Chapter 19 IVY
IVY
Orgy History
Isit at the family dining table, watching Declan charm my parents with an ease that should be illegal. They’re the ones who invited him—eager to meet Marcus’s famous best friend—despite Marcus’s obvious fury.
Marcus couldn’t stop it. And now Declan is here, effortlessly winning them over, while my brother seethes beside me.
I’m still a little off-balance from last night. From the words we said. From admitting that this isn’t just attraction or convenience anymore.
Declan looks… different tonight. He’s wearing a button-down that makes his shoulders look even broader, his dark hair styled instead of its usual mess.
Polished. Controlled. Sophisticated. Nothing like the cocky athlete I met in the therapy room months ago—or even the hockey star who dominated the ice last night.
"So, you raised your siblings alone?" my father asks, gaze fixed on Declan. "That must have been extraordinarily challenging at nineteen."
"It was." Declan's voice is measured. "But they needed stability more than I needed to party my way through my early twenties. Riley and Rowan are the best thing that ever happened to me, even if the circumstances were tragic."
My mother touches her chest, moved. "That's beautiful. So many young men would have chosen differently."
"I didn't see it as a choice. They're my family."
Across the table, Marcus's jaw is so tight I'm surprised he hasn't started grinding his teeth. He's barely even touched his food.
"And you've had four confirmed concussions over ten years," my father continues. "That's significant neurological trauma. Have you considered the long-term implications?"
"Yes, which is why Ivy's research is so important," Declan says, glancing warmly at me. "Early intervention could change how we approach player safety. She's going to revolutionize the field."
Pride swells in my chest despite my anxiety. He talks about my work like it matters. Like I matter.
"Ivy has always been brilliant," my mother says in a polite, distant tone. "We're worried about her working in such a male-dominated environment."
"She holds her own better than most," Declan replies.
"Still, professional boundaries are important, especially when you're Marcus's sister working with his team," my father says.
The subtext is clear: don't embarrass your brother.
"I maintain strict professional boundaries," I say, the lie tasting bitter. "My relationship with the players is purely research-based."
Marcus snorts. I kick him under the table.
"Of course, sweetheart." My mother's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "We just want you to be careful. These athletes—no offense, Declan—they're used to a certain lifestyle."
"None taken."
But Declan's shoulder tenses, his finger tightening slightly on his glass.
Dinner continues with painful politeness. Declan discusses treatment protocols with my father, compliments my mother's pot roast, and asks intelligent questions about their work.
He's perfect, too perfect.
I can see my mother filing away observations, building a case for or against him that I won't hear about until she's reached a verdict. Marcus says nothing. He just stares at Declan like he's trying to decode a threat.
When dinner finally ends, I help my mother clear dishes while the men migrate to the living room.
"He's very charming," she says, rinsing plates.
"He is."
She glances at me with concern. I haven't seen her focus on me that way in ages.
"Charming men often are the most dangerous. Celebrities keep secrets, sweetheart. Make sure you know all of his before you give him your heart."
The words land like ice water. "Mom..."
She touches my cheek, the maternal affection surprising me as much as the tenderness in her eyes.
"I'm not saying he's a bad person. I'm saying public figures live complicated lives. And you've always been trusting and eager to see the best in people. I don't want you to get hurt."
"I'm not a child."
"No. You're a brilliant woman who deserves someone equally brilliant." She returns to the dishes. "Just be careful. That's all I ask."
The drive back to my apartment is silent for the first ten minutes. Declan's Mercedes glides through dark streets, the city lights blurring past my window. His hands grip the steering wheel with controlled tension.
"Your family is interesting," he finally says.
"That's a diplomatic way of putting it."
"Marcus hates me."
"Marcus hates any man who gets close to me." I stare out the window, watching my reflection ghost across the glass. "It's not personal. It's pathological."
His face darkens.
"Don't worry, he'll come around once he's convinced your intentions are good."
We sit in silence for a while, but my mother’s warning about secrets keeps ringing in my head.
Pair that with Declan’s reputation, and my brain does what it does best—constructing elaborate worst-case scenarios out of thin air.
What if I’m not special at all?
What if I’m just like all the other women who thought they were? I know there were plenty before me. There’s history. A lot of it. History I know nothing about. Was there ever someone serious?
Damn it—I should have researched this. Like I research everything else.
I picture the headlines I’d find:
“NHL Star’s Surprise Vegas Wedding”
“Declan Hawthorne’s Orgy History Exposed”
“Hawthorne’s Paternity Test Drama—Triplets Confirmed”
My thoughts get more ridiculous by the second. I know that. Still, my stomach tightens.
I’m already picturing three green-eyed toddlers and a woman I’ve never met who has every right to hate me.
I tell myself to stop. That I’m being insane. That this is what happens when things start to matter and I don’t know how to protect myself.
But the spiral doesn’t care about logic.
What if he’s just… really good at compartmentalizing? What if this version of Declan—the attentive one, the steady one—isn’t the whole truth?
“What do you think about orgies?” It bursts out of me.
Okay. Not the smoothest entry point. But now it’s out there, and I brace myself for the answer.
He blinks. “That’s… not where I thought this conversation was going.”
I wince. “I know. I’m sorry. My brain took a very sharp left turn.”
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “They’re not really my thing. I know you probably want to explore a lot—try everything right away. I get that. But maybe we start slower. Dirty talk, maybe. Or some role play?”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“Oh. No—God, no,” I say quickly, heat rushing to my cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”
He stills. “It’s not?”
“No.” I shake my head, a little mortified. “I just… you don’t happen to have any… children? Somewhere? That you don’t know about?”
This time, he looks genuinely taken aback.
“Ivy.”
