Chapter 2
IVY
There was something deeply intimate about the rhythmic hum of the tattoo machine, its low vibration filling the silence of the small studio, steady and unwavering.
Ivy leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed in intense concentration as she guided the needle across the fragile skin, each stroke delicate yet deliberate, the colors blooming softly under her steady hand, shades of rose and cream blending into an intricate portrait of femininity and renewal.
The woman beneath her was utterly still, eyes closed, breathing deeply, her trust in Ivy absolute. For these few moments, the world beyond the studio walls didn’t exist; there were no scars, no diagnoses, no regrets, only the quiet transformation happening beneath Ivy’s deft fingers.
“How are you doing, Claire?” Ivy murmured, her voice a low, velvety comfort against the hum of the needle. She paused briefly, glancing upward to read her client’s face, watchful for any tension that might signal extreme pain.
Claire smiled softly, eyes still closed, lashes resting gently on her pale cheeks. "Better than I expected," she whispered, almost reverently. "I didn’t know if this would help, but it already feels…different. Real."
Ivy’s lips curved slightly, a rare softness in her expression that few outside this room would recognize. "It’s supposed to feel real," she reassured as she returned to her work. "Because it is."
The studio was small but meticulously arranged, occupying the corner of a historic building only blocks from Harrington Memorial, hidden discreetly behind frosted windows and vintage brick.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and ink, but also something softer—vanilla, and amber, a suggestion of warmth that tempered the clinical atmosphere, transforming the space into a sanctuary rather than a clinic.
Ivy had always known her place wasn’t simply about art or precision; it was about offering something deeper: healing, reclamation, a silent statement that what was lost could sometimes be rebuilt into something even stronger.
Once a week, every Wednesday, she turned away paying clients and volunteered her time to women like Claire, giving them back what illness had taken, one careful stroke of her needle at a time.
Claire stirred slightly, exhaling deeply, muscles finally surrendering beneath Ivy’s gentle pressure. Ivy kept working silently, each movement an unspoken promise that she would handle these moments with the reverence they deserved.
A soft knock came at the door, and it opened a moment later without waiting for permission, revealing her receptionist, Leah, whose wavy dark hair fell in messy, defiant curls around her shoulders and whose face was set in the perpetual amused expression of someone always one second away from teasing Ivy about something.
Leah leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, a subtle smirk playing around the corners of her mouth as she watched Ivy work.
"When you finish being a literal angel of mercy," she drawled, the teasing obvious in her tone, "your three o'clock is here, already drooling over your Instagram page. Again."
Ivy didn’t look up from her work, the line of her jaw tightening just slightly. "Remind him I tattoo skin, not fantasies."
Leah laughed, shaking her head. "You know, for someone who keeps insisting she doesn’t do softness or relationships, you’re awfully good at making people fall in love with you."
Ivy allowed herself a small, exasperated smile, finally glancing up to meet Leah’s mischievous eyes. "I’m not interested in love," she replied smoothly, "just art and ink and occasionally saving the world."
Claire chuckled beneath her, the sound light and warm. "And we’re grateful you do."
Ivy’s expression gentled again as she resumed shading.
Fifteen minutes later, Ivy leaned back slightly, studying the finished tattoo, critically assessing the symmetry and lifelike shading. "It’s done," she murmured, her voice satisfied. "Want to see?"
Claire nodded eagerly, her eyes wide with anticipation. Ivy guided her toward the mirror, standing back to watch as the woman took in the artistry reflected before her. Claire stared, fingertips hovering above the skin, tears brightening her eyes.
Ivy observed, patient and still, allowing Claire space for the rush of emotion she knew would inevitably come. "You gave it back to me," Claire whispered softly, her voice trembling. "You made me feel whole again."
Ivy nodded, meeting Claire’s gaze in the mirror. "No," she replied. "You did that. I just painted what was already there."
Claire hugged her before stepping back, smiling through her tears. "Thank you, Ivy. Truly."
After Claire had gone, Leah stepped back into the studio, hands tucked into her pockets, watching Ivy carefully sterilize her equipment. "You know," she teased, "if you’re not careful, people are going to start thinking you’re a good person."
