Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IVY
If Brooks Taylor wants an employee, I won't just be the Employee of the Month. I'll be the Employee of the Year, the Employee of the Damn Century.
I’m sitting in the armchair by the cold fireplace. I'm not reading or drinking wine. I'm staring at the unlit logs, my hands folded in my lap, waiting.
I have spent the last eight hours dissecting every word he said to me this morning.
A release. Biological. A mistake.
Every syllable was a strike, designed to dismantle the intimacy we built in the storm. And it worked. The intimacy is gone, replaced by a hollow, aching crater in the center of my chest.
But I am not going to cry. I am not going to pack my bags and run back to the city, leaving Ever After, Inc. vulnerable to a lawsuit. I am a professional. I manage disasters for a living.
And Brooks Taylor is another disaster.
The door opens.
Brooks walks in. He looks wrecked. His tie is gone, his collar is unbuttoned, and he carries the weight of the city on his shoulders.
He stops when he sees me. For a split second, relief washes over his face, raw and unguarded.
"You're still here," he says, his voice rough.
"Per the contract," I say. My voice is cool, level, and entirely devoid of emotion. "I am obligated to reside at the Eastmoor Estate until Labor Day."
The relief on his face vanishes, replaced by a flinch. He closes the door and locks it.
"Ivy," he starts, taking a step toward me. "About this morning. I was... I didn't mean to come across so harsh. I was trying to—"
"You were trying to re-establish boundaries," I interrupt, standing up. I smooth the skirt of my yellow dress. "And you were right. We lost focus. We let the parameters of the agreement slide. It won't happen again."
He stops. He looks at me, searching for the anger, the fire. He's looking for the woman who threw a phone on his desk.
He doesn't find her. I've packed her away.
"Ivy, stop," he says. "You don't have to do this."
"Do what? I'm agreeing with you, Brooks. Last night was a mistake. It was a biological impulse brought on by barometric pressure and proximity. It has been noted in the log, and we are moving forward."
I walk past him toward the bed. I don't look at him. I treat him like a piece of furniture I need to navigate around.
"I rebuilt the wall," I say over my shoulder.
"What?"
"The pillow wall. I rebuilt it. And I added the cushions from the sofa. It is now a structural fortification. Stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine."
The California King looks huge. The wall of pillows down the center is aggressive. It looks less like a sleeping arrangement and more like a divorce settlement.
I change then climb into bed on my side, turn off the lamp, and pull the duvet up to my chin.
Brooks stands in the dim light of the living area, his shadow stretching long across the room toward the bed. He watches me for a long time.
"I talked to Mark," he says quietly into the darkness.
"That's nice," I reply to the wall. "I hope you wished him congratulations on his nuptials."
"Ivy."
"Goodnight, Mr. Taylor."
He stands there for another minute. Then, I hear a sigh. He turns off the living room light. I hear the rustle of clothes being discarded, the dip of the mattress as he climbs in on his side.
He lies there in the dark. The heat radiates off him, trying to bridge the gap of feathers and down.
"Goodnight, Ivy," he whispers.
I don't answer. I just lie there, eyes wide open, teaching my heart how to beat a little slower, a little colder.
The days that follow are a masterclass in malicious compliance. We fall into a routine. It is efficient, polite, and excruciating.
By the time we step out of the car onto the grassy field of the Hamptons Polo Club, I have the role down cold.
"Smile," Brooks murmurs as the cameras turn toward us.
"Way ahead of you."
I flash a grin that is bright, dazzling, and doesn't reach my eyes. I take his arm. I lean into him. I tilt my head up adoringly as the photographers snap our picture.
"You look beautiful," Brooks says, looking down at me. His eyes are searching, pleading.
"Thank you." I keep the smile fixed. "This is the Zimmermann floral again. Savvy said it photographs well against grass."
He winces. "I wasn't talking about the dress."
