Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
IVY
There is nothing quite as humbling, or as spiritual, as eating a double cheeseburger in a couture emerald silk gown while sitting on the hood of a black SUV.
The driver is inside Marvin's, eating at a corner table with his back to the window. Out here, it's us and the neon.
The burger joint, Marvin's, is a Hamptons anomaly.
It is a roadside diner situated precariously between a Tesla dealership and a luxury surf shop.
It has flickering neon lights that buzz with a menacing electric hum, grease-stained paper bags that turn transparent upon contact.
It smells of salt, exhaust, and fried onions.
It's paradise.
I take a bite that is arguably too large for polite society, close my eyes, and groan.
"Good?" Brooks asks.
I open my eyes. He is sitting next to me on the hood of the car, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
His tuxedo jacket has been discarded in the backseat.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that have no business being that distracting, and his bow tie is undone, hanging loose around his collar like he's the lead in a romance novel cover shoot.
He is holding a vanilla milkshake and looking at me with a mix of amusement and something darker, something I can't quite place.
"Good is an understatement," I say, wiping a smudge of ketchup from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand because I refuse to risk the silk. "This is a religious experience, Brooks. If I could marry this burger, I would. I'd tackle a groomsman for it. I'd write it into my will."
Brooks chuckles, the sound low and rich in the night air. He takes a slow sip of his shake.
"I'm jealous," he says. "I don't think you've ever looked at me with that much adoration. And I'm the one paying for the burger."
"You're delicious, Brooks, but you're not a carb."
He freezes mid-sip. He lowers the cup slowly, turning his head to look at me. His eyebrows are raised, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm delicious?" he asks.
I freeze mid-chew.
My brain replays the words on a loop, cranking up the volume each time. Did I just call the client—the blackmailer, the enemy, the man whose reputation I am contractually obligated to save—delicious?
"I meant... financially," I stumble, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, hotter than the grill inside Marvin's. "You know. Rich. Asset-rich. A delicious portfolio. Liquid assets. Diversified bonds."
"Right," Brooks says, his voice dropping an octave. The smirk widens into a grin. "My portfolio."
He reaches into the paper bag sitting between us, pulls out a fry, and eats it. He does it slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time. It is the most aggressive act of french fry consumption I have ever witnessed.
The air between us, which had been light and fun and fueled by the adrenaline of the gala, suddenly thickens. It feels heavy. Charged.
I look away, focusing intently on the sesame seeds on my bun.
"So," I say, desperate to change the subject before I say something else humiliating. "We survived. Betty seems to approve of me. The raw bar didn't kill a senator. What's next?"
Brooks leans back on his elbows, looking up at the stars. The tension eases slightly, but the awareness remains, a hum of static electricity connecting my bare arm to his rolled-up sleeve.
"Tomorrow is Sunday," he says. "Which means brunch."
"I can do brunch," I say, taking another bite. "I invented brunch. Mimosas are just fruit salad with ambition."
"This isn't a normal brunch," Brooks warns. "It's the Vanderbilts' annual mid-summer brunch. Whatever you do, don't eat the quiche. It's dry, and if you leave crumbs, they judge your lineage."
"Noted. Dry quiche. Who are the Vanderbilts? Are they actual Vanderbilts, or just people who bought the name on eBay?"
"Distant relations. But they act like they built the railroads themselves. They're the unofficial judges of the summer season. If you pass muster with Betty, that's step one. If you survive Penelope Vanderbilt, you're golden."
"Penelope," I repeat. The name sounds familiar, scratching at the back of my brain. "Wait. Penelope Vanderbilt? The heiress who runs that 'lifestyle brand'? The one that sells eighty-dollar candles that smell like Old Money and Passive Aggression?"
"That's the one."
"And why do I need to survive her? Is she the final boss in this video game?"
Brooks hesitates. He swirls his milkshake, the straw making a scratching sound against the plastic lid. He looks at the neon sign buzzing overhead, his expression tightening.
"Because," he says carefully, "before I met you, before the 'whirlwind romance' and the concussion, my mother and her mother were... aggressively suggesting that Penelope and I merge assets."
I stop eating. I slowly lower my burger to the wrapper.
"She's the ex?"
"She's the candidate," Brooks corrects, turning to look at me.
"There was never a relationship. Just a spreadsheet.
On paper, we make sense. Same background, same tax bracket, our families have summered together since the twenties.
