Chapter Thirty
Ivy
The Brazilian cherry floorboards creak under my bare feet as I descend the stairs at six a.m. Each step sends a dull ache through my temples and my eyes feel scraped raw from staring at the ceiling. My throat is tight from all my tears.
I'd locked my door last night. Cried myself into exhausted numbness. Then stared at the ceiling, replaying every word of our fight until the words lost meaning and became just sounds. Hurt. Anger. Betrayal.
Last night, close to midnight, I'd heard the distinctive Ducati growl starting in the garage.
I'd rolled over, pulled the pillow over my head, told myself I didn't care that he was leaving.
But I listened for him to come back anyway, hope overruling reason every time a sound pulled me from sleep—a car on the distant road, the house settling, the wind against the windows. It was never him.
In the kitchen, I go through the motions. Fill the French press. Boil water. The mechanical routine keeps my hands busy while my mind circles the same questions.
This is when he'd usually appear in the doorway, hair still damp from his shower after our morning swim.
He'd come up behind me, one hand sliding around my waist while the other reached for a mug.
His mouth would find that spot behind my ear that makes me shiver, and he'd murmur "Good morning" like a promise.
My hands are still on the press as my body remembers what my mind wants to forget. The weight of him, the heat, the way I'd lean back into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
What now?
I can't go back to those moments. I can’t go back to Huntsman & Fellows, where I’ll know I didn’t earn my place but slept my way into it. But if I leave, where do I go?
The coffee steeps. I press the plunger and it shoots down too fast. Shit. The grounds float in my mug. I skip the cream. Keep it bitter as my mood.
Cup in hand, I curl into the corner of his oversized leather couch and pull the throw blanket around my shoulders. It smells like bourbon, leather, and that cedar aftershave he uses. My lids flutter close, and for a traitorous moment I'm back in his arms, his mouth against my neck, his hands—
I snap my eyes open, fury replacing the ache in my chest. I hate myself for not throwing the blanket aside. Hate myself more for burying my face in it instead.
In the distance, a car navigates the road. My pulse stutters before I remember. He's on his motorcycle. That's not him. The vehicle passes the gate.
The car passes without slowing. Setting down my coffee on a marble table, I pick up my phone. I need a distraction. Something to focus on that isn't the man whose house feels like a mausoleum without him in it.
Work emails. I should catch up on work emails. But opening my inbox brings it all back. Bill's smug face, Thorne's arrogance. The way he threw money at my problem like the solution was his to give. Never mind that it was my job, my choice, mine to figure out.
Three messages from Bill. "Of course there are," I mutter to my phone. "Couldn't wait to gloat, could you?"
The first subject line: "Congratulations!"
"Fuck you, Bill."
The second: "Let's schedule lunch to discuss the Blackstone account."
"Not in this lifetime."
The third, sent at 11 p.m.: "Ivy, we should talk about expectations moving forward."
Expectations. A closed-mouth scream leaks from between my lips.
Like I'm supposed to be grateful. Like I owe him my gratitude for the career Thorne bought.
I don’t know where I’ll go, but I can’t stay at Huntsman & Fellows. Do I start over somewhere else in New York? Or could somewhere else be here in Kentucky?
Not for Thorne, no, whatever was happening between us died. But Madison would be thrilled. And the poor girl’s life has changed so much since our mother’s death. And besides my dad, what else is waiting for me in New York?
My emails disappear with a swipe, browser opening in their place. I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment, then type: female-owned law firms in Kentucky.
Maybe I could find somewhere else in the area. Somewhere I could start fresh. Somewhere the managing partner doesn’t require me to trade sex for advancement.
The search loads. A dozen results appear, and I click through the first few. Henderson & Associates in Lexington. There are three female partners in a strong corporate practice. I open their careers page and scan the requirements. Ten years minimum experience is preferred. I have five.
I navigate back, try another. Morrison Legal Group.
They are a smaller firm, but close to Madison's school.
Their website is a blend of environmental compliance and land-use planning.
Their client list is smaller, probably with less corporate drama.
No Fortune 500 polluters trying to dodge EPA regulations.
Just farmers protecting their water sources and small businesses navigating permits.
My thumb hovers over their contact link. Is this what I want? To start over at a new firm?
Or...
I open a new tab. Type: starting your own law practice in Kentucky.
The thought has my heart racing. The logistics and the startup costs alone would be astronomical.
Unless…
I open yet another tab and sign into my bank. The balance stares back at me. My mother's inheritance.
I'd expected nothing for myself. Everything for Madison. But she'd thought of me at the end. Left me the means to actually do this. The number blurs as unexpected tears sting my eyes. Blood money. Guilt money. But also... possibility.
There’s enough for startup costs. Office rent. A cushion for the first year while I build a client base.
It doesn't erase the hurt—the years of absence, the broken promises, the choice to be a mistress instead of a mother. But it means something.
My own practice. Not working for someone else, not climbing someone else's ladder. Building something myself.
The idea terrifies me. And excites me. And feels more right than anything has in a long time.
I take a sip of my coffee, and it’s cold when it hits my tongue. I spit it back into the mug. I glance at my phone. Shit, it's 6:47 a.m.. What have I been doing for the last hour?
The sound of a car in the driveway has me flying off the couch. Too early for Madison to be returning from her sleepover at Tracy’s house. And Lillianna is in her room on the other side of this massive tomb. Could it be—
I'm at the window in half a second, peering through the morning light. A silver sedan pulls up to the front entrance and Madison climbs out of the back seat, backpack slung over one shoulder. She waves to the car, then heads for the door.
