Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IVY
The morning after you almost kiss your fake fiancé is, historically speaking, awkward.
The morning after your lips almost touch the man who is actively blackmailing you into a fraudulent engagement is a level of awkwardness that requires its own circle of hell.
I wake up alone. The pillow wall is intact, standing tall and proud like a monument to my own cowardice. The sheets on Brooks's side of the bed are cold.
I check the time. 8:30 AM. He's been gone for hours.
I drag myself out of bed, feeling the phantom sensation of his hand on my jawline, the ghost of his breath against my lips. It clings to me like the humidity outside, sticky and impossible to shake off.
It was the wine, I tell myself as I brush my teeth. It was the rain. It was the fact that he looked at me like I was a person instead of a problem.
I dress in "casual fiancée chic", white jeans, a striped boatneck top, and enough dry shampoo to tame the mane of a yeti, and head to the main house.
The walk over is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and the distant sound of a lawnmower. Halfway to the house, a staff member I've never seen before, a young woman who looks terrified of dropping it, presses a heavy silver tray into my hands.
"Mr. Taylor is in the library," she squeaks, and then vanishes before I can ask if she's being held against her will.
I look down at the tray. A silver pot of coffee. Two china cups. And a basket of scones that smell like vanilla and heaven.
Great. Now I'm a waitress.
I navigate the halls to the library. Eastmoor has a library that looks like it was designed by someone who thought Beauty and the Beast was a documentary.
It has floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves, rolling ladders that I desperately want to ride, and leather armchairs that smell like old money and cigars.
Brooks is sitting at the massive desk in the center of the room. He is wearing a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a headset. He is surrounded by monitors he must have had shipped in overnight.
He looks terrible.
The bruising on his temple has faded, but the dark circles under his eyes have deepened. He is pale, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps beneath the skin. He is typing furiously with one hand while gripping a stress ball with the other.
He looks up as I enter. His eyes are cold. Flat.
The one who almost kissed me by the fire last night is gone. In his place is the Venture Capitalist. The Closer.
"I'm busy," he says. No hello. No good morning.
I stop in the doorway, balancing the heavy tray. "Good morning to you too. I brought sustenance."
"I'm not hungry."
"It's a scone, Brooks. It's basically a biscuit with delusions of grandeur. Eat it."
I walk over and set the tray on the corner of the desk, careful not to disturb the ecosystem of spreadsheets.
"I said I'm busy," he snaps, ripping the headset off and tossing it onto the desk. "I don't have time for playing house today, Ivy. Go annoy my mother. Go rearrange the hydrangeas. Just... go."
I freeze. The dismissal stings, sharp and sudden.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says, running a hand through his hair.
He looks at me, and his expression is pure exhaustion mixed with frustration.
"The Tokyo deal is wobbling. Tabitha canceled the profile because we're 'too volatile.
The board is breathing down my neck. We have a saboteur.
Someone is actively leaking our valuation models to the competition.
I need to identify them before this deal falls apart. I cannot do this if you are hovering."
"I wasn't hovering," I say, my voice cooling. "I was bringing you coffee because you look like you slept in a dryer."
"I don't need coffee," he says. "I need a miracle. And since you're a professional bridesmaid, not a forensic accountant, you can't help me. So please. Leave."
I stare at him. I see the panic beneath the anger. He's drowning. He's fighting a war on five fronts, and he's losing.
But he's also being a jerk.
"Fine," I say tightly. "Starve. See if I care."
I turn on my heel and march out of the library, the click of my loafers on the parquet floor echoing like gunshots.
I storm out the back door, past the pool, and into the rose garden. I pace the stone path, muttering creative insults under my breath.
Asset. That's all I am. When I'm useful, when I'm charming his mother or saving his gala, I'm allowed in the room. When the real work starts? When the money is on the line? I'm just the hired help.
I kick a loose pebble into a prize-winning bush.
But my mind keeps snagging on what he said. A saboteur.
The irony burns. Does he not realize that neutralizing saboteurs is literally my specialty?
That is exactly how we met. I didn't tackle him into a marble cherub for sport; I did it because I thought he was a threat; he was the threat.
He ended up as garden art specifically because I don't hesitate when I see someone trying to tank the main event.
I stop pacing. I think about the gala. I think about the man with the white mustache who looked at Brooks with that oily, false concern.
Royce Aston.
