15. Ivy
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Ivy
The dress costs two hundred dollars, and I paid for it with Wildflour money. This is probably the cheapest dress I’ve ever worn to a gala.
As we pull up to the Ashworth Foundation gala with flashbulbs already popping outside the car window, I ignore the nerves and the stakes, thinking instead about how the emerald silk against my skin came from croissants, morning buns, and Saturday rushes that started at five in the morning.
Kurt squeezes my hand. “You okay?”
“Ask me again in an hour.”
“You look incredible.”
“I look like a baker who bought the only dress she can afford.”
“You look like a woman who built something real.” He brings my hand to his lips. “That’s worth more than anything in that ballroom.”
The car door opens, and we step out into the light.
The Ashworth estate is ridiculous, the kind of wealth that announces itself from the driveway. Waiters circulate with champagne that probably costs more per glass than my daily take. Women drip with diamonds. Men wear watches worth more than my cottage.
And everyone is staring at us.
I feel the whispers start before we’re ten feet inside.
Kurt Mason and his wife. The one who disappeared.
The marriage everyone assumed was over. Millie’s interview didn’t air yet, but rumors travel faster than broadcast schedules.
People have heard things, especially among billionaires’ spouses, and they’re curious.
I want to encourage their curiosity and allow them to see us happy and whole together so they will remember this exact moment when Millie tries to sell her version of events three days from now.
Kurt’s hand settles on the small of my back, warm and steady, and we move through the crowd together. People approach, offer greetings, ask careful questions about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. I smile and answer and let them see a woman who’s thriving, not hiding.
Then I see her.
Millie Walker, across the ballroom, radiant in white silk.
The engagement ring on her finger catches every light in the room, a rock so massive it looks like it might tip her hand over.
Richard Ashworth stands beside her, silver-haired and distinguished, the picture of old money and new arrangements.
She looks triumphant. She looks like a woman who thinks she’s already won.
Then she sees us.
The smile freezes on her face. Just for a second, just long enough for me to catch it, and then the mask slides back into place.
But I saw. I saw the calculation behind her eyes, the fury she’s trying to hide, the realization that we’re here, together, three days before her interview is supposed to destroy us.
She excuses herself from her fiancé and crosses the ballroom.
Here we go.
“Ivy.” She says my name like we’re old friends. “What a surprise. I didn’t realize you’d be attending.”
“Kurt’s on the guest list. I’m his wife.”
“Still?” She tilts her head, mock sympathy dripping from every syllable. “I thought perhaps after everything, you’d have moved on by now. Found something more… suitable.”
“I found a bakery. And a life. And my husband.” I smile pleasantly. “But thank you for your concern.”
“How sweet that you’re trying.” Her eyes flick to Kurt, then back to me. “Clawing your way back into your own marriage. It must be exhausting.”
“Not really. I just stopped letting other people sit in my chair.”
The barb lands. I see it in the tightening around her eyes, the slight flare of her nostrils.
“I saw your little shop, you know. On my visit.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Very quaint. Very… humble. Is that what you’re wearing tonight? Small-town success? This went better than expected. Kurt really chose to be destitute with you.”
“I’m wearing a dress I paid for myself. With money I earned. From a business I built.” I tilt my head. “What are you wearing, Millie? Something Richard bought you? Or something you picked out hoping he’d notice?”
“I’ve never had to hope for a man’s attention.” Her voice rises slightly. “They line up, Ivy. They always have. I don’t beg. I don’t chase. I don’t spend years being invisible in my own marriage.”
“No, you just spend years being the understudy.” I keep my voice calm. “The assistant. The convenience. The woman who gets the late nights and the inside jokes but never the holidays, never the family dinners, never the actual life.”
“I have a life now. A better one than you ever had.”
“You have an engagement ring from a man you’ve known for three months.” I glance at Ashworth across the room. “I wonder if he knows about the interview yet. The one where you talk about your close relationship with my husband.”
Her face goes pale.
“That’s a professional piece. About my career journey.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” I step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear.
“Because from what I understand, you’re planning to paint a picture of a broken marriage.
A neglectful husband. A wife who ran away after reading the phone you left out that morning, hoping he’d choose you once she was gone. Very compelling television.”