My heart squeezes. She's supposed to be at her sleepover until this afternoon.
I smooth my rumpled T-shirt. God, I probably look like hell. But there's no time to run upstairs and make myself presentable. Madison's already at the front steps.
With a breath, I work at composing my face into something that won't alarm her. It doesn't work. My reflection in the foyer mirror makes me wince. Red-rimmed eyes, hair a mess, yesterday's clothes wrinkled beyond saving.
I meet her at the door, pulling it open before she can knock.
"Hey," I say, trying for normal but failing. "You're back early."
Madison waves a hand. “Tracy’s mom won tickets to see a country singer on the radio last night. She and Tracy’s dad are driving to Nashville for some VIP show experience.” She steps around me and into the house. “Where is Thorne?”
I side-step her question, asking my own. “What do you mean? It’s early.”
“You both get up early. And you two are usually having coffee together now.”
I press a hand to my heart. We had routines. That made us almost sound like a family. Then I deflate. "I don't know."
"Oh." Madison sets her backpack on the couch. "Are you okay?"
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "I'm furious. And I'm—" I stop myself. She's fourteen and has too much on her shoulders already.
"Worried?" She finishes quietly.
Our gazes meet, and there's no point lying to her. I’m sure she sees it all—the anger, the fear, the exhaustion I can't hide.
"We fought last night," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "And he took off on his motorcycle. I'm sure he's fine, but I worry.”
“I’ve been on the back of his bike. He knows what he’s doing.”
She settles onto the couch, picking at her cuticles. She's quiet for so long, I know a question is coming. And recognizing her truth, understanding my half-sister better, feels good when everything else hurts. “What’s up, Madison?”
"Can I tell you something?"
“Always.”
"The reason I picked Thorne's house to live in wasn't just about family.
" She keeps her gaze on her fingers. "I saw how you two looked at each other at that meeting.
Even when he was being horrible to me, he kept watching you.
And I thought... if you had a reason to stay in Kentucky, you wouldn't take me back to New York so fast."
My stomach drops. "Madison."
"I know it was manipulative." Her voice cracks. "But I was desperate. And you're good for him. He's different around you—softer, even when he's trying not to be." A small, sad smile. "I thought if I got you two in the same house, maybe you'd both want to stay. And then I could stay too."
I should be furious. Should feel used. But all I can think is: what kind of childhood teaches you to play people like chess pieces at fourteen? To read a room, find the weakness, exploit it before anyone knows what's happening?
She's her mother's daughter.
“Did Thorne already leave?” asks Lillianna, walking into the living room. Damn. She has shadows under her eyes as dark as mine.
“He left on his bike around midnight,” I tell Lillianna. “He hasn’t returned.”
"Shit."
"We had a fight." Why am I telling them this? Yet, I add, “A bad one.”
Lillianna comes closer. “He told me he screwed up with you. What happened?"
"He interfered with my career." My mouth dries just saying it. “Called my managing partner and essentially bought my partnership. Eight million-dollar retainer. After I explicitly told him not to.”
Madison's jaw drops.
“That idiot,” Lillianna sighed.
At least she doesn't jump to her brother's defense. Perhaps she loves him, but sees his faults. Could I do the same?
Whoa, wait. Love is a big word.
And no, not after what he’s done.
"Ivy, that's—God, that's awful. I know him, he's a fixer. But shit, that..." Lillianna shakes her head.
"Yeah." I don't need her to finish the sentence. We both know what Thorne did.
She sits on the arm of the couch. “I was looking for you to ask for your help, but after this, you’ll probably tell me to get lost.”
I shouldn’t ask. I’ve had enough Blackstone drama without her dragging me into more. But I can’t ignore the desperation in her voice.
I make the go-ahead gesture. "Go ahead.”
"I know you know about the FBI meeting today.
And yes, Voss will be there to handle the legal strategy.
" She pauses, her fingers twisting together.
"But yesterday, when I saw Thorne at the distillery, he was spiraling.
Back to day drinking. He talked like he was preparing to fall on the sword to protect the distillery. "
My stomach pitches. For a man who views himself as the devil, he sure loves to save others.
"I think Madison should be at the FBI meeting," Lillianna continues, looking at my sister. "You're the only one who can establish that we didn't know about Dad's crimes until you told us. The FBI needs to hear that from you directly, not filtered through Thorne or a lawyer."
Madison sits up straighter. "I can do that."
"And honestly?" Lillianna turns back to me.
"I need you there too, Ivy. I know I have no right to ask after what he did to you.
But if Thorne walks into that building in the state he was in yesterday, he's going to take all the blame.
He'll confess to things he didn't do just to protect the rest of us.
Voss has the legal side covered, but we need to handle Thorne. "
The lawyer in me knows she's right. The woman who's still furious wants to tell them both to deal with it themselves. But I can't ignore the knot of dread forming in my stomach
My phone is still open to Morrison Legal Group. I should close the tab, go upstairs, figure out my next move. Instead, I'm standing here deciding whether to save a man who won't save himself.
My gaze moves from my sister to Lillianna. She's waiting for my answer, and the raw pleading on her face makes my chest ache.
Thorne made a choice for me. Took away my agency because he thought he knew what was best.
And now I have to choose: let him face the consequences alone, or step in one more time.
Even though I'm furious.
Even though part of me wants to let him crash and burn.
But Madison's testimony could keep him out of prison. And my presence could show the FBI that this family is trying to make things right.
"Right. We're all going." I meet Lillianna's eyes. "But I might strangle him after I help him."
Madison grins. "Fair."