9. Ivy
IVY
I sit at my vanity, brush in hand, pulling it through my hair in long, mechanical strokes. Again. Again. The bristles catch a tangle and I work through it without thinking.
The house is too quiet.
Dad's gone. Claire's gone. Marcus and Dina are gone—arrested, hauled out by people I didn't see and didn't ask about. The brothers are somewhere downstairs or in their rooms or wherever they go when they're not watching me. I don't know. I closed my door and they let me.
I should feel relieved. The threat's gone. The people who wanted to use me to hurt my father are in custody. It's over.
But my chest still feels like someone's standing on it.
I set the brush down. Pick it up again. Another stroke.
My father's face won't leave my head. The way he looked at me when he walked in. His daughter and his new wife's sons. Four people tangled together in a way that made no sense to him.
Then the anger came. And under it, something worse.
Disappointment.
I've spent my whole life trying not to be the reason he looked like that.
The senator's daughter. Polished, presentable, easy to explain at fundraisers and press events.
I learned how to smile and when to speak and what version of myself fit the shape he needed.
I learned that his love came with conditions I could never quite meet but had to keep reaching for anyway.
My mother died when I was six. He didn't know how to raise a little girl alone, so he didn't—not really.
He hired people. Nannies, tutors, drivers.
An entire staff to do the parts of parenting he couldn't figure out.
And I grew up knowing that I was loved in theory but managed in practice.
Close enough to feel his gravity but too far to land.
I didn't want to be the thing he couldn't understand.
I am anyway.
Another stroke. The brush moves through my hair and I watch my reflection do the same thing again and again because if I stop moving my hands I'll have to sit with the silence and the weight in my chest and the fact that I told my father I didn't know how to stop wanting them and he walked out.
He said he needed time.
I don't know what that means. I don't know if time makes this better or just stretches it out until it becomes permanent.
The house creaks. Old wood settling, maybe. Or the AC kicking on. Normal sounds.
I keep brushing.
My arm's starting to ache. I've been at this too long. But the repetition is the only thing keeping me steady, so I don't stop.
The air shifts behind me.
It's not a sound—not a footstep, not a door. Just a change. A presence where there wasn't one a second ago.
My hand freezes mid-stroke.
Before I can turn, someone grabs me.
A hand clamps over my mouth. An arm wraps around my ribs, yanks me back off the chair. My brush clatters to the floor. My body goes rigid, every muscle locking at once, and my brain can't catch up—can't process what's happening because this is my room, my house, the threat's over?—
The grip tightens. I'm being pulled backward, toward the door or the wall or I don't know where because I can't see, can't think, can't do anything except feel the terror slam into my chest like a fist.
A voice near my ear. Male. Ragged.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I just—I need to get out. I need?—"
I know that voice.
Carl.
My driver. The man who's been driving me to campus for a year. Who asked how my finals went. Who waited outside the library with the car already running because he knew I'd be late.
Carl.
His hand smells like sweat. His breathing's too fast, uneven. He's shaking—I can feel it through his arm locked around me.
"They got Marcus," he says, half to me, half to himself. "They got Dina. I heard—I can't—I didn't sign up for this, I just needed the money, okay? I wasn't supposed to?—"
His grip slips. Just enough. I wrench my head to the side and scream.
One sharp, desperate sound that rips out of my throat and cuts through the house like a knife.
Carl's hand jerks back over my mouth but it's too late.
The door explodes inward.
Not opens—explodes. The frame cracks and Roman's through it first, Knox half a step behind, West right after. All three of them. Fast. Faster than I thought possible.
Roman crosses the room in two strides. His hand locks onto Carl's wrist and twists and Carl lets go of me with a choked yelp.
Knox is already there, pulling me away, his hands on my shoulders, my arms, moving me back and to the side while West grabs Carl's other arm and between the three of them Carl goes down.
Hard.
Face-first into the floor with Roman's knee in his back and West's hand pinning his wrist and Knox stepping between me and him like a wall.
