Chapter 17 - Ivy
IVY
Whipped
My hands tremble slightly as I stand at the head of the conference table, the projector displaying data that represents weeks of relentless work. I advance to the next slide, voice steady,
"From the baseline tests, I found three warning signs that predict serious concussion problems eighty-seven percent of the time.
" I point to the graphs on the screen. "Reaction time changes, eye movement problems, and balance issues.
When you see all three together, they show up weeks before players start feeling other symptoms."
Coach Petrov leans forward, his usually gruff expression thoughtful.
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means we catch it early and stop players from getting hit again when their brains are already vulnerable." I click to the next slide, showing the data over time. "We could cut career-ending injuries by forty percent."
The training staff exchanges glances. Dr. Logan nods approvingly from the corner. Even the athletic trainers who initially resisted my presence look impressed.
"How sure are you about this?" Coach asks.
"Eighty-seven percent accurate right now. The more data I collect through the season, the better it gets."
"Alright. Do you need anything from us?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected skepticism or pushback, not immediate acceptance.
"Full season access with weekly testing for everyone. And one player to follow closely. Someone with a history of concussions who I can track long-term."
Coach consults his tablet. "Hawthorne's got the worst history. Four confirmed concussions, three more we suspect. He's yours."
My heart spikes. Of course, it has to be Declan.
"That's acceptable," I manage, keeping my voice neutral even as my pulse races.
Murmurs ripple through the room. Tyler smirks from his seat near the back. Connor looks confused, like he's trying to figure out if this is good or bad news. Jake's expression is carefully blank, but he glances at Marcus.
My brother sits across the room, arms crossed, mouth turned down at the corners.
He hasn't said a word or looked at me directly during the entire presentation. Disapproval radiates off him in waves. After seeing the museum gala photo and finding out about the relationship between Declan and I, he scowls whenever we’re in the same room.
But Declan's lips are curved in that devastating smile of his that makes my stomach flip. His green eyes hold mine across the room, pride and support in them.
"Good work, Dr. Chandler." Coach stands, effectively dismissing everyone. "Keep me updated on your findings."
The room empties quickly. Players file out, most of them nodding respectfully as they pass.
Tyler walks to me and says, "Nice presentation, even if it means more tests."
Marcus leaves without a word. Declan hangs back, waiting until we're alone before approaching.
"Eighty-seven percent," he says, smiling. "You're brilliant."
"It's preliminary data."
"It's groundbreaking, and you did it despite Gregory trying to sabotage you. Despite..."
"Despite my brother hating that I'm working here?"
His expression sobers. "He'll come around."
"Will he?" I gather my materials. "He's barely spoken to me in weeks. Ever since the gala photos, he's..."
"Ivy." Declan's warm hand settles on my lower back. "Let me worry about Marcus. Tonight is about celebrating you."
"We're celebrating?"
"Yeah. We're celebrating your successful research." His voice drops lower, intimate. "You."
***
I drive behind Declan to his penthouse, the car practically purring. He used the excuse of changing the battery to repair other things and service them properly.
Over the past few weeks, Declan has shown me what a real relationship looks like. It’s nothing like the light, distant texting between King and me—this is present, tangible. And he’s grown so caring that the guilt of stringing along two men is starting to crush me.
I’ll have to end things with King.
Soon, I tell myself.
When we get to Declan’s penthouse, I turn off the ignition and come out of the car. He gives me a quick kiss that sends shivers down my spine. Holding my hands, he tells me jokes till we get to his front door.
The smell of fried rice—sweet-and-sour sauce and garlic—hits me as we walk in, making my stomach growl.
Upbeat music pulses from the speakers. A young man and woman stand in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by takeout containers and a bottle of cheap champagne.
A trash bag, nearly as tall as the woman, is propped beside her.
I can tell it’s Declan’s twin siblings from how much they look like him and the pictures he’s shown me.
“Ivy, meet Rowan and Riley,” he says drily, gesturing at them. “My mischievous brother and sister.”
"Surprise!" Riley shouts, throwing her arms wide. Her bohemian dress swirls around her legs. "We're celebrating!"
Declan stares at the trash bag. "Riley, what did you take?"
She moves to the front of the bag, trying unsuccessfully to block it from view.
"Some things I needed. You let Rowan take whatever he wanted the last time."
"Let me see them."