"He looks at you like he's calculating your scrap metal value," I'd told Brooks that night.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I pull up the group chat with Maddy and Savvy.
Ivy
Emergency. Need a favor.
Savvy
Did the cottage burn down? Did you kill him? Please tell me you didn't kill him, we don't have bail money.
Maddy
I'm available. Please tell me you need me to leave the house. If I have to watch Henry's dad fawn over my mother one more minute, I'm going to commit a felony of my own.
Ivy
No felonies yet. But Brooks is spiraling. He says we have a saboteur. Someone is actively leaking the valuation models to the competition.
Savvy
Okay... and why is this our problem? Let the shark drown. The guy is holding a lawsuit over our heads, Ivy. We owe him nothing.
Ivy
Because if the deal falls through, he has no reason to play nice. If he loses the vote, he burns us. He sues Ever After into the ground. I need this deal to close, Sav.
Maddy
She's right. If he sinks, we sink. Plus, frankly, I miss the drama. Domestic bliss is exhausting.
Ivy
I need you guys to call Mason. Ask him to look into Royce Aston. He's on the board. He called Brooks's dad from the hospital, and he was acting shady at the gala. I think he's the leak.
Savvy
Mason? You want us to call the guy who knows where the bodies are buried? This is serious.
Ivy
Dead serious. Tell him to look at the money. Aston is too eager for Brooks to fail.
Maddy
On it. I'll call him. It gives me a legitimate excuse to step outside and stop smiling at Preston.
Savvy
I'll get on the laptop and sync with Henry. Give us an hour.
I sit on a stone bench. I wait. The bees buzz in the lavender. Inside the library, Brooks is probably on the phone yelling at an innocent junior.
I tell myself I'm doing this for the company. I tell myself I'm doing this because I like my apartment and my Honda Civic and I don't want to lose them to a breach-of-contract suit.
I tell myself a lot of things.
Forty-five minutes later, my phone rings.
"Remind me never to get on Mason's bad side," Savvy says without preamble. "It took him and Henry less than an hour to dismantle this guy's entire digital life."
"What did they find?"
"Henry traced a few IP addresses from a golf forum where someone has been posting very detailed rumors about Brooks's health. But the smoking gun came from Mason. He ran a check on Royce's wife."
"Mrs. Aston? She seems harmless. She just likes jewelry."
"And villas," Savvy corrects. "Three days ago, Mrs. Aston posted a photo of a 'Celebratory Renovation' on a new property in St. Barths. She tagged the design firm."
"So? Rich people renovate villas."
"Mason dug into the design firm," Savvy continues, her voice speeding up. "It's a shell, Ivy. The design firm is owned by a holding company. And that holding company is a subsidiary of Apex Capital."
My blood runs cold. "Apex Capital? That's the rival firm. The one trying to do the hostile takeover."
"Bingo," Savvy says. "Royce Aston gets a kickback in the form of a newly renovated villa in St. Barths, courtesy of Apex's 'preferred contractors.' Apex gets the inside scoop on Brooks's instability, the stock price drops, and Apex swoops in. Aston is the leak."
A surge of rage hits so hot it almost blinds me.
Brooks isn't paranoid. He isn't spiraling. He is being gaslit by a man he's invited to his family's dinner table for twenty years.
I should walk away. Mason would tell me to walk away. The smart play is to cut my losses and let Brooks drown. But looking at the evidence... I realize I'm not just angry at him. I'm angry for him.
"Send me the screenshots," I say, standing up. "Everything Mason found. The villa, the shell company, the forum posts. All of it."
"You're going to help him," Savvy sighs. "You're saving him."
"I'm protecting the client," I say, my voice sharp. "We need this to close, Savvy."
"Uh-huh," she says, her tone dripping with skepticism. "You keep telling yourself that. But be careful. Sending the files now. Go get 'em, tiger."
I hang up. My phone pings with the evidence.
I take a deep breath. I smooth my white jeans.
I turn back toward the house.
I don't knock this time. I throw the library doors open with enough force that they bounce off the mahogany stoppers with a satisfying thud.
Brooks's head snaps up. He looks even worse than he did an hour ago. The sleeves of his blue sweater are pushed up aggressively to his elbows, his hair is standing on end, and he looks like a man who is five minutes away from throwing a monitor through a window.
"I thought I told you to leave," he barks.
"You did," I say, marching across the room. "But I realized something. You're an idiot."
He blinks, stunned into silence. "Excuse me?"