"And yet, the dress is the only thing here that belongs to me," I say brightly. "Oh, look. There's the chairman. Time to perform."
I detach myself from him and glide toward the board members. I charm them. I remember the names of their grandchildren. I ask about their golf swings. I play the role of the devoted, stabilizing fiancée so perfectly that by the time the champagne is poured, the outcome feels inevitable.
When the match ends, I drop his arm the second we are inside the car. I put my headphones in and listen to a podcast about forensic files for the entire drive home.
The performance continues a few nights later when his mother invites us to dinner at the main house. Just family.
"Ivy, dear," Betty says over the Dover sole. "You've done wonders with Brooks. He seems so much more... settled. Focused."
"He needed the right motivation," I say, slicing a neat, deliberate square of fish.
"He tells me you're thinking of a winter wedding now," Betty continues. "Instead of June. Something intimate in Aspen?"
I look at Brooks across the table. He looks surprised. He clearly hasn't told her that.
"We're keeping our options open," Brooks says quickly.
"Actually," I say, taking a sip of wine. "I think winter is a lovely idea. A short engagement is so romantic, isn't it? Why wait?"
I smile at him. It's a challenge. Let's speed up the clock. Let's get this over with.
Brooks stares at me. He looks pale.
"Right," he manages. "Why wait."
Under the table, his foot brushes mine. I move my leg away instantly.
The distance is harder to maintain, however, when we are forced to spend a weekend on The Merriweather with potential investors for the new tech acquisition.
The cabin has one bed. Of course it does.
I build a wall down the middle of the mattress with decorative throw pillows shaped like anchors.
"Ivy, stop," Brooks says, watching me stack them.
"Clause 4," I remind him.
"I hate Clause 4."
"It's necessary."
He walks over to where I'm standing. The boat rocks gently beneath us. We are trapped in a small room in the middle of the ocean. The air is thick with the memory of the last time we were on a boat.
"I miss you," he says.
The words hang in the air, weighted and terrified.
I freeze. My hands clutch a pillow to my chest. I miss you too, I want to scream. I miss the banter. I miss the heat. I miss the man who ate a cheeseburger on the hood of a car.
But I can't say it. Because if I say it, I'm vulnerable. And Brooks Taylor destroys vulnerable things. He calls them mistakes.
"I'm right here, Brooks," I say calmly. "I'm holding up my end of the deal. The investors love us. The stock is up. You're winning."
"It doesn't feel like winning," he says.
He reaches out. His fingers brush my cheek. I don't pull away, but I don't lean in. I stand there, stoic as a statue.
He drops his hand. The disappointment in his eyes is crushing.
"Goodnight, Brooks."
By late August, the end is in sight. The final countdown to Labor Day has begun, the vote, and my freedom.
I’m in the cottage kitchen, making tea. I am tired. The act of being perfect is exhausting. My face hurts from smiling. My heart hurts from beating against a wall of ice.
My phone rings. It's Maddy.
I answer on the first ring. "Tell me something went wrong at the bridal expo. Tell me a cake exploded. I need a disaster that isn't my life."
"The expo was fine," Maddy says. Her voice is soft, worried. "How are you, Ivy?"
“I’m polished, practiced, and running on autopilot.”
"You sound like a robot," Maddy says. "A sad robot."
I lean my hip against the counter, closing my eyes. "I'm just tired, Mads. It's the home stretch. We are almost at the finish line."
"And then what?"
"And then the waiver releases from escrow. He gets his company. I get my life back."
"Do you want your life back?" Maddy asks.
The question hangs in the air.
Do I?
My life before Brooks was safe. It was busy. I had my friends, my work, my independence.
But it was also... quiet.
Living with Brooks, even fighting with Brooks, even freezing Brooks out, is loud. It's vibrant.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” I say, my voice cracking. “He was very clear, Maddy. It wasn’t personal. It was physical. I was just an outlet.”
"Men are idiots when they're scared," Maddy says.
The front door opens.