Ivy’s lips quirked slightly, her expression sliding effortlessly back into familiar sarcasm. "Good people are dull, Leah," she said dryly, meticulously cleaning ink from her gloves. "I prefer being useful."
Leah laughed again, shaking her head as she returned to the front reception, the sound lingering in the quiet aftermath. Ivy sighed, acknowledging the weight of emotion left behind from the session, the deep vulnerability she held space for but rarely admitted to herself.
Minutes later, footsteps approached, the heavier sound of her three o'clock client, all swagger and cologne and deliberate casualness, entering the studio with the ease of someone used to charming his way through life.
He leaned against her work table, offering her a grin as she glanced up calmly from her supplies.
"Ivy," he greeted smoothly, voice dripping with charm. "I was looking at your designs, and I have to admit, they weren't what I was really interested in."
She raised an eyebrow slowly, meeting his eyes with a coolly detached gaze, her expression never wavering. "You don’t say."
He tilted his head slightly, his smile broadening. "Thought maybe we could get to know each other, outside of all this." He gestured vaguely toward her equipment. "I hear you're single."
Ivy leaned back against her stool, her arms folded loosely across her chest and a faint, amused smirk playing at the edge of her lips. "And where exactly did you hear that?"
He shrugged. "Word gets around."
She held his gaze a beat longer, then shook her head, her eyes glittering with amusement but no real warmth. "Then perhaps you also heard that I'm not interested."
He hesitated, clearly unused to being dismissed. "Really?" he pressed, his voice less certain.
"Really," she confirmed, holding his gaze. "But if you're serious about the tattoo, we can start. Otherwise—"
He lifted his hands quickly, laughing lightly in surrender, stepping back slightly from her workspace. "All right," he conceded smoothly, recovering quickly, "just thought I'd give it a shot."
She turned her attention back to her instruments. He sighed, settling into her tattoo chair, resignation mingling with lingering interest.
Ivy didn't smile. She simply reached for her needle again, her posture controlled and efficient, elegant fingers selecting the ink, aware of the familiar sound of the tattoo machine as she turned it back on.
Because Ivy knew her power, the ability to rewrite someone's story in ink. The rest was merely noise. Here, within these four walls, Ivy was an artist, a healer, a secret-keeper.
Out there, beyond the ink, she didn't allow herself to feel.
Ivy had learned long ago that softness was dangerous and vulnerability fatal.
But here, in her sanctuary, she could admit, if only to herself, that sometimes, very rarely, she wondered if there was someone who might one day change her mind.
The bar was exactly how Ivy liked it: dark, chaotic, and full of noise and shadows and unapologetic roughness around the edges.
Neon signs flickered erratically against brick walls that had seen too many fistfights and too few apologies, while the jukebox in the corner played classic rock just loud enough to blur conversations into white noise, a buffer against anything too personal.
She pushed the door open, instantly breathing easier in the comforting chaos of the place, the scent of spilled beer and worn leather jackets settling familiarly around her shoulders.
It was the kind of bar where you kept your guard up, your drink strong, and your conversations quick and dirty—the perfect antidote to the emotional heaviness she carried after days like today.
"Ivy!" called a voice from behind the bar. The bartender, a woman named Jackie, whose tattooed arms and perpetually narrowed eyes communicated a subtle warning not to push too hard, lifted her chin in greeting. "Bourbon?"
"Double," Ivy shot back easily, sliding onto a worn barstool, fingertips drumming lightly against the scarred wooden countertop. Jackie poured without hesitation, sliding the glass across with a practiced flick of the wrist.
“Bad day?” Jackie asked, arching one pierced eyebrow, already knowing the answer before Ivy could speak.
Ivy shrugged, picking up the bourbon and knocking back half the drink in one go. "Long day. Good work, though."
Jackie nodded knowingly, polishing glasses idly with a cloth that had long since stopped making anything cleaner. "Still volunteering at Harrington?"
"Every Wednesday," Ivy murmured, tilting her glass slightly, studying the amber liquid swirling slowly at the bottom. "Someone has to keep me from going completely heartless."
Jackie laughed, a rich, husky sound that perfectly matched her dark-lined eyes and teasing smirk. "Don’t worry, Ivy. Your secret's safe with me."
"Good," Ivy retorted dryly, "because if people start thinking I'm nice, my life is fucked."