Chapter 5
Ivy
This wine leaves an aftertaste of disappointment. Much like my husband.
“You're breaking up,” Parker says through the phone, his voice cutting in and out. He could be calling from another planet instead of Geneva. “I said I can't make it back for your birthday.”
“I heard you the first time.” I swirl the Malbec in my glass, watching it cling to the sides. Three months since Veilarath. Five months of this dance with Asher where we orbit each other, but never quite touch.
“Don't be dramatic, Ivy. It's only a birthday.” Parker’s annoyance would trigger me if I gave a fuck.
Thankfully, it’s just like everything else in our marriage. Fake. Only he doesn’t know it as well as I do.
“I'm not mad.” And I'm not. Relief floods through me. I won't have to pretend tonight. Won't have to play the devoted wife while my friends watch with knowing stares. “Lucinda and Jord are coming over. Punk too.”
“And Asher?” His tone shifts, something sharp sliding under the casual question.
“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. I couldn’t give a shit what Parker thinks about me and his friend growing so close. It’s become evident how much he hates it, which in turn, only makes me love it more.
Silence pulls between us. Is that a fucking fluff in my wine? I study it closely.
“He's been strange lately. Have you noticed?” Parker asks, and out of all the questions I expected him to ask, that wasn’t it.
Of course I had noticed it. Every time Parker’s in the room, Asher’s eyes turn a shade colder.
The only difference is that I didn’t know them together before we got married, so I can’t decide whether this is something new or if Asher has always been this way with his old friend.
“—it’s like he hates me coming near you. I’m your fucking husband.” Huh. Why’s his reception suddenly clear?
“He's protective.” I take another sip of wine. “It's his nature.”
“Protective,” Parker repeats, tasting the word. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Well, what would you call it?” I ask, gripping my wine glass tighter than usual.
“--I have to go. The meeting's starting.”
The line goes dead. No goodbye. No happy birthday.
Silence.
I set the phone down and drain my glass.
Placing my empty goblet into the sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
A mesh dress that leaves nothing to imagination, black lingerie visible underneath, hair twisted up in a knot that's already falling.
Birthday girl playing dress-up for friends while her husband makes deals that promise him a one-way trip to hell.
The doorbell rings.
“I've got it!” Asher's voice carries from the living room. His footsteps cross the carpeted foyer, and I hear Lucinda's laugh before she even makes it inside. It’s sad when I think about it. How much Asher could have fit into our life easily. If I wasn’t me. If I wasn’t a monster.
“Where's the birthday girl?” Lucinda sweeps into the kitchen, a hurricane in Valentino. Jord trails behind her with a bottle of Dom in each hand.
“Drinking alone like a proper twenty-year-old.” I hold up my empty glass to accentuate my small fib.
“Twenty-nine,” Jord corrects, popping the champagne. “But who's counting?”
I widen my eyes at my sassy best friend. “You, apparently.”
Also me, since Asher is twenty-four.
Lucinda scans me—the mesh dress, the wine, the phone face-down on the counter. She doesn't ask about Parker. She doesn't need to.
“Punk's on her way,” she says instead, accepting the champagne Jord pours. “Said she has something for you.”
“If it's another encrypted phone, I'm going to—”
“It's not.” Punk appears in the doorway, combat boots loud against the floor. “It's better.”
She sets a small box on the counter, wrapped in black paper with no bow. Classic Punk. Efficient even in gift-giving.
“Leon couldn't make it,” I say, not a question. Leon has been absent more than usual lately, but as always, none of us ask questions, especially on script.
Punk's gaze flicks to mine, then away. That practiced smile slides into place, too wide, too bright. “He had to work.”
A bed of fucking lies. We all know what Leon's work entails. We all know why he can't be here. But Asher doesn't, and his frown deepens at the vagueness.
“Work,” he repeats. “Right.”
Before anyone can elaborate, another knock echoes through the house.
“That's for me.” Asher disappears, leaving us in tense silence.
“He's suspicious,” Punk says quietly, cracking her neck.
“He's always suspicious.” I reach for the champagne. “It's what makes him—”
“Fucking incredible?” Lucinda supplies, teasing.
“I was going to say annoying,” I mumble into my glass of bubbles.
Jord snorts. “Sure you were.”