Brooks walks in. It's early, only 4:00 PM. He's back early.
"I have to go," I tell Maddy. "I'll call you later."
I hang up.
Brooks is standing in the entryway. He's holding a large, grease-stained paper bag from Marvin's. The smell of burgers and grilled onions fills the cottage, instantly transporting me back to that night on the hood of the car. The night I thought we were real.
"I brought dinner," he says.
I stare at the bag. It's a peace offering. It's a weapon.
"I'm not hungry," I lie.
"It's a double cheeseburger," he says. "With pickles. And a shake. Your religious experience."
He walks over to the table and sets it down. He opens the bag. The steam rises.
"Ivy," he says. "Please. Sit down. Eat a burger with me. No strategy talk. No investors. Just... us."
I look at him. He looks hopeful. He's taken off his tie. He's rolled up his sleeves. He's trying to recreate the magic.
But you can’t recreate magic. You can only mourn the loss of it.
“We’re almost done,” I say, checking my watch. “One last public appearance. One last box to tick.”
“I don’t care about appearances,” he says. “We can be done now.”
“We can’t,” I say. “Not yet. If we disappear before the finish line, Aston gets to win.”
"Let him win," Brooks says, shocking me.
He walks around the table. He stops in front of me.
"I don't care about Aston. I don't care about the deal. I care that you haven't looked me in the eye in four weeks."
"I look you in the eye all the time."
"No. You look at me. You don't see me. You look at me like I'm a client you're trying to manage."
"You are a client I'm trying to manage!" I shout.
The outburst surprises us both. It echoes in the small kitchen.
"I am doing exactly what you blackmailed me to do," I say, my voice trembling. "I am being the asset. I am being the fiancée. I am securing the deal. Why isn't that enough for you?"
"Because I miss you!" he shouts back.
He rakes his hands through his hair.
"I miss the woman who argued with me about HVAC. I miss the woman who stole my shirt. I miss the woman who looked at me in the rain and told me she was mine."
"She was yours," I whisper. "And then you threw her away because you were scared of a little emotion."
"I was terrified!" Brooks admits. "Yes! I was terrified!
Because you were the first thing in my life that I didn't have a contingency plan for.
I knew how to handle my father. I knew how to handle the pressure.
I didn't know how to handle the fact that waking up next to you felt like the only thing that mattered. "
He steps closer. He reaches for my hands.
"I panicked, Ivy. I put the shields up because I thought you were going to leave me eventually, and I wanted to beat you to the exit. It was stupid. It was cowardly. But I am trying to fix it."
I look at his hands holding mine. The warmth reaches me. The pull is there. I want to forgive him. I want to collapse into him and eat the burger and forget the last month.
But then I remember the waiver. I remember the expiration date.
"You can't fix people, Brooks," I say, pulling my hands away. "You told me that in the hospital. You manage them. And right now? You're managing me."
"I'm not—"
"We have five days," I say, stepping back. "Two days until the vote. Five days until Labor Day. Let's just... finish the job."
I turn away from him. I walk to the bathroom door.
"Enjoy the burger," I say.
I step inside, lock the door, and sink down until the cold tile meets me. I bury my face in my knees. I don’t cry. I refuse to.
But as I listen to the silence from the other room, I realize that winning the game feels exactly like losing everything.
The next morning, the cottage is empty when I wake up.
There is a note on the counter.
Gone to the city for final legal review.
I'll see you at the Labor Day party on Monday.
- B.
No "darling." No "fiancée."
Just B.
I look at the trash can. The bag from Marvin's is in there. Uneaten.
A pang of regret hits so sharp it bends me in two.
I walk to the calendar on the wall, take a red marker, and put a big X over the date.
Four days left.
I should be happy. I should be relieved. I'm almost free.
But the cottage feels too big. And cold. And quiet.
I walk to the window and look out at the manicured lawn of Eastmoor. The stage is set for the final act.
I just have to survive the finale.