Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Ivy
“Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last shot of tequila.” I grimace at my reflection, rounding my lips as I reapply my lipstick. My aim’s only slightly off— good enough.
“You realize,” Jennie says, fluffing her chestnut bob until it bounces, “you say that every time we go out. Which, by the way, has been ages.”
“You know how it is,” I shrug. “Once we’re in the middle of a show, weekends stop existing.”
“So that’s exactly why we needed the extra shot.” Jennie grins, looping her arm through mine and tugging me toward the door. “And I’m still riding the high of getting cast in the ensemble. Same show, same rehearsal schedule—I’m not letting you disappear on me this time.”
The swell of noise reaches us before we hit the dance floor. It’s crowded, the kind of packed that leaves no space to breathe, but Jennie’s already weaving through the bodies like she owns the dance floor.
“I’m so glad Sloane planned this. This is fun. Have you seen all the hot guys?” she says, eyes glinting, a tipsy smile tugging at her lips.
“Yeah. Fun,” I echo, though the word feels thin on my tongue. She drags me into the crush of people, and I let her. The atmosphere is wild as midnight fades into early morning, and still, I keep telling myself I’m having fun.
It’s been a while since Sloane came out partying. Lara, her best friend from college, stepped in at the last minute to babysit Elsie. But there is a little Dane-shaped hole carved into my chest that’s proving impossible to shake.
The worst part? I still haven’t told Sloane. I meant to, but then Dane came back early from the conference—and when she talked about seeing him, she didn’t seem shaken in the way I expected. Which can only mean one thing. He didn’t say a word.
She said casually that Dane had brought up a “mistake” in London. If he’d told her the truth, there’s no way she would’ve brushed it off like that.
I should be relieved—shouldn’t I? Instead, it stings, like whatever we shared meant nothing.
Jesus, I really need to get a grip.
I laugh as I spin toward Sloane and Jennie and some of our other friends from our college days. Brody couldn’t come tonight—thank God. He tends to take over every room he enters.
The music climbs, a remix bleeding into another track. For a second, I almost feel normal again.
Almost.
Until a sharp tingle crawls up the back of my neck.
Without thinking, I turn, scanning the crowd just as the strobe flares, and my breath snags.
It’s him.
Same chiseled jaw with a dusting of stubble. Same dark hair. Dark green eyes that make all my good intentions melt away.
No, it can’t be.
I shake the thought away. It’s not the first time. Ever since London, my brain’s been playing tricks—faces in passing cars, strangers on the street who look like him until they don’t.
But then the light flashes again—and this time, I know I’m not imagining it.
He’s real.
Dane.
He’s not a trick of the light. Not a shadow I built out of longing. He’s standing at the edge of the crowd, half in darkness, watching me with a furious, contained heat that looks one spark away from erupting.
He looks even more tempting outside of the office in a dark gray t-shirt that clings to his chest and black jeans low on his hips. His hair looks a little longer, falling over his forehead, the office polish stripped away, which only makes him seem rougher.
My feet won’t move. For a second, I can’t even blink.
Then his gaze locks on mine. He cocks his head slightly—barely a gesture—but I understand it instantly. Come here.
My body moves before my mind can catch up, cutting through the crowd until I’m standing in front of him.
He doesn’t say a word. Just reaches for my hand.
His fingers slide through mine, rough and sure, and I let him—without thinking, without protesting.
He leads me off the dance floor, cutting through the crush of bodies as if the crowd parts for him.
I don’t even think of pulling away. Not until we slip into a narrow corridor near the back, the music fading into a distant pulse behind us.
He backs me into a corner, one hand slamming against the wall beside my head, the other raking through his hair as if he’s trying not to explode. His eyes close for a beat. When they open again, the fury in them burns bright.
“What’s your name?” he grinds out, voice low, controlled, dangerous.
“Ivy,” I whisper, guilt choking the word.
His gaze flickers over my face, his fingers rising to trace the outline like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Tell me, Ivy,” he breathes, the calm in his tone worse than shouting. “Did you have fun?”
I shake my head; the words stalling on my tongue. But he’s far from done.
“Is this some kind of game?” His voice roughens, the anger barely held in check. “You and your sister—some twin stunt you pull for kicks?” His hand fists in my hair, drawing me closer until our mouths nearly brush.
“No, it wasn’t like that.” I stammer, chest heaving in quick, uneven breaths.
“So what was it? Because I’m having a pretty fucking hard time understanding.”
“Sloane had an emergency, and she needed me to step in,” I manage, keeping Elsie out of it for now.
“That’s not her call to make,” he snaps. “If someone steps in, I decide who.”
