Chapter Nine
Ivy
Madison's school counselor meeting. Calls about transferring her records to New York.
The Henderson deposition I need to prep for.
That environmental compliance report for Blackstone I promised I'd review.
And Mom's estate paperwork. I still can't believe she left me anything.
Madison, sure. But me? After years of strained phone calls and surface-level conversations?
The amount she left to me is substantial enough to make me wonder if she was trying to say something she never could while alive.
But I’m not sure I can tackle anything on my list. My body is heavy, sluggish.
I've been at Thorne's for a week now, and I haven't done my morning swim once.
Back at my apartment, I'd hit the pool every day before work, clearing my head with laps before diving into case files.
But I've been too busy settling Madison in, juggling work calls, trying to figure out this temporary life we're living.
Or maybe I just haven't wanted to risk awkwardness with Thorne.
We have a truce. A week since that tense conversation where we agreed to be civil for Madison's sake. Though I'm pretty sure Thorne interprets "civil" as "avoid Ivy and Madison at all costs." I've barely seen him except in passing, and even then, he finds reasons to be somewhere else.
Lightning flashes outside, followed by a low rumble of thunder. I should get up, make coffee, tackle a deposition or two before Madison wakes. But the thought of sitting in the library staring at legal documents makes my brain hurt.
I need to move. To do something physical before my mind completely spirals.
The outdoor pool is definitely not an option with this storm. But didn't Lillianna mention there's an indoor pool on the lower level?
With a sigh, I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood is cool beneath my bare feet as I walk to the bathroom. Swimming sounds perfect. I need the mindless laps to clear my head before diving into work.
In the closet—and calling it a closet feels like an insult to what is essentially a boutique-sized room complete with an island for shoes and a velvet sitting area—I pull open the drawer where I'd unpacked my workout clothes.
No swimsuit. I check the hangers, pushing through the pathetically small section of my clothes that barely makes a dent in the endless rod space.
Still nothing. Shit. Did I forget to pack it?
I'm about to give up when I spot black fabric wedged in the back of another drawer, tangled between some bodysuits.
I yank it out. My old swimsuit from law school.
The one I wore during bar exam prep when I was living on coffee and stress, too focused on studying to remember to eat.
Apparently, stress-packing and stress-studying have the same effect on my brain.
It's going to be too small.
I tug it over my hips. Yeah, definitely too small. It rides up my ass and even my modest b-cups damn near fall out, but whatever, it’s just the birds and me during my laps. I grab a plush robe embroidered with the Blackstone crest and head out.
After peaking in Madison’s room and seeing her burrowed under her covers, I make my way downstairs. The mansion is silent except for the occasional creak of old wood settling. I've learned which floorboards to avoid, which corners tend to moan in protest at my early morning wanderings.
Thorne gets up early too. I've seen him heading to the lowest level around this time, where I see another version of him.
Not the cold businessman in his custom suits or that softer version in cotton sleepwear from our late-night truce talk, but the man in sleek athletic gear that hugs every toned muscle.
Gray joggers that sit low on his hips, compression shirts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Either way, given the size of this house, I'm sure I won't run into him on the lower level.
I find the winding staircase tucked away behind an ornate door I’d previously assumed was a closet.
It curves downward, lit by recessed lighting that casts dramatic shadows on the dark walnut paneling.
The air grows cooler with each step, and the plush carpet gives way to smooth stone underfoot.
The stairwell opens into a lower corridor lined with what must be original artwork.
What is it like to have the kind of wealth where you can purchase expensive art to line the walls that people rarely see?
I follow the sound of water echoing against stone until I reach a set of heavy double doors with brass handles gleaming in the low light. On the other side is splashing. Someone else is awake at this ungodly hour.
I hesitate, my hand on the door. It could be Lillianna. She’s mentioned her love of swimming, and it is closer to dawn. Maybe she’s an earlier raiser.
I push open the heavy double doors and stop short.
The indoor pool is breathtaking. It's a walkout basement.
The far wall is entirely glass, looking out into the stormy darkness, rain streaking down the panes.