"You didn't check his."
"You're not Rowan."
"But I hardly ever take anything from you. Why is it the one time I decide to try this month, you want to find out what I took when you never do that with Rowan?"
"Fine. None of you should take anything from here again without asking me first."
The twins glance at each other, then turn to Declan.
"Okay, Dad."
He groans, and they laugh.
"How did you two get in here?" he asks.
Rowan holds up a keyring, his business casual looking a bit rumpled.
"Keys. You gave them to us for emergencies, remember?"
“I don’t have an emergency.”
"Your girlfriend's first major research presentation is an emergency worth celebrating." Riley bounces over to me and grabs my hands. "Declan told us about your findings."
Warmth floods through me. "He did?"
"Are you kidding? He won't shut up about it." She pulls me toward the kitchen island, where Rowan has set up the takeout containers and plastic champagne flutes. "It's 'Ivy discovered this' and 'Ivy's methodology is brilliant' and 'did you know Ivy earned her doctorate at twenty-six?'"
"Riley..." Declan's voice carries a warning, but his ears are slightly pink.
"It's adorable," Rowan adds, pouring champagne. "We've never seen him like this."
"Like what?" I ask, accepting a glass.
The twins exchange knowing looks. Riley grins.
"Whipped."
Declan flips her off, but he's smiling. It gives him a boyish look that makes him look younger than twenty-eight.
Rowan gives the others cups.
"To Ivy. For being brilliant and putting up with our emotionally constipated brother,” Riley announces, raising hers.
Declan frowns. "I'm not..."
"You are," Rowan confirms. "But she's helping."
We toast. The champagne is too sweet and slightly flat, but it doesn’t matter—it feels right. Like being surrounded by people who see me, accept me, and are proud of me.
Crowded around the kitchen island, we eat straight from the containers. Riley tells stories about Declan trying to braid her hair for a school dance when she was fourteen.
"It looked like a bird's nest," she says through laughter. "My date took one look at my hair and asked if I'd been in a fight."
"I tried," Declan protests. "YouTube tutorials are useless."
"You watched YouTube tutorials?" I say, grinning and shaking my head.
"Three hours' worth but still couldn't figure it out. The next school dance, I paid a neighbor to do it properly."
"What about the bully incident?" Rowan prompts.
Riley's eyes light up. "Oh! When Dec was twenty and I was fifteen, this kid at hockey practice kept shoving Rowan during drills. You know, typical asshole teenager stuff."
"I could handle it," Rowan says mildly.
"But Declan showed up to watch practice one day and saw it happen," Riley continues. "The idiot kid didn't know he was messing with Declan Hawthorne's little brother."
"What did you do?" I ask Declan.
He shifts uncomfortably. "Just had a conversation."
"He scared the kid badly," Rowan says.
"The kid literally pissed himself," Riley adds gleefully.
"He did not..."
"He did! I saw it."
The banter continues. Rowan talks about Declan teaching him to drive in a parking lot, which involved a lot of cursing and one traumatized mailbox. Riley shares how Declan once called her art teacher to demand she get proper recognition for a piece the teacher dismissed.
All throughout, I watch Declan, the man who raised them. The way his expression softens when he looks at Riley and Rowan. How he deflects their praise with self-deprecating humor.
What I see is how he fiercely protects his own, sacrificing his early twenties to give them stability.
Warmth blossoms in my chest. I realize then that I want to be with Declan. Really be with him. Not to learn how to date. But to be with the man I’m falling for.
Declan.
The twins leave around ten, Riley hugging me goodbye like we've been friends for years.
"Thank you for making him happy," she whispers in my ear.
Declan locks the door once they walk out. He turns back to me, his eyes raking over me. The air becomes charged, the space between us feeling electric.
"Come here," he says, voice rough.
I go.
He kisses me before I can speak, one hand tangling in my hair, the other splaying across my lower back. It's deep, demanding.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against my lips.
We barely make it down the hall. He backs me against the wall, his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me gasp.
"Declan,” I breathe out.
"I need to taste you." His hands slide under my cardigan, lifting it over my head. "Been thinking about it all day. About how you'll scream my name when I use my mouth."
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly.
"Yes. Please."
We stumble into his bedroom, and he lays me on those charcoal sheets carefully. He strips my blouse, jeans, and underwear slowly until I'm bare before him.