Chapter 5
Chapter five
Ivy
The problem with telling a lie is that it spirals. Multiplies. One lie becomes two, then three, until you’re so wrapped in them you can’t remember how many you’ve told or where the truth ended, and the fiction began.
As I walk up the stairs into Bexley Media Group’s headquarters, sunshine finally breaking through the clouds, I almost believe this is my life. London. Private jets. Skyscrapers. Money and power.
And for a fleeting second, I almost forget who Ivy is.
She lives for the dance studio, the stage, the hours of grueling practice. To the music and lights. Friends and family. Messing at the play park and dance classes with Elsie. She hates the idea of this world.
But this world has something mine doesn’t. Dane Black.
And as much as I tell myself I don’t care, I know when I return to my life, it will feel a little flatter without him.
The reception is nothing like the slick, minimalist lobbies I’d expect from a media giant.
Instead, it feels steeped in tradition. Dark wood paneling climbs the walls, broken only by framed black-and-white photographs.
A brass clock ticks steadily above the receptionist’s desk, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of shaded lamps.
After I sign in, a woman in a fitted navy skirt suit glides out from behind the desk and escorts me upstairs. The elevator doors part onto the executive floor, and my breath stutters. This isn’t a media company; it’s a shrine to legacy.
The boardroom reeks of old money. Heavy oak dominates the walls, the table gleams like it’s been buffed within an inch of its life, and thick carpets swallow the sound of my heels.
It feels less like I’ve stepped into a modern office and more like I’ve wandered onto the set of Downton Abbey, except this version comes with Bluetooth headsets and million-dollar contracts.
Oil portraits of past Bexley patriarchs line the walls; their beady eyes tracking me from their gilded frames.
One particularly disdainful-looking CEO has a glare so piercing it feels personal.
I mouth a silent, forgive me, sir. If a painting could give the middle finger, I’m certain he’d be doing just that now.
There is one modern touch to the room. The wall of glass that showcases a jaw-dropping view of London. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament sit side by side. Standing proudly on the opposite side of the River Thames is the London Eye. History merged with the modern day.
“It’s a breathtaking view, isn’t it?”
I startle at the sound of a refined British accent.
I turn to find a man already watching me.
Mid-to-late twenties, dressed in a razor-cut pinstripe suit that fits like it was stitched directly onto him.
A tumble of chocolate brown curls crowns his head, artfully unruly in a way that probably takes effort to maintain.
There is an aristocratic air about him, which is softened by a boyish smile, like he’s the sort of man who grew up in old money but somehow skipped the arrogance that usually comes with it.
“It’s nice to meet you.” He extends a hand, grip firm but not overbearing. “I’m Dominic Bexley.”
“Oh, likewise.” My voice tips higher than intended, surprise sneaking in. Until now, Bexley was simply an annoying name Dane lobbed around like a loaded weapon. But now it has a face.
“Don’t look so worried.” Dominic’s smile is easy, his tone warm enough to disarm.
“It’s my father’s company. I’m just the spare.
The title of heir goes to my dearest brother, Hugo.
Unfortunately, he can’t be with us today.
” The name Hugo rolls off his tongue with the same enthusiasm as if he’d stepped in a dog turd.
“I’m Sloane Vale. Dane Black’s assistant.”
“Well, I won’t hold it against you.” His eyes glint with humor, the kind that invites you in.
“Maybe you can help me?” I quickly steer the conversation to safer ground, nodding to the skyline beyond the glass. “What’s that tall building over there?”
“You mean the ghastly, pointy one?” His grin widens. “That’s the Shard.”
“Something tells me the Bexleys prefer tradition over modernization,” I muse.
“Ah, I’m afraid you’ve hit the nail on the head, which is precisely why we are here today. So, where is the infamous Dane Black?” A frown pulls at his brow at the simple mention of his name.
“Oh, don’t worry.” I deadpan. “He had to burn someone at the stake, but he’ll be here shortly.”
Dominic’s laugh bursts out, deep and unrestrained, bouncing off the high ceilings. He’s still chuckling when a cluster of older executives arrive, all dressed immaculately in bespoke suits. Dominic releases a quiet groan and leans closer, muttering under his breath, “Party time.”
Dane enters last.
All eyes fly to him as he strides into the room like a storm rolling in, exuding the kind of power that can’t be faked.
