Chapter 2
Ivy
Awedding ends with the groom carrying his bride over the threshold to start their happily ever after. Hours spent reciting vows to the man of your dreams, a promise of love through thick and thin.
Except that shit doesn't happen in my life.
So here I am, staring at my reflection and seriously considering downing another three Xanax. Marriage. This is the part most people look forward to, right? Fuck the million dollars spent watching families fight over who loves whom more.
Mine wouldn't bother.
I swallow the pill, hissing at the powdery residue coating my throat. My fingers squeeze the bathroom counter, but not even the cool ceramic grounds me. Smooth. Cold. Hard. Fragile.
Most would be high on love right now, but love? Love wasn’t something I wanted or craved.
Tossing the silk dress into the hamper, I crank the shower handle until steam fills the small room and slip beneath the rain of water.
Breathe in. Out.
After scrubbing my body until it stings, I swipe away the condensation from the mirror.
For a moment, I don’t see the woman. The one who has long, dark hair that curls at the ends and skin that tans easily in the sun.
The woman whose eyes hold every shade of green and the ghosts of a child who had no one to trust.
I see the girl who fought to get here. Maybe that’s why I don’t believe in love. Because every person who was supposed to love me ended up disappointing me in some way.
Moving my hair over my shoulder, the diamond on my finger catches the overhead light. Most would call it beautiful. It’s more like overcompensation. A diamond this sparkly and big is nothing more than a giant red flag.
I open the door onto a shadow that’s blocking the light from the hallway. He seems bigger. Scarier. It’s an illusion, just like love. Just like this ring. He’s not big, or scary. It’s just a small doorway.
My toes curl into the carpet, a smile slipping onto my face. So this is it. The part where the consummation of our marriage plays out like some fucking Puritan throwback.
“Are—”
He cuts me off. “We sleep in separate rooms.”
A strange silence settles between us. My shoulders pull back on instinct, spine straightening like it knows something I don't. Not that we haven't had silence before, only this time, it feels different.
Taut. My throat tightens. Like the knot of a bow tightening, only not around a wedding gift, but around me. And that's not a bow. It's a noose.
“Okay,” I say instead, because a noose is only another accessory to add to my collection. Ceramic. Fragile. Perfect, for him. “Is there a reason why?”
He drags his hand over his cheek, battling with his answer. Lie. “You and I both appreciate our space, so this will allow us to keep that.”
How cute.
With a flick around the room, his eyes land back on me. “I wasn't sure what decorations you'd like, so I picked everything.”
A small twitch pulls at my lips. I've survived worse than separate bedrooms. I could do this. Did it strike me as odd that he’d decided to put a large amount of distant between us now? Yes, but I wasn’t about to argue.
“Thank you,” I say, fingers biting into my palms.
He hesitates, his eyes lingering on my body for a beat too long. “Goodnight, Ivanya.”
With a light click, he closes the door behind himself, shutting off all light.
Reaching for the bedside table, my hand lands on the lamp, and I flick it on.
“Goodnight,” I sigh, lowering to the mattress. This could be worse, Ivanya.
Sweat drips from my chin by the time I hit the tenth mile. I’m on a steady rhythm; my focus locked on the blank wall ahead. Honeymoon dick down and breakfast in bed? Nope. Not for me. The only thing getting pounded this morning is the conveyor belt of this treadmill.
My chest burns as the display ticks over to twelve miles and Korn screams through my ears.
I slam the bright red stop button, and the belt slows to a crawl. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I take in the room more carefully. Parker's taste is elegant, which is just a polite way of saying fucking boring. This shouldn’t surprise me as much as it does.
I scoop up my water bottle and towel and jog up the stairs to the main living area. Just like the gym, the rest of the house is lifeless. Blank walls, echoing footsteps because he can’t even be bothered filling the space with a lot of furniture. It’s a fucking mausoleum.
It could be worse.
Laughter reverberates through the room as I round the stairs. I hesitate. I’ve never seen Parker so much as crack a wide enough smile much less laugh.
With silent steps, I ease myself closer. What could possibly be the reason for this…man to finally laugh.
“Ah, here she is!”
Damn. So much for being stealthy.
I swing further around the room with a wide smile. One I’ve mastered. Parker’s mouth curves with something resembling satisfaction, shoulders squared. Fuck him for wearing marital pride better than his tailored suits.
I know better. But I've also had worse.
My eyes land on the newcomer and I pause.