Best friends are fucking annoying.
Footsteps approach, and we all shift our expressions back to casual party mode.
But when Asher rounds the corner, he's carrying something that makes my chest tight.
For once, it has nothing to do with his six-four frame, or his eyes that rip layers off my soul with every blink, or that damn smile he only ever seems to reserve for me.
It’s a cake. Three tiers of dark chocolate dripping down white frosting, scattered with fresh white roses. I’ve hated birthdays. For twenty-eight years, I hated birthdays.
Asher’s face breaks into a half-smirk. “Happy birthday, Venom.”
I don't see him pull out his phone, but I hear the camera click. When I look up, he's already lowering it.
“Did you—”
“Candid shots are the best shots.” He sets the cake on the island. “You can thank me later.”
“For the cake or the unauthorized photo?” I tease, because I’m an idiot and his affection is starting to feel too much like home.
He shrugs, winking at me. “Both.”
Dinner unfolds in waves of laughter and wine. Jord tells stories about the restaurant he's opening, Le Chat, which has Lucinda in tears from laughing. Punk hacks Asher's Spotify mid-dinner, replacing his playlist with a form of heavy metal that has Asher rolling his eyes.
“I don't know what happened,” she says, examining her nails. “Technology is so unreliable.”
“You're a menace,” Asher tells her, but there's fondness in it. “You could at least listen to old school shit.”
My phone buzzes on the table. I ignore it. It buzzes again.
“Jesus, Ivy, answer it,” Lucinda says, but she's not looking at my phone. She's looking at hers, eyes wide with something between delight and disbelief.
“What?”
She turns her screen toward me.
It's Asher's Instagram. A post from thirty seconds ago. Happy birthday followed by my handle, then a carousel of photos I didn't know existed.
The first, me buried in a massive jacket on Mount Crow, frowning at the camera while snow falls around us.
I remember that day. I'd demanded he take me up after he wouldn't shut up about it, then regretted it when I realized how cold it was.
But Asher's smile in the photo is pure joy, arm slung around my shoulders.
I swipe to the next photo and choke on my wine.
Sick with the flu two months ago, my face is decorated with every product from my makeup bag. Lipstick whiskers. Eyeshadow war paint. Bronzer stripes. And Asher's face is pressed close to my sleeping one, his grin diabolical. I don't even remember this happening.
“You broke into my room when I was dying of the plague?” I gasp, hand on my chest in mock shock.
“You had a cold.” He's watching me over his beer. “And the door was unlocked.”
I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t make it any better.”
The last photo stops my heart.
Us. Asleep on his couch. I'm sprawled across his chest, drowning in his hoodie, face buried against his neck. His arms wrapped around me, refusing to let go.
We look…
“Fuck,” Jord whispers, looking at his own phone. “The comments are already—”
“Friend goals,” Lucinda reads. “Ashvy is endgame. Why aren't they together? She's using him. He deserves better.” She pauses. “Oh, this one's creative. If my friendship doesn't look like this, I don't want it.”
My phone explodes with notifications. Tags, mentions, comments, DMs.
“You're so extra,” I tell him, but I'm smiling despite myself.
He shrugs, unfazed. “You deserve extra.”
Punk stands. “Bathroom.”
The look she gives me is barely a flicker, but I catch it.
“Second door on the left,” I tell her, though she already knows.
She disappears down the hall, combat boots echoing against marble. The others keep scrolling through comments, laughing at the increasingly creative speculation about whether Asher and I are secretly together.
“This one says you're clearly in love,” Jord announces. “Based on, and I quote, ‘he looks at her like he wants to eat her.'“
“Ridiculous,” I say.
“Completely,” Asher agrees with an eye-roll, hiding his smirk behind his bottle.
But when our eyes meet across the table, something electric passes between us. Six months of almost. Six months of dancing around this thing we can't name, can't touch, can't have.
“I need more wine.” I stand too quickly, the dim lighting catching my dress.
Asher tracks the movement.
“I'll get it,” he says.
I shake my head. “I can manage.”
“It's your birthday.” He's already following me into the kitchen. “Let someone else take care of you for once.”
His words land heavy, touching some buried insecurity I don’t talk about.
Lucinda and Jord exchange looks, and I know tomorrow I'll get an earful about boundaries and complicated feelings and why I need to be careful.
