Chapter Eight
Ivy
I can't sleep.
The fight at dinner keeps replaying in my mind. Thorne's words. Madison's tears. My own helplessness as he destroyed her with thoughtless precision.
I'd sat with her for hours afterward. Held her while she cried into my shoulder, her whole body shaking with the kind of sobs that come from somewhere deep and raw.
"He's right, isn't he?" she'd whispered against my neck. "Dad didn't want me. And now Thorne doesn't either. I'm just... nobody's."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" She'd pulled back, her eyes red and swollen. "His dirty little secret. That's what I am. That's all I'll ever be."
I'd tried to tell her Thorne was wrong, that he was lashing out, that people say things they don't mean when they're hurting. But my words felt hollow even as I said them. Because maybe he did mean them. Maybe that's exactly how he sees her.
By the time she finally fell asleep, exhausted from crying, it was past midnight. And I was left sitting in the dark, replaying every cutting word, every deliberate cruelty.
At 2 a.m., I give up on sleep and head downstairs for water, or bourbon, or whatever might quiet the rage still simmering under my skin.
The kitchen light is already on.
Of course it is.
Thorne sits at the island, mug in front of him. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.
I should turn around. Instead, I head for the cabinet.
"Ivy—"
"Don't." I don't look at him. "I'm getting water. Unless that's against one of your precious rules too."
He doesn't respond immediately. Then: "I deserve that."
"You deserve a lot more than that." I fill my glass, my back still to him. "She's fourteen, Thorne. Fourteen. And you gutted her at your dinner table like it was a hostile takeover."
"I know."
"Do you?" Now I turn, and all the rage I've been holding back for Madison's sake comes flooding out. "Because from where I sat, you knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to hurt her. Just like I said—you understand pain, and you chose to inflict it."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. "You're right."
"Don't." I slam my glass down. Water sloshes over the rim. "Don't you dare sit there and agree with me like that makes it better. Like acknowledging you're an asshole somehow absolves you."
"I'm not trying to—"
"She cried for two hours, Thorne. Two hours. Do you know what she said?" My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "She said maybe your father was right to hide her. That she's nobody's. Just a dirty little secret."
His eyes close for a fraction of a second. Good. Let him feel it.
"So no, I don't want your tea, I don't want your apologies, and I sure as hell don't want to hear about your tragic backstory that somehow justifies treating a child like she's—"
"Nothing justifies it."
His words cut through my tirade, quiet but firm.
“Nothing I say or do or explain will justify what I said to her tonight.
You want me to feel like shit? Mission accomplished.
You want me to know I'm my father's son after all?
Got that memo too." He sets down his mug with a sharp clink.
"So what now? You want to keep going, or can we figure out how to survive the next three months? "
We stare at each other across the kitchen island, neither willing to give ground.
"Why are you even down here?" I finally ask, exhaustion creeping into my anger. "Can't sleep either, or just plotting new ways to make our lives miserable?"
"Can't sleep." He gestures to his mug. "Tea seemed better than bourbon."
Despite everything, I notice. The deliberate choice. The discipline.
"About dinner," he starts again. "I was—"
"A jerk. An asshole. A—"
"Yes. All of those." He meets my eyes. "I apologize. For what I said to Madison. For how I said it. For..." He hesitates. "For making her feel like she's not wanted here."
"She blackmailed her way into your house, Thorne. She knows she's not wanted here. You didn't have to make it so crystal clear."
"You're right."
"Stop agreeing with me!" I shout. "It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't take back what you said. It doesn't make Madison feel any less like the dirty little secret you called her."
He flinches. Good.
"I know." He clears his throat. "Point taken."
"Point taken isn't an apology. And it's definitely not a plan."
“I’m sorry,” he says plainly.
“I don’t need the apology. She does.”
He stands, moves to the counter. "Want tea? Might as well argue on an even playing field."
I should say no. Should maintain the moral high ground. Should remember that two hours ago, this man shredded my sister's heart.
"Fine." I slide onto a stool. "But I'm still furious with you."
"Noted." He turns to pour a second mug and my eyes catch on details I shouldn't notice. The way his t-shirt stretches across his broad back. How those cotton pants sit on his hips. The mess of his hair, the shadow of stubble.
He looks like he did on the train. Undone. Human. Before I knew what a bastard he could be.
He slides the cup across the marble. "For what it's worth, I'm fairly furious with myself."
For a long moment, the only sound is our breathing and the clink of ceramic against marble.
"This isn't going to work," I finally say. "Three months of this? Madison won't survive it. Hell, I won't survive it."
"Agreed." He stares into his mug. "So what do we do?"
“You could try not being an asshole.”
"I could." His mouth quirks without humor. "Historically, that hasn't been my strong suit."
"Then try harder."
"And you could try not assuming the worst of me."
My laugh is bitter. "You literally just proved the worst of you at dinner."
"I did." He takes a long drink. "You don't deserve my shit. You walked into a conference room after our night together and—" He stops. Looks away. "Doesn't matter. Point is, if we keep this up, we'll kill each other before the first month is up."
But he doesn't mention the elephant in the room we're both avoiding: our night together on the train.
Not tonight. I can't handle that tonight.
"So what? We just pretend tonight didn't happen? Smile and play happy family?" I scoff.
"No." His voice is firm. "We stop performing. Stop pretending. We set actual boundaries instead of me being a controlling asshole and you being constantly on the defense."
