Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
brOOKS
I wake up to the smell of rain and peace.
For a few seconds, that golden, hazy buffer between sleep and consciousness, I don't know where I am. I don't know about the board. I know that I am warm, I am rested, and a weight rests on my chest that feels like it has always belonged there.
I open my eyes.
Ivy is asleep on top of me.
Her head is tucked under my chin, her dark hair splayed across my chest like ink. Her arm is thrown over my waist, her leg tangled with mine beneath the duvet. She is breathing deeply, softly, completely defenseless in a way I have never seen her.
The pillow wall is gone. The boundaries are gone.
My hand is resting on the small of her back, skin on skin. I must have held her all night.
I stare at the ceiling beams, waiting for the usual morning anxiety to hit, the mental checklist of emails, the Asian market numbers, the timeline. But it doesn't come. For the first time in ten years, my brain is quiet.
I shift slightly, and Ivy murmurs something unintelligible, nuzzling closer into my neck. Her lips brush my collarbone.
A jolt of heat goes straight to my groin, followed immediately by a rush of tenderness so strong it actually hurts.
I want to wake her up. I want to roll her over and kiss her until we both forget about breakfast. I want to spend the entire Sunday in this bed, exploring this new, terrifying territory we just claimed.
And that is exactly why I have to get up.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierces through the warmth.
What have I done?
I brought Ivy here to perform a specific function: simulate stability so I could close the biggest deal of my life. I was supposed to be the handler. She was supposed to be the asset.
But looking at her now, soft, vulnerable, and trusting, I realize there's nothing left between us to hold me back.
This isn't the edge of falling. I passed that edge somewhere between the gala and the firelight, and I didn't even feel the ground give way.
I haven't just blurred the lines; I've erased them. And if I let this become real... I am compromised.
Ivy hates my world. She thinks I'm a snob. She even called my fake wedding plans 'boring.' She is only here because I blackmailed her. If I let myself fall for her, if I let myself need her, what happens in September?
She leaves.
She secures the donation, takes her freedom, and goes back to her real life. And I am left alone with a victory that suddenly feels like a consolation prize.
Don't get attached to the asset.
I gently, carefully, extricate myself from Ivy's grip. It feels like peeling off my own skin. She frowns in her sleep, her hand searching for me across the sheets, but I slide out of bed before she can anchor me again.
The air in the cottage is cool. I shiver, grabbing my discarded dress shirt from the floor to cover myself. It's wrinkled and damp, a quiet reminder of last night.
I look back at the bed. Ivy looks small in the middle of the California King. She looks like something precious that I am about to break.
I need distance.
I walk into the bathroom and close the door silently. I turn on the shower, making it cold. Punishingly cold. I stand under the spray until my skin is numb and the panic in my chest has wrestled itself into a grim, steady rhythm.
I shave. I dress in a suit, navy blue, starched shirt, tie. It is Sunday in the Hamptons. No one wears a suit on Sunday unless they are going to a funeral or a board meeting.
It feels appropriate.
I walk back out into the main room. Ivy is stirring.
She stretches, a long, feline movement that pulls the sheet down, exposing the curve of her back. She rolls over, blinking against the morning light. Her eyes find me standing by the fireplace, fully dressed, checking my phone.
A slow, sleepy smile spreads across her face. It is devastating. It says I know you.
"Morning," she whispers, her voice husky.
She pushes herself up, clutching the sheet to her chest. She looks happy. She looks like a woman who expects a kiss, a coffee, a continuation of the intimacy we built in the dark.
"Morning."
I don't look at her. I can't. If I look at her, I'll crawl back into that bed, and everything will burn. I keep my eyes on my phone screen, scrolling through emails I've already read three times.
"You're dressed." Confusion creeps into her tone. "I thought... didn't we say room service? Lazy Sunday?"
"Change of plans." My voice comes out clipped. "I have to go into the city."
"The city?" She sits up straighter. "On a Sunday? Brooks, did something happen? Did Royce try something else?"
"Everything's fine." I keep my gaze on the screen. "I need to review the Q2 projections with the finance team. In person."
It's a lie. The Q2 projections are fine. I need to be in a glass office forty stories above the ground where I can remember who I am.
"Oh." She hesitates. "Okay. Well, I can come with you. I need to run some errands anyway. Maddy has been texting me about—"
"No."