“I’m telling the truth. Not whatever version you think happened.”
“You’re telling your truth.” I gesture around the ballroom.
“All these people, Millie. They’re watching us right now.
They see a couple who showed up together, happy, united.
They see a wife who doesn’t look broken.
A husband who can’t stop touching her. When your interview airs, what do you think they’ll remember? Your version? Or this?”
“You think a photo op changes anything?”
“I think you built your whole narrative around a marriage in ruins. And we’re not in ruins.” I smile sweetly. “We’re right here. Thriving. Together. Three days before you go on television to tell everyone we’re over.”
“You’re pathetic.” Her voice is loud enough now that people are starting to turn. “You think standing next to him proves anything? You think one night at a gala erases what he did? What we had?”
“What did you have, Millie?” I ask quietly. “Really. What did you actually have?”
“I had him. Every late night. Every confidence. Every piece of himself he couldn’t give you. I had all of it.”
“You had his schedule. His calendar. His attention when I wasn’t looking.” I shake my head slowly. “You were waiting for something that was never going to happen.”
“He would have left you. Eventually. If you hadn’t run first.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I did run. And he came after me. He left his company bleeding money, slept in his car outside my door, learned to make petit fours from scratch. What did you do, Millie? Find a richer target and take revenge on the one who chose his wife over you?”
Her face contorts with fury.
“You don’t get to judge me. You don’t get to stand there in your cheap dress and your rebuilt marriage and act like you’re better than me.”
“I’m not better than you. I’m just happier.” I hold her gaze. “You get nights, Millie. Meetings and late dinners and secrets that make you feel special. I got a life. A daughter. A home that smells like bread instead of ambition. Do you understand the difference yet?”
“You smug little…”
“Careful.” Kurt’s voice cuts in, quiet and cold. “Whatever you’re about to say, there are people watching. And most of them have phones.”
Millie’s eyes dart around the room. He’s right. The ballroom has gone quiet. Every eye is on us. Every hand is suspiciously close to a pocket or a purse.
“This isn’t over,” she hisses.
“Yes, it is.” Kurt’s arm slides around my waist. “When your interview airs, every person in this room will have seen us together tonight. Happy. In love. Very much not the broken couple you’re planning to describe. Your story falls apart before you even tell it.”
“You planned this.”
“We planned to show up and tell the truth,” I say. “That’s all. The truth is, our marriage almost ended. The truth is, he made terrible mistakes. The truth is also that he’s spent time making them right, and I’ve decided to let him. That’s not the story you wanted to tell, is it?”
Millie’s hands are shaking at her sides. Her carefully constructed composure is cracking, and everyone can see it.
“He’ll never change.” Her voice comes out high and desperate. “He’ll get bored. He’ll go back to work and forget you exist. And when he does…”
“You’ll be where? Married to Ashworth? Planning your next interview about your next billionaire?” I almost feel sorry for her. “That’s the thing about holding patterns, Millie. You never actually land anywhere. You just keep circling, waiting for permission to touch down.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
I step closer. “I know you wanted what I had. And I know you’ll never have it. Because what I have, I built. What you have is borrowed after a failed attempt to steal my husband.”
She slaps me.
The sound cracks through the crowd. My head snaps to the side, cheek stinging, and I hear the collective gasp of people who just watched a billionaire’s fiancée assault someone at her own party.
I don’t hit her back.
I don’t need to. I just turn my head slowly, meet her eyes, and smile.
“Thank you, Millie. Now everyone knows exactly who you are.”
Security arrives within seconds. Ashworth is there too, his face a mask of horrified fury. He takes Millie by the arm and steers her toward a side exit, and she goes, stumbling, the massive engagement ring catching the light one last time before she disappears through the doors.
The ballroom erupts in whispers.
Kurt’s hand finds my face, turning it gently toward him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m perfect.”
“Your cheek is red.”
“It’ll make great photos.” I lean into his touch. “Take me home.”
***
The video goes viral before we even get back to the cottage the next day.
Someone uploaded the clip within minutes. By the time Kurt parks in front of my door, it’s been shared ten thousand times. By morning, it’s everywhere.
The interview airs three days later, just like Millie planned. But it doesn’t land the way she hoped.