Chapter 4 - Declan #2
That’s because it is. Also—and this is important—the other person is probably way less focused on it than you are.
Ivy:
You really think so?
King:
Absolutely. Most people are too busy worrying about their own embarrassment to dwell on yours.
Another pause.
Ivy:
Hypothetically… what if the other person seemed very unembarrassed?
I laugh under my breath.
King:
Then congratulations. You’ve met someone who’s either very confident or completely shameless.
Ivy:
That’s not comforting.
King:
It should be. It means the awkwardness is optional.
She sends a thinking emoji.
Ivy:
So your professional advice is: joke lightly, don’t overthink it, and resist the urge to flee the continent?
King:
Correct. Argentina is Plan B.
Ivy:
Good to know. I’ll keep my passport handy—just in case.
I lean back, smiling at my phone.
Then—
“Ivy. Who is she?”
I look up.
Riley has abandoned her cooking disaster and is peering over my shoulder, arms crossed, eyes locked on my screen.
“And why,” she adds slowly, “is she calling you King?”
Her gaze flicks to my face.
“You’re smiling,” she singsongs.
I lock my phone and put it in my pocket.
“It’s none of your business.”
“That’s sibling code for ‘someone I definitely shouldn’t be interested in.’” She plops onto the couch. “Come on. Details. Is she famous? An ex? Someone’s girlfriend?”
“She’s nobody.”
“Liar, liar,” she sings, gesticulating and swaying. “My brother is turning into a liar for a girl.”
“Riley…”
“Does she know it’s you? Declan Hawthorne, not King.”
My silence is answer enough.
“Declan.” Her voice carries that older sibling tone. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because when she doesn’t know it’s me, she’s different. She’s open and real. She talks about things that matter instead of treating me like a walking billboard.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “And I want to know that version of her.”
Her expression softens. “But you’re lying to her, bro.”
“I’m not lying. I’m just…delaying the truth.”
“That’s literally the definition of lying.” Rowan points out, settling into the armchair with his tablet and scrolling through something work-related. “You’re on your work phone—and I’d bet money you gave her that number. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
He’s right. In the heat of the moment, I gave Sloane my work line—the one I usually keep strictly for business.
It keeps King separate from Declan.
And I have absolutely no intention of admitting that out loud. “When do I ever do anything stupid?”
Both twins stare at me.
“Fair point,” I concede.
My phone buzzes again.
Ivy:
Random question. If you could have dinner with any historical figure, who would it be?
I reply.
King:
Marie Curie. I’ll ask if she ever regretted the sacrifices she made for her work.
Ivy:
That’s very thoughtful.
King:
Thank you. Your turn.
Ivy:
Ada Lovelace. First computer programmer. A Victorian-era mathematician. I want to know what it was like being that smart in a world that didn’t know what to do with smart women?
I smile.
King:
Sounds familiar.
Ivy:
What does?
King:
Being brilliant in a world that doesn’t know what to do with you.
Ivy:
Are you calling me brilliant or suggesting the world doesn’t know what to do with me?
King:
Both.
There's a longer pause this time. The dots appear and disappear twice.
Ivy:
You don’t know me.
King:
I’m working on changing that.
Riley orders Thai food while Rowan pulls up some marketing report he needs my opinion on. When we’re done with that, I show the twins game footage, and we analyze my performance from practice.
We fall into easy sibling rhythm. The three of us against the world, the way it’s been since our parents died.
I was nineteen. They were fourteen. Suddenly, I was guardian, brother, and barely an adult trying to hold everything together with a rookie NHL contract and no parents.
Now, they’re twenty-three and thriving. Riley is in art school, creating things that make people feel. Rowan is in sports marketing, analyzing data and building strategies.
And I’m texting a woman I’ve never met properly while pretending to be someone else.
“Gregory called today,” Rowan says casually, but his fingers tap against his tablet. It’s a nervous tell from childhood.
I tense.
Gregory Stallworth. My agent for nine years. The man who claims he discovered me at nineteen.
The man I’m increasingly certain is stealing from me.
“What did he want?”
“It’s a reminder about a charity gala. He said you need to make an appearance.” His eyes stay on the screen. “He’s got that tone. The planning one.”
“He can arrange whatever he wants. I’m not going. I’m done playing puppet.”
I walk to the fridge and pull it open, looking for something that isn’t green juice or Riley’s experimental cooking. There’s a soda can at the back. The twins didn’t find it where I hid it. Opening it, I drink.
“Dec.” Riley’s voice softens, losing its usual brightness. “You can’t ignore him. He’ll make things difficult.”
“He already makes things difficult. That’s his default setting. It’s always been.”
Nine years ago, I was trying to navigate my grief and new contract when Gregory swooped in. He promised to handle everything, and I was too exhausted to question it. It didn’t take long to realize handling everything meant controlling every aspect of my career, finances, and public image.
“Just be careful,” Rowan says. “He’s not going to let go easily.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“Dec…”
“I said I’ll deal with it.”
Riley shoots Rowan a look, and he drops it. They know better than to push when it comes to Gregory.
When they leave, the penthouse feels too big.
I text Ivy, but it’s marked unread. Walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city, I stare at the bright lights below that contrast with the dark sky.
Somewhere on the streets, a couple is holding hands and laughing and enjoying life together.
For the first time in years, I feel like I’m imagining a life I’ve never touched. One I want to live badly.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Ivy:
I should probably sleep. I have a big day tomorrow setting up research protocols. Thanks for the conversation, King. You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.
King:
Surprisingly? Should I be offended?
Ivy:
Why should you? Can’t your ego handle it? Thanks, Mr. Surprisingly easy to talk to.
I laugh.
King:
Anytime. You’re welcome. Sleep well, my brilliant doctor.
Ivy:
Nope. Don’t call me that.
King:
Okay. Sleep well, brain scan girl.
Ivy:
That’s the worst nickname I’ve ever been given.
King:
You’ll learn to love it.
Ivy:
Doubtful. Good night, King.
King:
Good night, Ivy.
I stare at the screen for a long time, reading and rereading her messages. Whoever this Ivy is over text, she’s nothing like the woman who glared at me in the therapy room.
Next week, Ivy Chandler starts working with our team in person.
And at some point, she’s going to realize exactly who I am.
Something tells me this is going to blow up in my face.