A rectangular expanse of azure water is surrounded by natural stone decking, steam rising gently from the surface.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling—yes, a vaulted ceiling in the basement—their light dancing across the water.
A gas fireplace flickers in a stone surround at the far end, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow.
But none of that matters when I see him.
Thorne Blackstone powers through the water with strong, deliberate strokes, his broad shoulders and back flexing with each movement. I should retreat.
But I can’t seem to move.
The pool lights illuminate him from below, casting his body in a blue glow that emphasizes every muscle, every line. He reaches the wall and executes a perfect flip turn, powerful legs propelling him back in the opposite direction.
Three more laps and he pulls himself up at the far end, water streaming down his body as he rises from the pool. I should look away. I don’t.
Water streams down his broad shoulders, over sculpted arms that flex as he reaches for a towel.
My gaze follows a rivulet down his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, to where it disappears into his black swim trunks riding low on his hips.
That tantalizing trail of dark hair leading downward makes my mouth go dry.
He runs the towel over his face and hair, and when he lowers it, his eyes meet mine directly—like he knew I was there all along and maybe even liked me watching him. “Devil’s Ivy,” he says.
My breath catches. The nickname from that night. The exact words I'd used to describe myself to a stranger named Evander on a train platform, wind whipping around us before we tumbled into his sleeper car.
Does he replay that night too? The thought sends heat through me. Does he get off on the memory like I have—too many times to count, honestly. I should be embarrassed.
I'm not.
"No work this morning?" he continues, his tone casual but his eyes anything but. "You're usually in the library by now."
So he's been paying attention. Noticing my routines. Keeping track of me the same way I've been cataloging him.
"Needed to clear my head first." I manage to keep my voice steady. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. The lightning kept me from using the outdoor pool.”
He nods, drawing attention to the towel draped around his neck, highlighting the defined muscles of his chest. I force my eyes to stay on his face.
He glances toward the glass wall where rain continues to streak down the panes, lightning flickering in the distance.
The sound of the water settling and the flicker of the gas fireplace give the illusion that we're alone in our own private world, cut off from everything else.
“I can come back later.” I turn to go.
“Wait. You came to swim.” He gestures to the pool. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“I don’t want to impose.” I hesitate, weighing the awkwardness against my need for the physical release swimming provides.
There are other ways for physical release, and the man before, dickhead or not, is perfect for that activity.
Nope. Not happening.
“I’m finished.” Then, with unexpected lightness, he says, “It’s a house rule that no one should be denied a chance to swim at ungodly hours.”
The small joke surprises me. It’s the most casual he’s been since we arrived. Against my better judgment, I smile. “It’s not that early.”
“It is for a Saturday.” His lips quirk. "Most people are still asleep."
"I'm not most people."
"I've noticed." He gestures toward the pool. "Go ahead.”
“If you really don’t mind…” I move toward the bench and set down my towel.
“I don’t,” he replies.
I untie the robe, letting it slide from my shoulders. His gaze takes me in, and there’s no mistaking the flair of heat in his eyes.
His sharp intake of breath is audible even over the sound of the water. “Did you grab Madison’s swimsuit by accident?” His words are teasing, but his tone is all heat.
I cough out a laugh. Working with lawyers, who love to speak in riddles, his lack of filter is refreshing.
“I packed the wrong one,” I tell him, dropping the robe on the nearby seat.
And yes, it wasn’t necessary to turn all the way around to give him the full view of my ass, but I never claimed to be a good girl.
He groans, “It looks all kinds of right to me.”
I bite on the inside of my cheek to keep my smile from growing, and slide into the pool. The water is cool against my heated skin.
I push off the wall, expecting to hear the door close behind Thorne as he leaves. Instead, there’s a splash as he re-enters the pool at the opposite end.
“I thought you were finished,” I say when I reach the wall where he treads water.
“Changed my mind.” He pushes wet hair from his forehead. “How fast are you?”
“Fast enough.”
A challenge sparks in his eyes. “Prove it. One lap. Wall to wall and back.”