he opens his mouth like he might say something more, then thinks better of it. The moment passes. “You coming in?” I ask, keeping my tone light. Jack hesitates. “I have a call to take. Shouldn’t be long.”
I nod. “Okay.” His eyes linger on mine. “Later?” “Later.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and I exhale into the stillness. But the feeling follows. Something feels... off.
I toss my keys on the counter, shed my coat, and head for the shower.
I try to wash the unease off my skin, but it clings.
Afterward, I dress down in an old tee and leggings and settle onto my brother’s couch with a sketchpad and a glass of wine.
Jack’s name is still saved under “Don’t” on my phone from the months I spent trying to convince myself I shouldn’t love him.
I stare at it for a moment before locking the screen again.
A ping pulls me out of my thoughts. A text from Sienna. Just saw Jack on 57th. He was with some woman in a red coat. Gorgeous. Definitely not business.
My chest tightens, slow and deliberate. I stare at the screen, reading the words again, as if the meaning might shift the second time.
I type out a reply: Are you sure it was him?
Her response comes immediately: Pretty sure. They hugged. She handed him a folder or something. Seemed… cozy.
I sit perfectly still, the wine glass in one hand and my phone gripped like a lifeline I no longer trust. The air in the room changes. Closes in.
Jack told me he had a call to take. He did not mention a meeting. He did not mention a woman in a red coat. And he certainly did not mention anything that could be described as “cozy.”
Then, a third message: You okay?
I stare at the blinking cursor on the screen and realize I have no idea how to respond. I’m not okay. I just don’t know exactly why yet. But I’m about to find out.
I grab my coat, still barefoot, and slide into the first pair of boots I find near the door. My keys rattle into my coat pocket as I step into the hall. I don’t look toward Jack’s door as I pass it. I keep walking, past the elevator, down the stairwell, and out onto the street.
At first, I turn left out of habit, heading toward the corner deli.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I step inside, the door chiming in greeting.
I don’t buy anything. I just stand there for a moment, surrounded by smells of burnt coffee and cheap paper towels, before turning around and walking back out. My feet take over after that.
I pass the florist Jack once dragged me to on a rainy Tuesday, the one that sells overpriced peonies and always smells like eucalyptus.
I walk past the wine shop with the crooked sign, past a couple laughing too loud, past a busker playing something soft and sad on a cello.
The sky shifts above me, deepening into slate.
When I finally reach the edge of Central Park, I move without thinking, past the gates, across the path, until I find a bench and lower myself down like I’ve been walking in a dream.
Red coat. Hugging. Folder. Cozy.
It shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because I’ve been here before. I know what betrayal feels like when it’s delivered with just enough softness to be mistaken for care.
I remember Derek’s smile the night he lied.
The way he kissed my temple and told me he’d be home late from a meeting.
I remember how I nodded, believing him, and how that belief shattered when the envelope arrived with every truth he hadn’t spoken.
Photos. Messages. Names I didn’t recognize, and faces I’d never forget.
And I remember Jack, standing there while I came undone. Too calm. Too knowing. Like he had already seen that moment coming. And now I wonder, how much does he still know that I don’t?
My boots scuff against the curb, and I realize I’ve walked farther than I thought. The trees of Central Park rise quietly in front of me, dark against the dusk. The air is damp and sharp, tinged with the scent of leaves and the city beginning to sleep. Still, I keep walking.
Because the longer I move, the more the memories flood in.
The girl with the long braid who used to leave his building just after sunrise.
The actress from last fall’s campaign, the one who thanked Jack in an interview with a smile that held too much meaning.
That French model from Milan. Vivian. God. Vivian.
I remember the way she looked at me across the table. Not jealous. Not threatened. Just amused. Like she already knew I would be temporary. Like she knew Jack always ends up alone.
I sink onto a bench near the edge of the walking path. My elbows rest on my knees, and for a long moment, I let myself feel it. All of it. The ache. The suspicion. The creeping familiarity of disappointment.
Am I doing it again? Falling for a man who gives just enough to make you believe it’s safe, until it isn’t? Am I confusing desire with stability? Intensity with intimacy? Or worse, am I mistaking danger for devotion?
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look right away. I already know it’s more than I’m ready to see. When I finally pull it from my pocket, I don’t open Jack’s messages. Instead, I scroll through my contacts until I reach a name I saved weeks ago but never thought I’d use.
Julian Marks. He’s the foundation’s legal advisor, measured, neutral, and careful. Jack trusts him. But I trust Julian’s need for precision more.
I type the message with steady fingers: Can you find out who Jack met with tonight? I need it to stay between us. Please be discreet.
I press send and watch the message deliver. Then I rise from the bench, slowly, my body stiff from the cold and the weight of too many unanswered questions. The park is quiet around me. The wind brushes past like a whisper, and somewhere in the distance, a siren fades into silence.
I don’t know what Julian will find. But I do know one thing.
Whatever comes next, whether it’s confirmation or betrayal, I will face it.
I won’t be blindsided again. I won’t sit and wait for the truth to crash into me.
This time, I’m going to find it first. And when I do, when I finally have all the pieces, I’ll decide what stays, what ends, and who walks away. On my terms.
My phone buzzes once more. And this time, I let it ring.