"Boundaries? Oh, you mean more rules?"
He smirks, the smug asshole. “But this time I’m asking for your input."
"Okay." I set down my glass. "Ground rules. But I go first."
A ghost of a smile. "Of course you do."
I hold up my index finger. “One: We're civil. In front of Madison especially, but also in front of your family. No more dinner table warfare. No more weaponizing her parentage."
He nods.
"Two: You don't get to hide behind your rules and routines as an excuse to make us feel unwelcome. We're here for three months, whether you like it or not. We exist. Deal with it."
“I’ll do my best.” He refills both our cups without asking.
"Three: We're honest. If something's pissing us off, we say it. But we say it in private. Not in front of Madison or anyone else.”
“Okay.”
"Four: No cheap shots." I almost don't say the next part. But I force myself. “My mother, your father, her legitimacy—those are off-limits."
The corner of his mouth pulls down. Just slightly. Just enough.
He nods again, turning his mug in his hand.
“Five: We actually try to coexist. Not perform. Not pretend. Just... try.”
"Even though you don't want us here?"
"Even though." He takes a drink. "You?"
"Even though I don't trust you."
"Fair."
I raise my mug. He does the same. They clink with a sound that feels far too delicate for what we're attempting.
We drink our tea in silence. It's almost civilized.
It's not friendship. It's not forgiveness. It's barely even a ceasefire.
But it's a start.
"So," I venture after a beat. "How do we do this? The civil part?"
"Fuck if I know." The corner of his mouth tips up. "Wing it?"
"Wing it," I agree, though the phrase feels absurd given the stakes.
We sit in the dark kitchen, drinking tea and not fighting, and it's the most peaceful I've felt since arriving in Kentucky. Which is pathetic, really. But I'll take it.
The hostility between us doesn't disappear. But it loosens.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally venture.
He braces, shoulders tensing. "Depends on the question."
"What happened between you and Sebastian?"
His hand tightens on the mug. "Who says anything happened?"
"Thorne." I level him with a look. "I saw how he reacted when you said you weren't leaving him in the lurch 'this time.' I've heard the rumors about you two barely speaking. That you moved to Quebec because of a fallout between the two of you.”
“I thought you didn’t want my tragic backstory,” he jokes without much humor.
“Guess I lied.”
I wait to see if he’ll deflect. If he’ll shut down the conversation. I half expect him to.
But he says, "I hurt him. Badly."
"How?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does if you're trying to make amends."
He takes a long sip, and for a moment I think he won't answer.
Then: "I've done more shitty things to my brother than any reasonable man could forgive.
But the last one... I went off the deep end.
Forced him into a bet. Extorted him. And Rosalia.
I didn't care if I destroyed either of them.
" He stares into his tea. "When I finally got my head out of my ass.
.. I had to leave. I needed to get away from here.
To..." He shakes his head. "I don't know.
If I stayed, I'd just keep hurting people. Keep destroying things."
The raw honesty catches me off guard. This isn't the controlled Blackstone from dinner. This is someone who actually sees his own damage.
"But you came back," I say quietly.
"Temporarily."
"Is that why you didn't turn right around when Madison showed up with her blackmail?"
He nods slowly. "I'm facing who I am. What I did. Trying to be better." His throat works. "Or proving I can't be."
Without thinking, I reach across the space between us and squeeze his hand. Just once, briefly, before letting go.
"You came back. You're trying to fix the environmental mess. You made rules tonight because you're scared of losing control, not because you wanted to hurt her." I pause. "Well, maybe you wanted to hurt her a little bit. But mostly you're just... terrified."
His eyes snap to mine. "I'm not—"
"You are." I cut him off gently. "Of her, of me, of whatever this situation represents. And when you're scared, you lash out. I get it. But Madison's scared too. She lost her mother. Her whole world imploded. And a person who shares her DNA just told her she's nobody's."
He closes his eyes. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
Neither of us speaks for a while. The anger has burned itself out, leaving only exhaustion.
I take another sip of tea, letting the warmth settle. "So. Ground rules. Think they'll actually work?"
"Fuck if I know." He almost smiles. "But it's better than what we've been doing."
"True." I set down my mug. "At least now we all know where we stand."
"On opposite sides of a demilitarized zone."
"Better than active warfare."
"True." He studies me for a long moment. "Why are you being reasonable about this? After what I did, you should be planning my murder."
"Oh, I am." I smile, and so does he. "Multiple scenarios involving bourbon barrels and convenient accidents.
But Madison needs stability more than she needs me avenging her honor.
So I'm choosing to believe you actually meant what you said just now. That you'll try. If not, I’ll revisit my plans with the bourbon barrels.”
He chuckles. “I will.”
"Then that's enough. For tonight, anyway."
I rinse my mug in the sink and head for the stairs. I glance back before leaving. He’s looking at me. “What?” I ask.
"Thanks. For not... I don't know. For this." He gestures vaguely at the space between us.
"Don't thank me yet. We still have three months to screw this up."
"Fair point."
As I climb the stairs, I can still feel the ghost of his hand under mine. The warmth of it. The vulnerability.
Maybe he can change. Maybe this truce will actually hold.
Or maybe we're both just exhausted enough to convince ourselves it's possible.
Either way, it's not much.
But tonight, it's enough.