But tonight, with Parker in Switzerland and my friends filling this cold apartment with laughter, with a cake that looks like art and photos that show a version of happiness I didn't know I was capable of, I let myself pretend.
Pretend that I'm just a normal woman whose marriage is falling apart. That Asher's a friend who cares too much. That the knife tucked against my thigh is for protection and not profession.
That I'm not going to destroy everything, eventually.
Because that's what I do. It's who I am.
Even on my birthday, especially on my birthday, that doesn't change.
I reach up to grab wine from the cupboard, when Asher’s reflection catches my attention in the window. My heart stutters, and I turn slow, noticing the small box in his hand.
“What's this?” I eye it as he hands it to me.
He traces my face as if afraid he’s going to forget one day. “It's called a gift, Venom. People tend to get them on birthdays.”
“You already got the cake.” I protest weakly, but my fingers are already tightening around the box. “That was more than enough.”
He shakes his head, plucking the bottle of wine from my other hand. “Open it.”
I hesitate, sensing the weight of it. It's heavier than I expected for such a small package. With careful fingers, I peel back the wrapping paper, revealing a black velvet box underneath. My pulse quickens as I lift the lid.
Nestled inside on a bed of silk is a delicate choker chain of flowers, each blossom linked to the next in white gold. Each petal twisted together by detailed barbwire.
It's beautiful.
I can't tear my eyes away. “This is… it's too much.”
He takes the box from my hands. “Chill, you always overthink shit. Turn around.”
I obey without thinking as he steps in closer.
His heat presses against my back and my eyes drift closed for a moment. Pull your shit together.
“The Hellébore has quite the rep in French folklore,” Asher murmurs as he drapes the necklace around my throat. His fingers brush against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. “It was believed to ward off evil spirits and protect against dark magic.”
Metal settles against my collarbone as he works the clasp.
“Sounds suspicious.” I manage to breathe out with a chuckle.
“It was also known as the 'Winter Rose' because it flourishes in cold temperatures, where other flowers wither and die.”
I don't miss the double meaning. My breath catches as his knuckles graze the back of my neck, lingering far longer than necessary.
“Also?”
I turn to face him, acutely aware of how close we're standing. His eyes linger on my throat, as shadows form beneath his features, making me hesitate.
His mouth slowly curves up in a wicked smirk. “It doesn't come off.”
I pause.
“What?” My fingers skim the cold edges, digging for a clasp that isn't there. “What do you mean it doesn’t come off?”
He shrugs, lazy. Like he didn't just shackle me to him. “Soz, Venom, you're stuck with me forever—” His eyes flash with that goddamn mischief. “And that choker.”
“That's quite a commitment.” I force lightness into my voice, but it cracks. Shows too much. Shit.
My pulse hammers against his palm when he leans heavier on me. “Do I come off as the type of man who would dip out?”
His thumb keeps circling that hollow where my throat meets my chest. Slow. Deliberate. I don't breathe. Don't fucking move.
“Hey, are you two planning on rejoining the party anytime soon?” Lucinda's voice cuts through the tension.
We spring apart, guilt and want warring in my chest. Asher clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, we're coming,” he calls back. “I was helping Ivy with her gift.”
Lucinda appears in the doorway, her gaze narrowing as she takes in the scene. “I bet you were,” she says dryly.
Her eyes land on the necklace, and her brows shoot up. “Wow. That's… some gift.”
I touch the flowers self-consciously. “It's too much,” I say again.
Asher rolls his eyes.
Lucinda nudges her head toward the dining room, forcing a smile. “Punk's threatening to open your presents without you if you don't hurry up.”
We follow her back to the dining room, where Jord and Punk are engaged in an intense debate over the merits of various coding languages.
“About time,” Punk says, pushing a stack of gifts toward me. “I was starting to think you'd ditched your own party.”
I force a laugh, settling back into my seat. “And miss out on all this? Never.”
The others dive into birthday traditions from around the world. I catch Asher's attention across the table.
He blows me a kiss, takes a pull of his beer, then fishes his phone from his pocket.
He hits ignore, his jaw tightening before swinging to Jord to answer his question about the Golden Globes that are coming up.
And in this moment, everything is perfect…