“I’m just asking,” I rush on. “Like—no secret toddlers. No surprise paternity tests pending. No woman who might show up one day with a stroller and a very justified amount of rage.”
His eyebrows lift. “Is this where I reassure you—or where I ask how many crime podcasts you’ve been listening to?”
“So that’s a no?” I press.
“That’s a very emphatic no.”
I nod, pretending to accept it. “Okay. Good. Great.” I blow out a breath—then immediately ruin it. “What about ones you do know about?”
“Emphatic no,” he repeats.
“Okay, but hypothetically,” I say, unable to stop myself. “If you did have a baby… would you pay for it?”
Declan sighs, not annoyed—just tired. “I would never not take care of my child, Ivy. You know that about me. You know who I am.” He searches my face. “Where is this coming from?”
I exhale, the fight draining out of me. "I just want to know if there's anything you need to tell me about the women you dated in the past."
He's silent for a few seconds. "You want to know about my past relationships?'
"Yeah."
"Fine. Let's talk about them."
He gets to an intersection and turns to the right. After driving for a mile, he pulls over, parking in an empty lot near the waterfront. The ocean stretches black beyond the windshield, barely visible in the darkness.
"Declan..."
"Most of my past relationships were casual flings orchestrated by Gregory to maintain my 'eligible bachelor' image.
Models, actresses, whoever looked good in photos and didn't ask too many questions were my targets.
" His voice is bitter. "I'd date them for a few weeks, we'd be seen at the right events, then Gregory would find some reason to end it.
They were either too clingy, too ambitious, or too distracting. "
"That sounds horrible."
“It was controlling, and I’ve been trying to break free from it.” He turns to me, his gaze sharp and unflinching. “But you’re different. I can’t stop thinking about you. You challenge me. You frustrate me. You make me want to be better.”
He exhales. “You’re not a publicity stunt or an image strategy. I already told you—I’m crazy about you. I want you to be my girlfriend. For real. I don’t know what else to say.”
“What if I don’t know you as well as I think I do?”
"Then get to know me. Ask me anything. I'm an open book."
But he's not. He's gripping the steering wheel, his body tense. There's something he's not telling me.
"Take me home," I say quietly. "I need to think."
The drive to my apartment is silent. When we arrive, he walks me to my door, and the concern in his expression makes my chest ache.
"Are we okay?" he asks.
"I don't know. Are we?"
"What we have is real. We can figure out everything else together."
I should listen to the warnings and doubts and that persistent voice in my head saying something doesn't add up. But believing him means this new love I've found will blossom.
So I bury my mother's warning about secrets. I place my lips on his to say goodbye. The kiss is hot, passionate. My hands caress his waist, his back, until I forget why I doubted him.
When it's over, I'm gasping for breath. He hugs me and leaves.
I close the door, then quickly bring out my phone and text King. He hasn’t answered since I asked him to meet up in person.
Ivy:
Please respond. I need to know you're okay. Even if you're angry with me, just let me know you're alive.
Nothing.
The silence is deafening.
What if something happened to him? What if he's hurt? What if my message broke his heart and he's...
No. That's irrational. He's probably giving me space to figure things out with Declan, or he's realized our connection was never meant to be more than texts and has gracefully bowed out.
I'm being paranoid. My mother got into my head with her warning, and now I'm seeing conspiracy where there's none.
I set my phone down and try to sleep.
***
The email arrives sometime after six a.m.
I'm making coffee when my phone buzzes with the notification. The sender is anonymous, a generic email address that's just numbers and letters. The subject line makes my blood run cold:
“Ethics Violation Report - Dr. Ivy Chandler”
My hands shake as I tap the screen.
To the Metropolitan University Ethics Board,
I am writing to report a serious ethical violation by Dr. Ivy Chandler, who is currently conducting research with the Metro Raptors hockey team.
Dr. Chandler has engaged in an inappropriate intimate relationship with one of her research subjects, specifically Mr. Declan Hawthorne, in direct violation of research ethics protocols and university conduct standards.
Please find attached photographic evidence documenting this relationship, including time-stamped images of Dr. Chandler entering and leaving Mr. Hawthorne's residence on multiple occasions.
This relationship compromises the integrity of her research and violates the trust placed in her by both the university and the professional organization she represents.
I trust you will investigate this matter with appropriate urgency.
- A Concerned Party
Below the message are photos of me entering Declan's apartment building at night and leaving at dawn with disheveled hair. Me getting into his car. Each one is time-stamped and dated.
It's evidence of everything we've been trying to hide.
The coffee mug slips from my fingers, shattering on the kitchen floor. Brown liquid spreads across white tile, but I barely register it.
"Shit," I whisper, stepping back. "Shit."
Someone has been watching us. Following us. Documenting our relationship.
And now they've sent it to the ethics board.
My career and research are over. Everything I've worked for is about to be destroyed because I fell in love with my research subject.
My phone buzzes with a text message.
Dr. O'Connell:
Come over to my office. We need to talk.
Another buzz. This one from the university ethics board:
Uni Ethics:
Dr. Chandler, you are hereby notified of an ethics investigation into your conduct. You are required to attend a hearing on Friday at 9 a.m. Failure to appear may result in immediate termination and revocation of research privileges.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I sink to the floor, surrounded by broken ceramic and spilled coffee, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone.
Another text. Sloane this time:
Sloane:
Babe, call me. There's something on the gossip sites about you and Declan.
My phone buzzes one more time. Unknown number:
Unknown no:
You should have stayed away from him. Now you'll both pay the price.
I sit in my kitchen, surrounded by broken pieces, and finally understand my mother's warning about celebrities keeping secrets.
Someone, who knows our secret, is sending the evidence to the people who control my future.
And I have no idea who.
Or why.