The mood hardens in an instant.
He’s in a black suit that looks freshly tailored, the crisp scent of clean skin and expensive cologne trailing in his wake.
His hair is still damp from the shower, catching the light in dark streaks.
Heads turn toward him, but his gaze is already on me—flicking briefly to Dominic before cutting back with clear irritation.
“Sloane,” he barks, putting me firmly in my place. “I need you to take minutes.”
I give him a terse nod, my cheeks flushing as I snap open Sloane’s laptop. A faint smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. He knows I’m pissed.
Bastard.
The moment everyone settles, Dane rises. No pleasantries. No wasted seconds.
“Bexley is underperforming.”
The words land like a scalpel’s first cut.
“Shareholders are restless. Confidence is slipping. Black Capital can offer a lifeline—cash, restructuring expertise, and a premium on your stock. You’ll be stronger, leaner, and positioned for long-term growth.”
His tone is steady, almost surgical—more quiet execution than persuasion.
Across the table, shoulders stiffen. One of the older directors clears his throat. “We’ve weathered worse storms. Bexley will recover without outside interference.”
Another leans forward, face reddening. “With respect, Mr. Black, your firm has a reputation. Strip the bones, sell the pieces. You’re not here to save Bexley. You’re here to bleed it.”
I sneak a glance at Dane. Not even a flicker. He listens with the patience of a man sharpening his knife, then dismantles their objections piece by piece.
“Ad revenue is down twelve percent. Streaming launch delayed twice pending regulatory scrutiny in both the UK and EU; none of these are storms you weather. They’re fractures that widen.”
He keeps going on and on, systematically stripping away every defense they offer.
Projections, market share, regulatory delays—I type as fast as I can, already a paragraph behind, the quiet click of keys the only sound cutting through the tightening silence in the room.
Across the table, Stan tugs at his collar with each point Dane lands, his composure thinning by the second.
Opposite me, Dominic holds my gaze, his mouth tugging wryly at the corners. I feel an ache of sympathy—he isn’t blind to what’s happening, but he’s powerless to stop it. I offer him the faintest smile in return before dropping my focus to my notes.
When I glance up again, Dane is watching.
Not openly. Not for long.
But enough to make my shoulders pull tight before his attention turns back to the board.
“And some of your largest shareholders,” he continues, “have already indicated a willingness to sell. Conversations have taken place. When they align with me—and they will—you’ll be left explaining to the market why you failed to act.”
The shift is immediate. The directors exchange uneasy glances, the fight draining from their faces.
Dane leans forward, palms braced on the table, the movement controlled but coiled with power. “So you have a choice. Partner with me now, preserve your dignity, and share in the upside. Or you can resist and be forced to explain to your shareholders why you ignored the inevitable.”
Silence descends. The kind that presses down on your ribs.
Finally, Stan Bexley clears his throat, voice hoarse. “Perhaps we should discuss terms over lunch.”
And just like that, Dane has them.
The board breaks apart with the reluctant scrape of chairs and strained murmurs; men gathering folders and phones, already recalculating loyalties. A few of them look like they’ve just watched their house burn down while being politely offered the insurance payout.
Dane doesn’t move. He remains standing at the head of the table, composed, assured, already victorious.
Stan Bexley rises and extends a hand. “Mr. Black.”
Dane takes it, his grip firm, his gaze unwavering.
“We’ll have my legal team forward preliminary terms after lunch. I don’t like surprises, Stan — and I don’t think you do either.”
Stan gives a tight smile and closes his folder with a decisive snap.
“Well,” he says, pushing back from the table, already smiling like the worst is behind him, “we should eat. No one makes good decisions on an empty stomach.”
One director chuckles—the ruddy-cheeked man beside Stan is already on his feet, as if lunch is the most pressing item on the agenda.
“There’s a place across the road,” Stan continues. “Top floor with a private dining suite.”
Dominic Bexley pauses beside me as we stand.
“Well,” he murmurs, glancing toward his father leading Dane away, “that was... bracing.”
“I think that’s the polite word for it,” I say.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “I’ve been warning them for months. But apparently it takes Dane Black to make people finally pay attention.”
“He does have a talent for forcing clarity.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Dominic drawls. “Does he do weddings as well as funerals?”
I bite back a laugh. “I doubt it. The long-term risk is too uncertain.”
His brows lift. “I can imagine.”