It would have been convenient. Two dynasties uniting to create a super-dynasty of boredom. "
"And?"
"And I'd rather drink battery acid," Brooks says flatly. "Penelope is... she's perfect. Perfectly groomed, perfectly educated, perfectly boring. A conversation with her is like reading a press release. She has never had a hair out of place. She has never raised her voice. I don't think she sweats."
I laugh, a short bark of sound. "And I'm not perfect?"
He turns his head fully to look at me. His gaze travels over my hair, no longer smooth or intentional, strands loose down my back. He glances at my mouth, like he's checking for evidence of our burger run. My bare feet dangle off the bumper, my heels abandoned on the asphalt.
"No," he says softly. "You're definitely not perfect."
I bristle slightly, defensiveness flaring up. "Hey. I just saved your mother's party."
"You're real," he finishes, ignoring my protest. "You're messy. You have opinions on HVAC systems. You eat burgers like you're starving. You tackle people when they threaten your friends."
He shifts, leaning closer. The smell of his cologne, sandalwood and night air, mixes with the grease of the fries, and somehow, it's the best thing I've ever smelled.
"You're vibrant, Ivy."
My heart does a stutter-step in my chest.
"Vibrant is polite code for 'loud,'" I say quietly.
"Maybe," he admits. "But I like loud. I'm starting to realize I've spent a lot of time in quiet rooms."
He reaches out. For a second, I think he's going to cup my cheek. Instead, he brushes a crumb off my shoulder. His fingers linger on the silk of my dress, warm and rough against my skin. The touch lands deeper than it should.
"Clause 4," I whisper, my voice shaky. "No touching without an audience."
He looks around the empty parking lot. "There's a guy in the Tesla dealership security booth. Does he count?"
I laugh, breathless. "Brooks."
"Come on," he says, his voice gruff as he pulls his hand away. He slides off the hood of the car, offering me a hand to help me down. "Let's go home. You have to face the 'perfect' Penelope in the morning, and I need to make sure you don't punch her."
"I can't promise that," I say, taking his hand. "Does she have a cherub statue?"
"Several."
"Then she's in danger."
The next morning, the Vanderbilt estate makes Eastmoor look like a guest house.
It is a sprawling, Gatsby-esque mansion with a lawn that rolls down to a private beach. The brunch is set up on a limestone terrace overlooking the water. It is a sea of pastels, wide-brimmed hats, and judgmental stares.
I am wearing a floral Zimmermann dress Savvy packed for me. When I put it on this morning, watching myself in the mirror while Brooks shaved, it gave me the sort of confidence I could move through the day in. Structured where it matters. Soft where it's allowed to be.
"Aggressive floral," Savvy had called it in her note. "Not passive floral. Dominate the garden."
I clutch Brooks's arm like a lifeline as we walk through the French doors onto the terrace.
"Relax," Brooks murmurs, leaning down to my ear. "You're gripping my bicep like you're trying to cut off circulation."
"And checking for muscle tone. Gotta make sure the investment is maintaining value."
Brooks snorts. "Investment is secure. Just breathe. Smile. Don't eat the quiche."
We circulate. I switch into professional mode. I smile until my face hurts. I charm a senator by asking about his golf handicap. I discuss the humidity with a hedge fund manager.
Brooks stays close, his hand warm on my lower back, guiding me through the shark tank.
Then, the waters part.
A woman steps away from the edge of the terrace, where she's clearly been observing the room.
She is tall, blonde, and so polished she looks engineered rather than raised. Her hair falls in a sleek curtain of platinum. Her skin is poreless. She wears a pale blue dress tailored to within an inch of its life.
"Brooks," she purrs.
She leans in to kiss his cheek, lingering a bit too long, her hand resting familiarly on his chest. She ignores me completely.
"We missed you at the club last week," she says, her voice a soft, cultivated drawl. "I heard you were... under the weather."
"Hello, Penelope," Brooks says politely, stepping back enough to create space. His hand tightens at my waist. "You look well."
"I'm thriving," she says. Then her ice-blue eyes shift to me. Her smile never changes, but it loses its warmth, settling on her face like a decal. "And this must be the... surprise."
"This is Ivy," Brooks says firmly. "My fiancée."
"Ivy," Penelope repeats, testing the word like it might be sour milk. "Sullivan, was it? I don't think I know the Sullivans. Are you from the Connecticut branch? Or perhaps the Newport Sullivans?"