45. Ivy
IVY
T he apartment smells like coffee, warm and rich enough to make me forget there’s anything outside these walls.
Jack stands at the kitchen counter in a white shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, pen in hand, leaning over the seating chart like it’s a boardroom strategy session.
His weight rests on one hip, his free hand braced against the marble.
The pen hovers, taps once, then makes a precise notation in neat block letters.
I pad in, barefoot, my hair still damp from the shower. I watch the way his shoulders tighten when he concentrates, then loosen when he decides. It’s a tell, focus, then release.
“You can’t put Rhys next to Graham,” I say, drifting to his side.
He tilts his head toward me, eyes still on the chart. “Why not?”
“Because they’ll spend the entire night talking about warehouse lighting. And I’m not letting them hijack our reception to debate lumen output.”
That earns a small smirk. He offers me the pen like it weighs something. “Fine. Who gets stuck with Graham?”
I slide two place cards across the chart, the paper rasping softly against stone. “Put him with Mia. She’ll talk his ear off about Rome and won’t even let him say the word ‘lux.’”
Jack studies my swap, then nods slowly like he’s granting approval to a treaty. “Acceptable.”
We move on to the menu. He argues for classic steak and potatoes with the steady cadence he uses when he thinks he’s winning.
I counter with pistachio-crusted salmon and roasted citrus, pairing it with a salad that will make his father’s associates suspicious and my friends delighted.
He watches my mouth while I describe the glaze. I watch his when he almost smiles.
We compromise on a dual entrée, safe enough for his side, interesting enough for mine.
It’s easy like this, our elbows brushing as we lean over the same piece of paper, arguing about signature cocktails and whether the dance floor needs lighting gels while the rest of our lives sit forward on the calendar.
I want more mornings like this: the only negotiation over dessert tables instead of security protocols.
The buzzer cuts through our little world, sharp against the low sound of the fridge.
“I’ll get it,” I say, squeezing his forearm before I go.
His phone buzzes in his pocket at the same time, and he mouths Santiago as he turns toward his home office, the glass-paneled door already cracked open, the desk lamp throwing a warm circle across paperwork and cables.
He moves with that controlled purpose I know, fast without feeling hurried, calm on the surface while a dozen decisions line up underneath.
I open the apartment door to a courier in a navy beanie holding a plain square box wrapped in brown paper.
“For Ivy Stone,” he says, checking a clipboard before handing it over. No return address. No logo. His eyes flick past me like he’s already gone.
The box is heavier than it looks. My fingers curl tighter as I carry it to the table. The paper tears under my nails; the cardboard lid lifts with a soft suction. Inside, tucked into crisp white tissue, is a framed photograph.
Claire sits on a park bench in a pale blue coat, holding a toddler-aged Emma in her lap.
Emma’s cheeks are flushed, her knit hat has floppy ears, her hand is clutching the edge of Claire’s sleeve like she’s anchored there.
The muted greens and brick red behind them are pure England.
I turn the frame over. A yellow sticky note clings to the back: Family belongs together.
The handwriting is deliberate, each letter drawn more than written, too careful for sentiment. My pulse trips. This isn’t a keepsake. It’s a message. Someone had access to Claire’s private moments. Someone wants me to know it.
In Jack’s home office, his voice is a low line through the glass, controlled, clipped, negotiation-speed.
I hear the scrape of his chair, the thud of a file closing.
The instinct to walk in there with the frame lifted in both hands is strong.
But he’s already juggling too many fronts: Emma’s flight, the mole inside the foundation, his father circling the story like a hawk who prefers the preface to the truth.
I set the frame face down on the table, my palms flat to either side until the pressure steadies me.
Then I slide it into the drawer next to the placemats and spare candles, the domestic beside the dangerous, because I can’t look at it and think straight.
I’ll tell him tonight, when we can talk without this becoming another fire in a room already full of smoke.