I don’t know what I expected Parker’s friends to look like, but this guy isn’t it.
With cheekbones carved by Gods that I could only imagine were put on this earth to starve women like me, and skin too smooth for someone so large, I've backed myself into a corner because he’s beautiful.
Black hair, eyes so blue you question if they’re real, and lips full enough you wonder what they’d feel like… everywhere.
Shit. Wait—how long have I been staring? Pretty bastard.
I clear my throat. “Hi! I didn’t realize we were having guests?”
The closer I get, the tighter the room feels. His eyes hold mine for a second too long, as if stripping through every secret I’ve ever kept. What color is that? Hopefully he has a shit smile so I don’t have to worry if I’m gawking like a fucking pervert.
He stands, extending his hand. Dark ink spirals lean forearms before creeping up the side of his throat in deliberate patterns. If I had to guess, he’d be in his early twenties.
“Nice to see you, Ivy.” My name rolls off his tongue like he's tasted it before, like he knows exactly how it feels in his mouth. Rude as hell. My name has no business being anywhere near a man who looks this.
Hell. No.
He glances at Parker, then his gaze swings back to me. The movement reveals more of the ink at his throat, disappearing under hair buzzed tight to his scalp as a fade before becoming longer on the top. Weaponized beauty. That’s what he is.
The corner of his mouth lifts, before turning into a full smile that flashes all his teeth. Damnit it. Not a shit smile. More like one that feels like a punch to the ribs.
“So, how do you both know each other?” I ask, pointing to them both. I slide next to my brand-new husband and let Parker serve as a human shield.
Slowly, he lowers himself back down, resting his foot over his knee. Why’s he staring at me like that?
His finger works a line over his upper lip, doing his best to hide a smirk. How old are you?
Parker is forty-eight, and this friendship spans an age chasm wider than the twenty years between my husband and me.
Parker squeezes my shoulder, a gesture more rehearsed than corny reality TV shows.
“Ivy, meet Asher Jameson. You might know him from all the…” he waves a hand through the air, as if he can’t be bothered wasting his precious breath on explaining it. “…Hollywood.”
Asher’s smirk deepens.
I lift a single brow. “Sorry, I don't binge Love Island.”
His focus drops to my mouth. This man has been fed compliments like communion wine his entire life. I refuse to add another drop to his ocean-sized ego.
“Hilarious.” Parker's monotone pulls me back to reality. He taps his knuckles against my thigh. “Go shower. You smell like a sewer rat.”
I squeeze his hand with mine, flashing one last smile at Asher. “Of course. It was nice to meet you.”
Before I hit the corner that leads to the hallway, I turn, and my stomach lurches when I find Asher’s eyes still on me as Parker yaps about whatever mindless topic he’s on.
In a slow sweep, his focus drops to my exposed belly before lifting back to meet my gaze. Is he still smirking?
I shake off his spell and launch myself toward the stairs, obeying Parker like the good little wife I'm pretending to be.
My bedroom door is barely shut when my phone dances across the bedside table.
I snatch it from the charger and answer.
“Yes?”
A horn blares on the other end. “You bastard!”
I relax, all tension evaporating from my muscles.
“Can you believe the lunatics in this city? Bunch of fucking savages. Some jackass just baptized my new Valentinos with gutter sludge!”
Nobody comes between Lucinda and her designer obsessions.
“God, I've missed you,” I confess, slipping into the bathroom.
“I was literally at your wedding yesterday. Chill. This codependence is reaching pathological levels.” There’s a muffled pause. “Wait, Jord's jumping in.”
“Jumping in?” I turn on the shower and sit on the closed toilet lid.
“Yes! Switch to FaceTime.”
I roll my eyes and accept the video call. Both their faces crowd the screen. Lucinda's perfectly put together and Jord's… shit, he looks wrecked. His blond hair sticks up in seventeen different directions, his eyes barely cracked open.
Jesus Christ. The guy's a walking advertisement for bad decisions.
“Did you just crawl out of a dumpster?” I squint at him.
“Yes,” Jord croaks. “Some of us actually celebrate at weddings. I consumed enough alcohol for both of us. And for your husband, who has a stick up his ass.”
I change the subject. “Can you both speed this along? I need to shower and play host to Parker's mystery friend.”
They freeze.
Lucinda stops walking, causing some poor pedestrian to slam into her. She doesn't notice.
“Friend? Since when does Parker have those?” She asks, and is that skepticism I sense?
I peel off my sweaty clothes. “Since today, apparently.”