I finally look up. I force my face to go blank. Professional. The face I wear across the negotiation table when I know I have a losing hand but can't show it.
"You need to stay here." I straighten my jacket. "My mother is expecting you for tea at four. If you aren't coming, she'll want to know why. She'll be disappointed and ask questions."
Ivy flinches. The smile drops off her face like it's been slapped away. She pulls the sheet tighter around herself.
"Right," she says quietly. "Can't disappoint Betty. The optic."
"Exactly. We can't afford to drop the ball now. Royce is gone, but the board is still watching. We need to maintain the... stability."
She stares at me. Her eyes search mine, looking for the man who held her last night. Looking for the one who whispered You're mine.
She doesn't find him. Because I hid him.
"Brooks," she says quietly. "About last night."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Don't say it meant something, I plead silently. Don't say you care. Because if you do, I won't be able to leave.
"Last night was... a release," I say.
The word tastes like acid. It is cruel. It is reductive. It is the only thing I can think of to make her hate me enough to stay safe.
Ivy recoils. She actually recoils, pressing herself back against the headboard. Her face goes pale.
"A release," she whispers.
"We let the adrenaline get to us," I say, focusing on my cufflinks so I don't have to see the hurt in her eyes. "The storm. The Aston situation. It was a high-stress environment. We sought comfort. It's understandable. Biological, really."
"Biological," she says. Her voice is flat now. Dangerous.
"Yes. But it complicates things. We have a contract, Ivy. We have boundaries for a reason. If we... continue this, it jeopardizes the objective."
"The objective," she says. "Right."
"It's the priority," I say firmly. "It has to be. I can't let... personal entanglements distract me. I need to be focused."
"And I'm a distraction," she says. It's not a question.
"Yes," I admit. "You are."
I grab my briefcase from the table. I can’t stay here. The air in the room presses in on me, tight and unforgiving, and my resolve starts to give. I want to drop the briefcase and beg her to forgive me. I want to tell her she’s the only thing that has ever felt steady.
But I'm a coward.
"I'll be back tonight," I say, moving toward the door. "Late. Don't wait up."
"Brooks."
Her voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob.
"Was it just a release for you?" she asks. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath. "Was it just... biology? Or was that a lie too?"
I grip the brass knob until my hand aches. I close my eyes.
If I say it wasn't a lie, we start something real. And real things end. Real things break.
I turn my head slightly, but I don't look at her.
"We're adults, Ivy," I say, my voice devoid of emotion. "Let's not make it more than it was."
I open the door and walk out.
I march down the gravel path, past the blooming roses, toward the carriage house. My father keeps a fleet of vintage roadsters he rarely touches.
I grab the keys to the Aston Martin from the wall rack, start the engine, and drive through the iron gates without looking back.
I turn up the radio to drown out the silence.
I am safe. I am focused. I am in control.
So why does it feel like I just left my life behind in that cottage?
The office is empty on a Sunday.
It is silent, sterile, and cold. Exactly what I wanted.
I sit at my desk for six hours. I review spreadsheets. I answer emails that don't need answering. I stare at the skyline.
I am miserable.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. I see the way she looked at me this morning, soft, open, hopeful. And then I see the way she looked when I called it "biology."
Shattered.
At 4:30 PM, my phone buzzes.
Mom
Ivy is lovely at tea. She suggested a vintage lace theme for the bridal shower. You chose well Brooks. She is very resilient.
Resilient.
The word stabs me. My mother uses that word for stocks that bounce back after a crash. She uses it for people who can take a beating and keep standing.
I beat her down this morning. I reduced what we shared to a physical impulse and walked out. And she is currently sitting with my mother, discussing vintage lace and drinking Earl Grey, playing the part perfectly.
Because she's a professional. Because she signed a contract. Because she is stronger than I am.
Self-loathing hits so strong it makes me nauseous.
I pull up the security app on my phone. I installed the new surveillance system myself last winter after my father fired the night watchman. My parents can barely operate the microwave, let alone a cloud-based security grid, so I stayed on as the admin.
I tell myself I'm just checking the perimeter.
But really, I'm checking for her.
Ivy walks back from the main house. She wears a yellow dress, her head held high, her posture perfect.
But then, as she reaches the cottage door, she stops.