Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
brOOKS
I wake up on the leather sofa in the library of the main house. My neck is stiff, and a headache is pounding behind my eyes like a relentless drum.
For a split second, in the haze of morning, I forget. I reach for my phone to text her. To ask if she wants coffee.
Then reality crashes down.
I sit up, groaning as the room spins. The house is silent, but the silence feels heavy, accusatory.
I couldn’t stay in the cottage last night. After the taillights of the town car disappeared through the gates, the air in the guest house became suffocating. I couldn’t look at the bed where we slept. I couldn’t look at the kitchen table where she ended us.
So I retreated here. To the main house. To the scotch bottle.
I check the clock on the mantel. 7:00 AM.
I have to go back. I have to verify it. A part of me, the desperate, pathetic part, hopes that maybe I dreamt it. Maybe she’s still there, making coffee, wondering where I am.
I walk out of the main house and across the dew-soaked lawn. The morning air is cold, the wet grass soaking through my socks.
I push open the cottage door.
The kitchen is flooded with sunlight. It’s cheerful. Insulting.
The table where I left the manila envelope is bare. The five hundred thousand dollars is gone.
But the ring is there.
It sits exactly where she left it, a single solitaire catching the sun. It sparkles violently, bright and sharp. It mocks me.
You’ll need this for the next one, she said.
I pick it up. The metal is cold. It feels heavy in my palm, heavier than it ever did when it was an heirloom in a safe. Now, it feels like a tombstone.
She took the money. She left the ring.
I close my fist around it, the diamond digging into my skin until it hurts, then slip it into my pocket.
It was a job. That’s what she told me.
I walk to the bed looking for a sign that she hesitated. A forgotten sock. A note. Anything that proves she was real.
But it is pristine. The bed is made. The closet is empty. She cleared the set.
I look at the bathroom counter. It is clear of her toiletries. It’s as if she was never here. It’s as if the last eight weeks were a hallucination brought on by a concussion.
I lean against the doorframe, a sick feeling churning in my gut.
Was she that good?
I replay the last eight weeks in my head. The coercion. The blackmail. I dragged her into this against her will. I forced her to play a role she hated.
But somewhere along the way, I thought the roles had become real. The way she laughed at my jokes. The way she defended me to Royce. The way she looked at me when we were alone in the dark, soft, open, vulnerable.
I could have sworn I saw something real in her eyes. I thought that what started as a hostage situation had turned into a partnership.
That’s why I gave her the check. That’s why I changed the terms from a charity donation to a direct payout for her business. I wanted to free her. I wanted to see if, given the choice between the door and me, she would choose me.
I told her she could have the check and stay.
But she didn’t want to stay.
Everyone is a liability until you find their price. That’s what she said to me last night.
I found her price. Five hundred thousand dollars.
And the moment the check was in her hand, the performance ended.
I walk back to the kitchen.
“You played yourself, Taylor,” I whisper to the empty room.
I look at the trash bin under the sink. I pull it open.
Empty. Relined with a fresh, pristine white bag.
The housekeeping staff. They must have come in the moment she left, or while I was passed out in the main house. They wiped away any evidence that she was here.
Efficiency. That’s the Taylor way. Erase the mess. Move on.
I need to shower, put on a suit and tell my parents that the engagement is off, but the Labor Day gala must go on.
The main house is a hive of activity.
Caterers are setting up the main tent on the lawn. Florists are carrying crates of white hydrangeas, Ivy’s suggestion, into the ballroom. The air is filled with the sound of hammers, shouting, and the distinct, high-pitched stress of event planning.
It makes my stomach turn.
I walk into the breakfast room. It is suffocating.
My mother is debating napkin colors with the event planner. My father is reading the Financial Times.
“Ivy isn’t coming,” I say, cutting through the domestic chatter.
I pour myself a coffee, my back to them. I need the caffeine to keep my hands steady.
“What do you mean?” Betty asks, her pen hovering over the seating chart. “Is she ill?”
“She’s gone,” I say. I turn around. “She left last night. The engagement is off.”
The silence is absolute. Even the event planner freezes, clutching a swatch of linen.
