Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IVY
I walk back to the cottage with the labored, dragging steps of someone walking to the gallows.
The sun is setting, painting the sky in violent streaks of purple and orange. The air is thick with humidity and the scent of roses that the gardeners have been fussing over all afternoon.
Monday is Labor Day. Monday is the party. Monday is the end.
For the last four weeks, I’ve executed the role of the “Happy Fiancée” flawlessly.
Smiled until my jaw ached. Dodged questions about wedding dates.
Slept on the far edge of a California King bed, listening to the man I’ve come to love breathe in his sleep, knowing he thinks what happened between us was nothing more than biology.
Betty has invited half her world for the holiday weekend. Including Penelope Vanderbilt, who has watched me from across rooms all week like she's waiting for something to break.
I reach the cottage door.
I expect it to be dark. I expect Brooks to still be in the city, celebrating his victory with scotch and steak and people who don't matter.
But the lights are on.
I freeze, my hand on the latch.
He's here.
My heart does a traitorous double-backflip. Why is he here? He wasn't supposed to be back until Monday.
I push the door open.
Brooks is sitting on the patio, visible through the open French doors. He's out of his suit, wearing jeans and a soft grey T-shirt that hugs his arms. He's barefoot. He has a glass of wine in his hand, but he isn't drinking it. He's staring out at the darkening garden.
He hears the door and turns.
Our eyes meet across the room.
He doesn't look like the Venture Capitalist. He looks... anxious.
"You're back," I say, stepping inside and closing the door. "I thought you were celebrating."
"I didn't feel like celebrating," he says. He stands up and walks into the living room. "Not in the city, anyway."
He stops by the small kitchen table. There is a manila envelope sitting in the center of it. It looks thick. Official.
"I brought you something," he says.
I look at the envelope. A cold dread settles in my stomach.
"Is it the schedule for Monday?" I ask. "I already finished the seating chart with your mom."
"No," Brooks says. "It's not a schedule."
He gestures for me to open it.
I walk over. My hands are shaking as I pick up the envelope. I undo the clasp and slide the papers out.
The first thing I see is a check.
It is made out to Ever After, Inc.
The amount is five hundred thousand dollars.
I gasp, nearly dropping the paper. "Brooks. This... this is too much. The deal was fifty and to a charity."
"I changed the terms," he says. "Keep it. Donate it. It's yours to do with as you see fit."
I look at the document behind the check.
Release of Liability. Waiver of Claims.
It is signed. Dated today. Not Monday. Today.
"I don't understand," I whisper, looking up at him. "It's Friday. The contract says Labor Day. You need me for the party."
"I don't need a hostage for the party," Brooks says.
He walks around the table until he is standing right in front of me. He doesn't touch me, but his presence wraps around me.
"You're free, Ivy," he says. "Right now. You can take that check, pack your bag, and leave tonight. You don't have to stay for the party. You don't have to pretend for my mother. No lawsuit. No blackmail. You are completely, legally free."
I stare at him. "Why?"
"Because I hated myself this morning," he admits. "I looked at the security feed, and I saw you crying by the pool."
I flinch. "I wasn't crying. It was allergies."
"You were crying," he corrects. "Because I hurt you.”
He reaches out. His hand hovers, then cups my cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear that has fallen.
"But I realized something in the boardroom today," he says. "Winning doesn't feel like winning if you're not there to see it."
My heart is hammering so hard I think it might crack a rib.
"Brooks..."
"I'm giving you the waiver because I want to level the playing field," he says. "I don't want you here because of a contract. I don't want you here because you're afraid of me."
He steps closer.
"I want you to stay," he whispers. "Not as an asset. Not as a fake fiancée. I want you to stay because you want to."
I look at the check in my hand. Half a million dollars. Freedom. Safety for Maddy and Savvy.
Then I look at him. The man who ate a burger on a car hood. The man who defended me. The one who is looking at me now like I am the only thing in the world that matters.
"You're asking me to stay?" I ask.
"I'm begging you."
I could make him wait. I could fold this check into my pocket and walk out the door, let him wonder for days whether I'm coming back. He hurt me. He made me feel like a transaction. Part of me wants him to feel even a fraction of that.
But standing here, watching the most controlled man I've ever met come undone at the seams, I realize something. I can punish him, or I can forgive him. I can't do both.