My phone buzzes: calendar reminder, client meeting in forty minutes. Armor time. I swap my sweater for a navy dress, step into low heels, twist my hair into a knot. Lipstick last, blotted, reapplied. I watch my hands in the mirror until they stop trembling.
As I pass the doorway to Jack’s home office, he glances up mid-call. The blinds behind him are angled against the afternoon glare. A legal pad sits open, dense with his square handwriting.
“You’ll be back for dinner?” he asks, palm half-covering the phone.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
He gives me a look that holds, stay safe, I love you, I know you, and then he’s back to the call, pivoting, negotiating.
***
The meeting is downtown in a glass-walled conference room with a view of the Hudson, February haze turning the water to pewter.
The table is polished enough to mirror the recessed lights.
Two assistants perch near the door with tablets.
My client, Madeline Clarke, greets me with a handshake that’s firm and brief.
She moves like a person who runs her calendar the way other people run sprints. Her blazer doesn’t wrinkle when she sits. A gold pen clicks once in her hand before she sets it parallel to the table’s edge.
We run through the project, event theme, budget, venue soft holds.
I anchor myself in details, but every now and then my mind flickers back to the box waiting in Jack’s drawer.
My pen hesitates once over my notes before I force it steady.
When Madeline asks about entry lighting, I hear my own voice describing soft pools at ankle height and a wash at shoulder level, just like I planned, but part of me is still in the kitchen with that sticky note.
“Good,” she says, tapping the table. “And the venue communication? The last planner… disappeared.”
“Won’t happen with me,” I say. “You’ll have a weekly summary email and a live link to the timeline.”
She relaxes a fraction. We finalize deliverables, set a follow-up for Friday. When we shake hands, her grip has warmed.
Outside, the wind slices between buildings.
I angle toward the garage. A man stands across the street, leaning against a lamppost. Dark coat, collar turned up, hands sunk in pockets.
The lamplight catches the glint of a silver watch when he shifts.
He isn’t staring, just glancing with the kind of practiced disinterest that reads as intent.
I don’t slow. The key fob flashes my car awake. The lock’s clack is loud in the empty garage. I slide in, drop my folder, and glance in the rearview. He’s still there. Not following. Not approaching. Just, there.
Maybe I’m jumpy. But the box was too heavy. The handwriting too careful. And the doorman didn’t call up first.
I breathe out until my grip eases on the wheel. Then I pull into traffic, make one stop at a stationery store for Emma, a soft-cover notebook, a good pen, and a sheet of star stickers I will pretend are for labeling cables.
Back home, the doorman nods. No packages now.
The elevator is slow. The hallway smells faintly of snowmelt.
Our door sits ahead, the tiniest smear near the deadbolt like a thumbprint wiped away.
Inside, the coffee warmth is still in the air, but the weight of the drawer is heavier in my mind.
I take out the frame. I think about the man by the lamppost. About the note.
About a toddler in a knit hat with ears and a woman in a pale blue coat whose life never brushed this city, until now.
Footsteps approach, Jack’s stride. He stops when he sees the frame. His hand finds the counter edge.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Delivered this morning. Addressed to me.”
He studies the photo, flips it, reads the note. The quiet sharpens.
“This is Derek,” he says finally.
“Or someone who wants to sound like him.” I tell him about the man outside my meeting, short, precise details. It feels like giving him coordinates.
He nods, phone already out, Santiago’s name queued. Before he calls, he squeezes my hand once, an unspoken vow.
“We’ll handle this,” he says. “And we don’t change the wedding playlist because some coward likes anonymous notes.”
The almost-smile we trade is enough. When he disappears into the office, I slide the frame back into the drawer.
My reflection ghosts over the glass. We are planning a wedding.
We are building a foundation. We are clearing a room for a girl crossing an ocean into a life she didn’t choose.
And someone wants us to know they’re watching.
I tuck the notebook into the Emma bag, right on top of the headphones and charger. Then I look toward the office door, where Jack’s voice is already turning into the kind of order no one ignores.