“Give them a different photo op,” I say flatly. “Give them the deal. The Holloway announcement goes out Monday. Make the party about the business. That’s what it’s always been about anyway.”
“What happened?” my father asks. He lowers the paper, his eyes scanning my face, looking for the tell.
“She got cold feet,” I lie. “She realized she didn’t want this life. She didn’t want the pressure.”
“Nonsense,” Betty says. “She was made for this. You drove her away, didn’t you?”
“I gave her a choice,” I snap. “And she chose to leave.”
I set my cup down hard enough that coffee sloshes over the rim.
“I have calls to make.”
I walk out. I can’t look at them. I can’t let them see that I am bleeding out.
The next thirty hours dissolve into a grey haze of contract reviews and lukewarm coffee.
I barricade myself in the library. I answer emails. I finalize the press release. I do everything except think about the woman who is currently somewhere in Manhattan, probably depositing the check and relieved to be done pretending.
Outside the window, the world keeps turning. The massive white tent rises on the lawn like a sail. The caterers arrive. The sound of hammers and shouting drifts through the glass, a constant reminder of the celebration I am now dreading.
By late Sunday afternoon, I am numb. The Holloway deal is signed, sealed, and delivered. I have won.
There is absolutely nothing.
At 4:00 PM, the library doors open.
“Mother, I don’t care about the flowers,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“It’s not Betty.”
I look up.
Penelope Vanderbilt is standing there. She looks like a vision of Hamptons perfection in a white tennis dress. She is holding a heavy, leather-bound book in her arms.
“Penelope,” I say, leaning back in my chair. My patience is non-existent. “What do you want?”
“I was looking for Betty,” she says, her voice smooth. “I wanted to return this album. She asked me to pick it up on Friday.”
She walks over and places the album on the desk with a heavy thud.
“I heard the news, Brooks. I’m so sorry.”
“Save it,” I say.
“No, really,” she says, moving closer. She rests a hip against the desk, encroaching on my space. “News travels fast in the Hamptons. The florist told the caterer, who told my housekeeper. It must be humiliating.”
“It’s a private matter,” I say, looking back at my screen.
“Is it?” She gives a small, pitying laugh. “Frankly, Brooks, it’s for the best. Ivy was… sweet. But she was unstable. I mean, she looked absolutely manic on Friday night when I saw her sprinting across the lawn.”
I stop typing. My fingers hover over the keys.
“You saw her running?” I ask slowly.
Penelope blinks. “I… well, yes.”
I look up at her.
“I thought you said you heard the news from the florist,” I say, my voice drop-dead calm.
Penelope shifts her weight. Her composure fractures for a second.
“I did hear she left from the florist,” she says, then corrects herself quickly. “But I saw Ivy running from the main house Friday night. I assumed she was upset. I didn’t realize she was leaving for good.”
I say nothing.
Penelope gestures with the photo album. “Betty asked me to grab this for her,” she adds, too casually. “She wanted to look at it after dinner.”
My gaze drifts to the built-in shelves lining the wall.
Right behind her.
“That’s interesting,” I say.
Her smile tightens. “Is it?”
“That album lives on that shelf,” I continue evenly. “If you were getting it for my mother, you weren’t passing through. You were in this room.”
The silence holds.
Penelope straightens, recovering quickly. “Of course I was,” she says. “I’m staying for the weekend. I don’t see why that matters.”
“It matters,” I say.
She steps closer and reaches for my hand.
“Forget about her,” Penelope murmurs. “Focus on tomorrow. You need stability right now, Brooks. Someone beside you so the board doesn’t smell blood. We can present a united front."
I pull my hand away as if she’s burned me.
“Get out.”
“Brooks—”
“Get out, Penelope. Before I have security escort you off the property.”
Her eyes flash with anger. She turns sharply and stalks from the room, leaving the album behind on the desk.
I don’t move for a long moment.
She lied.
She was in this room Friday night.
I pull out my phone and open the security app. My thumb is steady as I scroll back through the timeline.
Friday.
7:30 PM.
Camera 5: Library Interior.
The black-and-white footage begins to play.
Penelope enters the room.
She’s empty-handed.