And I'm so tired of being angry.
A smile breaks through my tears. It feels like the sun coming out after a month of rain.
"I can't leave tonight, anyway," I say softly. "I have to oversee the tent setup tomorrow. The florists are terrified of your mom."
Brooks lets out a breath he must have been holding for hours. A grin splits his face, boyish, relieved, beautiful.
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a 'we'll see,'" I tease. "You have a lot of groveling to do."
"I can grovel," he says. He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. "I can grovel very well."
He kisses me. It's soft, tentative, full of promise. It's not the desperate hunger of the storm; it's something sweeter. Something that feels like a beginning.
"I have to go to the main house," I whisper against his lips, though I make no move to pull away. "I left my purse and phone in the library when I was doing the charts. And I need to tell Betty the seating is finalized."
"Forget them," Brooks murmurs. "Stay here."
"I need to get my phone. Maddy will send a search party if she messages, and I don’t answer."
Brooks chuckles. He kisses my nose and steps back.
"Go," he says. "Get your things. Tell my mother whatever you want. Just come back."
"I'll be ten minutes," I promise.
I place the envelope on the table. "Leave that there," I say. "I haven't decided if I'm cashing it yet."
I turn and run out the door. I am light. I am weightless. I am finally, actually, the main character in my own love story.
The main house is quiet. The staff has left for the evening. The only light comes from the sconces in the hallway.
I hurry toward the library. My purse is still in there, abandoned on the desk where I dropped it before dinner. I need to grab my phone, call Maddy, tell her the war is over, and then run back to the cottage and kiss Brooks until Monday.
I push open the library doors, my heart hammering. My bag isn’t there. I know exactly where I left it. I set it down on the desk when I was looking for that gardening book for Betty before dinner.
"Looking for this?"
I stop dead.
The library isn't empty.
Penelope Vanderbilt is leaning against the mahogany desk. She isn't hiding in the shadows; she looks at ease, holding a heavy, leather-bound photo album in one arm.
In her other hand, she is holding my phone.
"Penelope," I say, breathless. "What are you doing here?"
"Helping," she says lightly. "Betty wanted to show me some photos of Brooks from his prep school days. She sent me down to grab the album from the shelf."
She taps her fingernail against the screen of my phone.
"Imagine my surprise when I heard this buzzing," she says. "Right inside your purse. I thought I'd bring it to you, save you the trip."
She tilts her head, her expression shifting from helpful guest to cold predator.
"But then I saw the message."
She turns the screen toward me. The notification is still there, glowing bright and damning in the dim light.
Savvy
Hang in there! Two more days until the term is up. Then you're free. No more blackmail, just the payout!
My blood turns to ice.
"I have to say, Ivy," Penelope purrs, "I was confused at first. 'Term is up.' 'Payout.'"
She pulls her own phone out of her clutch and snaps a photo of my screen.
"It sounds less like a wedding countdown and more like... a contract expiration."
"Give it to me," I say, stepping forward. "That's private. It's an inside joke."
"Is it?" Penelope asks. She sets my phone back on the desk, just out of my reach. "Because it confirms exactly what I've suspected since the moment I saw you two together. The awkward body language. The lack of history. You aren't in love with him. You're an employee."
"That's not true," I say, though my voice trembles.
"Oh, please. Do you think Betty will believe it's an 'inside joke' when I show her this picture?
" She waves her own phone. "She's upstairs waiting for me.
We're having a lovely chat about Brooks's future.
Imagine how disappointed she'll be to learn his fiancée is counting down the minutes until she can collect a check and leave. "
"You can't show her that," I whisper. "The deal closes on Monday. If a scandal breaks now, the stock will tank. Brooks will lose the deal."
"I know," Penelope says calmly. "That's the point."
She smiles, a sharp, dangerous thing.
"Unless, of course, you fix it."
"What do you want?"
"I want you gone," she says. "Tonight. Right now."
"I can't—"
"You leave," Penelope commands. "You pack your bags and drive back to the city. You leave a note saying you couldn't handle the pressure. You broke it off."
"And leave Brooks alone?"
"He won't be alone. I'll be there," she says smoothly. "I'll step in. I'll comfort him. We'll be seen together at the party on Monday. United in a difficult time. The board will love it. The vote will go through."
She checks her watch.