It's over in seconds.
Carl's babbling. Words spilling out in a panicked, incoherent stream.
"I didn't want to—Marcus said it was just watching, just reporting her schedule, I didn't know it would—Voss paid me, okay? Senator Voss. It was just money. I needed the money. I wasn't supposed to?—"
"Shut up." Roman's voice. Low and flat and cold enough to stop Carl mid-sentence.
I'm shaking. My whole body. I can still feel Carl's arm around me, his hand over my mouth, the terror that hit me before I could name it.
Knox's hands are still on my shoulders. Grounding. Real.
"You're okay," he says quietly. "You're okay, sweetheart. We've got you."
I nod. I don't know if I believe it yet but I nod.
West pulls Carl's other arm behind his back. Carl yelps again.
"Please—I wasn't going to hurt her. I just needed?—"
"One more word," Roman says, "and I'll break your arm."
Carl shuts up.
Roman looks at West. "Call it in."
West nods, pulls his phone, steps toward the doorway. His voice is low and clipped as he speaks to someone on the other end—authorities, I assume. Reporting the third piece of the network. Marcus, Dina, Carl. All of them accounted for.
Carl was my driver. Every time I got in his car, every casual conversation, every comfortable silence—he was watching me. Reporting back. Paid by the man who wanted to destroy my father.
My stomach lurches.
I press a hand to my mouth. Knox's grip on my shoulder tightens.
"Breathe," he says.
I breathe.
West finishes the call. "They're on the way."
Roman hauls Carl upright—not gently—and marches him toward the door. Carl's still talking, still trying to explain or justify or I don't know what, but Roman doesn't respond. Just walks him out. West follows.
The door closes.
It's just me and Knox.
Then Roman and West come back. All three of them. In my room. Around me.
The adrenaline has nowhere to go. I'm still shaking and I can't stop. My hands, my arms, my whole body vibrating like something struck too hard.
Roman steps closer. His hand comes up—slow, deliberate—and touches my face. Palm against my cheek. Warm. Solid.
The vibration stops.
I lean into it without thinking. Just press my face into his hand and close my eyes and feel my heartbeat start to slow.
Knox's hand is still on my shoulder. West moves closer, his fingers brushing my arm. Just contact. Just presence. Three men who heard me scream and broke through a door.
I open my eyes.
They're looking at me. All three. Not with pity. Not with relief. Just looking. Seeing me. The girl who was grabbed by her driver in her own room and screamed and is still shaking because the adrenaline hasn't burned off yet.
The clarity hits me all at once.
It's not a thought I'm protecting anymore. Not something fragile I have to hold carefully so it doesn't break. It's a fact. Solid. True. The kind of thing you can stand on.
I love them.
All three of them.
I've been holding it since the pool. Since before that, maybe. Since the first time I looked at them and my pulse kicked up and I didn't know why. I've been circling it, dancing around it, refusing to name it because naming it made it real and real meant I had to do something about it.
But I almost lost this.
Carl's hand over my mouth. The seconds before they got here. The terror that sliced through me when I realized I was alone with someone who wasn't supposed to be there.
And then they were there.
Three men who would break every door in the world to get to me.
I don't want to hold it anymore.
I look at Roman first. His hand is still on my face.
"I love you."
My voice shakes. Not a lot. Just enough to hear it. But the words are clear.
His eyes don't leave mine.
"I love you too."
Direct. No hesitation. Like it's a fact that doesn't need decoration.
I turn to Knox. He's smiling—just barely, just enough to soften the edges of his mouth.
"I love you."
"I love you, sweetheart." His voice is warm. Easy. Like he's been waiting to say it and now that he can, it's the simplest thing in the world.
I look at West last. He's the closest. His hand is still on my arm. His blue eyes steady on mine.
"I love you."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't move. Just looks at me for one long second like I handed him something he didn't know he was allowed to want.
"I love you."