41. Ivy
IVY
T he words blur if I look at them too long. Medical history. Scholarship records. Bank statements from a decade ago. All the pieces I thought I’d outgrown, boxed up, and buried, dragged into daylight by someone with the precision of a scalpel and the cruelty of a sledgehammer.
I hand Jack his phone back like it’s radioactive. My fingers are cold, though the sun is warm on my shoulders.
I don’t remember walking to the car. Just the slam of the door, the smell of his cologne, and the sound of traffic swallowing the silence between us.
He doesn’t push me to speak. Just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting close enough that I could reach for it if I wanted to.
I do. Eventually. The warmth of his palm steadies me, even as my mind runs a hundred miles an hour.
They didn’t just want to embarrass me. They want to erase me, turn me into a cautionary headline before the foundation even breathes.
The scholarship file is what rattles me most. I haven’t thought about that day in years, sliding the thick envelope across the desk to the board, willing them to see past my last name, my uneven transcripts, the medical forms I’d tucked in the back because they were “optional.” I didn’t need the money, my family could have bought the entire program, but I needed the independence.
I needed something with my name on it that wasn’t stamped with theirs.
Jack doesn’t know how hard I fought to earn it on merit, or how close I came to losing it before I even began.
That file was a milestone. Now it’s a weapon.
By the time we reach the penthouse, I’ve folded my expression into something calmer. The elevator rustles as it climbs, a metallic heartbeat under our feet. My reflection flickers in the mirrored walls, chin up, lips pressed, pretending I’m not still shaking inside.
Inside, Jack tosses his keys on the counter and opens the fridge like he’s been doing it for years. “You need to eat.”
“I need to think,” I counter, sliding onto one of the barstools.
He sets a glass of sparkling water in front of me anyway. “Thinking works better when you’re not running on adrenaline and caffeine.”
There’s an ease in the way he says it, like he’s not actively plotting the destruction of whoever’s behind this. But I know him well enough to see it in the set of his jaw.
I take a sip, more to make him happy than because I’m thirsty. “What’s our next move?”
His gaze meets mine, steady and unblinking. “We find them. We stop them.”
I set the glass down slowly. “And by ‘them,’ you mean Derek.”
“Derek…and whoever he hired. Santiago thinks it’s one of the ghosts from Wilson’s payroll. Former PR, security, legal… someone with clearance who still has contacts inside. Even from jail, he’s hungry for revenge, pulling strings through anyone still willing to cash his checks.”
I lean forward, elbows on the counter. “So how do we find them?”
“Two fronts,” he says without hesitation. “Santiago will trace the money. Payments from Derek, or one of his shells, to anyone who fits the profile. I’ll bring in an investigator I trust, someone completely outside Santiago’s network. And you…”
I arch a brow. “Me?”
“You still have people who’d talk to you. Old colleagues. A few who might know if someone’s been asking the wrong questions. If you frame it as groundwork for the foundation, they’ll open up.”
I think about it, weighing the risk. “So I play nice while you dig under the floorboards.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Exactly.”
“And if I find out who it is?”
He meets my gaze without blinking. “Then I’ll take it from there.”
I should tell him I don’t need him to fight my battles. But the truth is, I want him in this with me. I don’t want to face it alone again.
“Alright,” I say quietly. “We do it your way. But I get a say in the ending.”
“You will,” he promises. “And we’ll make sure they regret coming for you.”
The words settle in my chest like armor. For the first time since I saw those files, I feel something other than fear.
“Live our lives,” I say, repeating what he told me earlier, tasting the words like they’re a luxury.
His mouth softens. “Like maybe deciding what song you want to walk down the aisle to.”
The pivot is deliberate, and it works, I feel my shoulders loosen a fraction. “That’s a trap. If I say the wrong one, you’ll pretend to agree and then change it later.”
He comes around the counter, leaning against it so we’re eye to eye. “Or I’ll surprise you with a string quartet playing it in the exact moment you say yes.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, the sound cutting through the leftover static in my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just picture it, me, at the end of the aisle, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room. Because you will be.”
It’s dangerous, how easy he makes it to forget the rest of the world exists.
I slide my notebook across the counter, flipping to a page I’d labeled Someday in small handwriting months ago. “Fine. Let’s talk wedding before you bulldoze me into a string quartet I didn’t pick.”
His eyes flick down to the page, amused. “You’ve been keeping notes?”
“Some people call it being prepared,” I say, tapping the pen against the margin. “Some people don’t wait until the night before to decide if they’re wearing a tie.”
“Some people are full of surprises,” he counters, pulling the notebook toward him. “Alright, what’s this…‘reception lighting: warm, never fluorescent’?”
I give him a look. “Do you want our guests to feel like they’re in a crime scene interrogation?”
He pretends to consider it. “Depends on the guest list.”
I roll my eyes and write down Jack is banned from inviting anyone who wants to interrogate the bride.
“Cake flavor?” he asks.
“Classic vanilla with buttercream,” I say automatically.
“That’s it? After everything we’ve been through, you’re going to settle for vanilla?”