She crosses directly to the shelves along the far wall, scans the spines, and removes the leather-bound album.
She turns to leave.
Then she slows.
Her head turns.
She’s noticed something.
I pinch the screen and zoom in.
Ivy’s purse sits on the corner of the desk, its top slightly open.
Penelope hesitates only a beat. Then she sets the album down on the side chair and steps closer.
She reaches into the purse.
Her hand disappears inside.
A moment later, she withdraws Ivy’s phone, the glittery case unmistakable even in grainy black and white.
She taps the screen. It lights up.
I watch her face carefully.
Her eyes scan the lock screen. Her brows lift. And then her mouth curves into a slow, deliberate smile.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
She doesn’t put the phone back.
She keeps it in her hand, leans against the edge of the desk, crosses her ankles, unhurried, thoughtful, as if considering her next move.
7:42 PM.
The library doors open. Ivy walks in. She stops dead when she sees Penelope.
I see Ivy’s shoulders stiffen.
They speak briefly. I can’t hear what is said, but the body language is screaming. Penelope looks calm, relaxed, entitled. Ivy looks confused, defensive.
And then, Penelope lifts the hand holding the phone. She turns the screen toward Ivy.
I watch Ivy’s reaction. She flinches as if she’s been slapped. She takes a step back, shaking her head.
Then she takes a step forward. Her hands come up, palms open.
Pleading.
She isn’t arguing. She is begging.
I watch Ivy. She gestures to the room, to the house. She looks small, cornered, and utterly terrified.
Her expression is one of absolute, cold victory. She says something back, short, sharp. A command it seems.
She pulls out her own phone and takes a photo of Ivy's screen. Then she sets Ivy's phone down on the desk, out of Ivy's reach.
Penelope picks up the photo album from the chair. She walks toward the door. I switch back to the hallway camera.
7:58 PM. Penelope walks out. She looks triumphant.
8:02 PM. Ivy runs out.
She isn’t skipping. She’s clutching the phone to her chest. She looks shattered.
I stare at the screen. The silence in the room is deafening.
I don’t need audio to know what happened. I’ve seen that dynamic in a thousand boardrooms. It’s a hostile takeover.
It wasn’t a transaction. It wasn’t “cold feet.”
Penelope ambushed her. She found something on that phone, leverage, and she used it to force Ivy out.
And Ivy didn’t fight back. She didn’t come to me. She didn’t try to negotiate.
She surrendered.
I don’t know what was on that screen. I don’t know what unknown reason made her fold. But I know she didn’t leave because she stopped caring. She left because she felt she had no choice.
She played the villain so I could remain the hero.
My hand closes around the ring in my pocket. It doesn't mock me anymore. Now, it feels like a promise waiting to be kept.
I pick up my keys.
I have hours to get to River Bend and back.
I’m coming for her. And this time, I’m not bringing a contract.
I drive like a man with nothing left to lose. I don’t care about the speed traps on the LIE or the thickening holiday traffic. I reach her building in record time, finding it was easy enough with a targeted search. I’ve never been here before; I’d only ever sent a car to her door.
I reach for the buzzer. I press it. Once. Twice. Ten times.
Nothing.
I stand on the sidewalk in the humid city heat, looking up at her dark windows. I call her phone, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I don’t leave. I wait. I sit on the steps of her brownstone while the sun goes down and the streetlights flicker on. I watch every person who goes in or out, praying one of them is her. A light rain starts to fall around midnight, soaking through my shirt, but I don’t move. I can’t move.
It isn’t until the sun starts to rise the next morning, bathing the city in a cruel, cheerful light, that I finally accept the truth. She isn’t here. Or if she is, she wants nothing to do with me.
“I’m sorry, Ivy,” I whisper to the empty street.
I get back in the car. I have a gala to host and a reputation to burn. If I can't have her, I can at least make sure Penelope Vanderbilt pays for what she's done.
The drive back to the Hamptons passes in a blur. When I finally walk into the cottage, the silence hits me like a wall. I drop my keys on the counter. The ring is still in my pocket; I pull it out and set it on the kitchen table, exactly where she left it.
If she comes back, it'll be waiting. Just like me.