"You have one hour, Ivy. If you're still on the property, I show this photo to Betty. And then I call Page Six."
"He gave me a waiver," I say, desperate. "He released me."
"Good," she says. "Then you have no reason to stay."
She picks up the photo album again, clutching it to her chest.
"One hour," she says. "Or I burn his name to the ground."
She walks past me, smelling of expensive perfume, and exits the library to go back to Betty.
I stand there, staring at my phone on the desk.
The screen goes dark. But the damage is done.
I walk back to the cottage.
Brooks is waiting on the patio. He sees me coming. He smiles. It's the most beautiful, open one I have ever seen on him, and it devastates me.
"Did you find it?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, clutching my phone tight enough to crack the screen.
I walk past him into the kitchen. I don't stop to hug him. I don't stop to breathe. I go straight to the table and pick up the envelope with the check and the waiver.
"Ivy?" Brooks asks, following me inside. "What's wrong? You look pale."
I turn to face him. I have to do this. I have to be the best actress in the world, right now, for five minutes. If I crack, he loses everything.
"I'm taking the deal," I say.
Brooks stops halfway across the room. "What?"
"The check," I say, holding up the envelope. "Five hundred thousand. It's... it's a lot of money, Brooks. I didn't expect this. With the waiver and this money, Ever After is safe from any lawsuit. It secures our future."
"Ivy," he says, a confused laugh bubbling up. "You can have the check and stay. That's the point. You're free."
"No." I force my voice to be cold. I force myself to channel the "Shields Up" energy from the last four weeks. "I can't. Because this... us... it was just a job. Remember?"
His face falls. The smile vanishes, replaced by a flash of fear. "Ivy, don't. We just talked about this. You said—"
"You talked," I interrupt. "I listened. And I realized... you were right the first time. Everyone is a liability until you find their price."
I wave the envelope between us.
"You finally found mine. It's a good paycheck, Brooks. And unlike you, I know when to cash out."
"You're lying," he says. He steps closer, his eyes searching mine, desperate. "I know you. I know you're lying. What happened at the main house?"
"Nothing," I lie. "I just... I woke up. I realized I don't belong here. I don't want to be a Taylor. I don't want the pressure. I want my life back."
I turn away from him and march to the closet. I yank the door open.
Hanging there are the two outfits for the rest of the weekend.
I grab them, hangers and all. I walk over to the sofa where my open suitcase is sitting and toss them inside. I don't fold them. I don't care. I need to be gone.
I zip the suitcase shut with a harsh rasping sound.
"I'm leaving, Brooks," I say, grabbing the handle. "The waiver is signed. You'll get what you need on Monday."
I look at him one last time. He looks stunned, like he's in physical pain.
"Just tell them... tell them I got cold feet," I say, my voice steady. "It plays better for sympathy."
I echo his own words back to him. I see them land like daggers.
He flinches. He looks at me, and the light in his eyes goes out. The vulnerability he showed me ten minutes ago vanishes. The walls slam back up, instant and impenetrable.
"Fine," he says. His voice is ice. "If that's what you want. Take the money."
"I will."
I reach for my left hand. My fingers are trembling as I twist the diamond ring, the heirloom, the symbol of the lie, off my finger.
It feels like tearing off a limb.
I walk over to the table and set the ring down. The diamond sparkles under the kitchen light, cold and hard.
"You'll need this for the next one."
Brooks stares at the ring. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek.
"I need a ride. Please call the driver."
He stares at me for a long, agonizing second. Then he turns his back on me and picks up the landline on the side table.
"Have the car brought around to the guest cottage," he says into the receiver. His voice is devoid of emotion. "Miss Sullivan is leaving. Take her home."
He hangs up.
"He's on his way."
"Thank you," I say stiffly.
I don't wait inside with him. I can't stand the silence. I drag my suitcase out to the patio and stand on the gravel, staring into the dark garden, waiting for the headlights to sweep across the lawn.
Two minutes later, a black town car pulls up. The driver gets out to take my bag.
I get into the back seat. I don't look at the cottage. I don't look at the window to see if he's watching.
The car pulls away, crunching down the driveway, past the rose bushes, past the main house where Penelope is likely watching from an upstairs window, victory in hand.
We pass through the iron gates of Eastmoor.
And only when we are five miles down the highway, in the dark, with the check on the seat beside me, do I cover my face with my hands and scream.