“It’s timeless,” I defend. “And besides, if you want something fancy, you can have your own groom’s cake. Maybe in the shape of your car.”
He smirks. “Or you.”
I shake my head, but my cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are,” he says, leaning in until our foreheads almost touch. His voice drops lower. “Planning forever with me.”
I let my pen fall to the page, our lists forgotten for a moment. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, anchoring me.
The city moves outside our windows, loud, relentless, watching. But for the first time since I saw those files, I believe we might win. Together.
Jack’s phone buzzes on the counter, the vibration sharp in the quiet. The screen lights with an international number, the +44 country code catching my eye. His jaw tightens, just slightly, but enough for me to notice, before he flips the phone facedown.
“Not important?” I ask.
His gaze flicks to mine. “It’s complicated. I’ll handle it later.”
He says it lightly, but something in his voice makes me think it’s not business. The thought lingers as he pushes the phone aside and nods toward the balcony. “Come on. Let’s get out there before the sun disappears behind whatever glass monstrosity they’re building next door.”
I follow him across the living room, the late light spilling across the rugs in long, amber stripes.
He slides the door open and a rush of cool air slips in, carrying the smell of the Hudson and the faint tang of street food from three blocks away.
From up here, the city doesn’t look hostile. It looks endless.
Jack leans his elbows on the railing, looking down like he’s surveying his own kingdom. “So,” he says, “back to the aisle song. You still haven’t given me an answer.”
“I’m not committing to anything with you staring at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re negotiating a merger, not a wedding.”
His mouth lifts. “Same skill set.”
I rest my forearms on the cool metal beside him. “Fine. Something classic. Not overused, but timeless.”
“So not ‘Here Comes the Bride.’ Got it.”
“That’s not even… You’re impossible.”
“Impossible and yours,” he says easily, his shoulder brushing mine. “What about colors?”
“Not all white,” I say. “Something with depth, warm neutrals, maybe a deep green. The kind of palette that photographs well in candlelight.”
“Photographs well? So this is really about the pictures.”
“This is about remembering the night forever,” I correct.
He looks at me for a long moment. “I don’t need pictures for that.”
The words catch me off guard. They’re simple, but the way he says them feels like a promise.
I clear my throat, nudging him with my shoulder. “Guest list?”
“Short,” he says. “People who’d jump in front of a train for you. Or at least a bad headline.”
“Then it’ll be very short,” I murmur, smiling. “So not my father.”
“And not mine,” Jack says without hesitation. “And not my mother either.”
That catches me for a moment, but I see the resolve in his face.
“She’d come in pearls and frost,” I say.
“And she’d leave the same way,” Jack replies. “This day isn’t about performance. It’s about us. If she can’t see that, she doesn’t get a seat.”
Jack’s gaze hardens. “They’ll hear about it eventually. My father won’t like being excluded.”
“My father won’t either,” I say. “Which is exactly why we keep them off the list. If they show up uninvited…”
“They won’t get past security,” Jack finishes. His tone is calm, but it carries the kind of certainty that leaves no doubt.
Still, a flicker of unease stirs in my chest. They’ve both pulled strings before. Crashing a wedding wouldn’t be beneath them.
“Quality over quantity,” Jack says after a beat. “But I do want Dawson there, and Santiago.”
“Santiago at our wedding?” I tilt my head. “Only if he leaves his tie loose and promises not to run background checks on the band.”
“He can’t promise that,” Jack says, almost apologetic. “But I can promise he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“Add it to the list,” I say, pretending to write in the air. “No fluorescent lights, no interrogation vibes, limited background checks.”
“String quartet is still on the table,” he says.
“Maybe for the ceremony,” I concede. “Then something alive for the reception. A band that can get even you to dance.”
“I dance.”
“You brood to rhythm.”
He huffs a laugh, turning toward me. “I will dance with you until they turn the lights on.”
“Good,” I say, softer now. “Because I want the memories to be louder than everything else.”
We stand like that, leaning against the railing as the sky shifts from gold to blue. The air is cool enough to make me pull his arm around my shoulders, and he goes without hesitation, tucking me in. For a while we don’t talk.
“Ivy?”
“Mm?”
“After we stop them, Derek, the mole, anyone else who thinks they can touch you, I don’t want to go back to just… normal.”
I tilt my head to look up at him. “What’s normal for us?”
He thinks about it, then shakes his head. “Exactly. I want better than that.”
“And you’ll have it,” I say, surprising myself with how certain it sounds. “We’ll build it. The foundation. The life. All of it.”
His hand tightens on my shoulder. “Then tomorrow we start the calls. You talk to people you trust. I’ll loop Santiago and my investigator. We move quiet and fast.”
“And tonight,” I say, leaning into him, “we pick a song.”
He smiles into my hair. “Deal.”
I close my eyes. I picture an aisle strung with candlelight, a band warming up in the corner, Jack waiting with that look he gets like he’s already made a vow. I picture us stepping into something new, something no one can touch, not even the ghosts still clawing at the edges of my past.
We fight. We plan. We live.