“She didn’t want to lose her job.”
He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And she thought sending you would fix that?”
“Please don’t fire Sloane,” I say, panic clawing up my throat.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“I’ll do anything you want. Anything,” I blurt, the words shaking loose before I can stop them.
He goes still for a moment, then a slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth.
“Anything?”
I nod once, heart ricocheting against my ribs.
His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That’s a wide door to open.”
I should pull it back. Say I didn’t mean it like that.
Instead, I stay quiet.
His hand drops from my face—fingers gliding down, over the curve of my breast, tracing a deliberate path to my stomach, my pulse picking up every inch he covers. He watches my reaction the way a predator studies weakness.
“From now on, Ivy,” he murmurs, leaning in, his voice a low threat against my ear, “if I say jump, you say how high.”
“What?” My breath catches as his knuckles drag lower, every lingering touch setting my skin ablaze.
“It’s not complicated,” he says, eyes like glass and fire. “Jump, Ivy.”
“You’ve made your point,” I bite back, defiance scraping through.
“I don’t think I have,” he says softly. “Not yet.”
“What you want me to beg, is that it, sir?” I say, sarcasm coloring every word.
“No, Ivy,” he says under his breath, pulling me close. “That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”
His hand slips between my thighs, knuckles stroking over lace until it’s slick against my skin. The shock of contact steals my breath.
“Let’s try again,” he says, voice edged with steel. “Jump.”
My eyes close and I let out a soft gasp as his fingers disappear beneath the lace, teasing the wet ache, pinching my clit with the perfect amount of pressure until my breath splinters into a plea.
“How high,” I whisper before I can think.
He exhales slowly, satisfied. “Such a good girl.” His mouth brushes my throat—just a graze, then a bite that makes me tremble. The second he knows I’m on the verge of breaking, he steps back, every inch composed, leaving me clutching the wall, shaking.
“Give me your phone, Ivy.”
The command in his tone cuts straight through the haze.
“Huh?”
“Your phone. Now,” he repeats, softer now, but no less dangerous.
I fumble it from my pocket, hesitating for a fraction of a second before handing it over.
“Unlock it.”
My thumb slips on the screen before it finally glows between us.
He types in a number, presses call, and his own phone buzzes a second later. Then he ends the call and slips mine back into my palm, fingers brushing deliberately against my skin before catching me by the wrist and tugging me close. His mouth finds mine—just a whisper of a kiss, nothing more.
“Now I can reach you,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ll be in touch with your first task soon.”
He releases me just as suddenly, and it takes a second to steady myself.
He smiles, every perfect white tooth flickering in a flash of purple strobe. “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you, Ivy.”
“This is blackmail,” I mutter, my brain finally catching up.
“Call it what you like, sweetheart. But the truth is, now you’re mine.”
“Fuck you.” The words come out shaky, more breath than voice.
“All in good time, Ivy.” His smirk deepens as he backs away before turning and waving over his shoulder. “All in good time.”
I breathe only after he’s gone, pushing off the wall in a daze.
What the hell have I just signed up for?
And why the hell am I so excited?
“Ivy?”
I flinch at the sound of my name, turning to see Brody weaving through the crowd, flashing that grin that’s always been just a little too contrived.
“Been looking everywhere for you,” he says, breathless, like he’s sprinted across the city.
“I thought you weren’t coming.” My voice sounds strange, like it doesn’t belong to me.
He shrugs, his chunky rings catching the light as he pushes his hair off his face. “Finished my set early. Figured I’d swing by. Didn’t seem right missing your celebration.”
There’s an ache under his words that might once have meant something to me. Tonight, it’s just another cloud in the fog still curling in my head from Dane.
“Oh,” I manage. “That’s... nice of you.”
Brody grins wider, his hand on my lower back as he steers me toward the bar. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
The bar is too loud, the lights too bright, but I let him order shots of tequila because it’s easier than explaining the chaos in my chest.
“To old times,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
I force a smile, tip the liquid back, and let the burn sear away the taste of Dane’s voice in my ear. Brody keeps refilling the glasses, his hand finding my waist, his words tumbling so fast they melt into the background.
He’s in full Brody mode: the endless compliments, the plans he makes without asking, the laughter that leaves no space for silence. It’s supposed to be flattering, I think. It used to be.
At some point, Sloane reappears with Jennie in tow, her smile tight. “Hey, are you ok?” she asks, glancing at Brody. Sloane could always read my mind.
I nod and keep drinking. Until the noise dulls. Although, even as I lean into the false sense of safety of Brody back by my side, I know exactly who I’m trying not to think about.
The man who makes me feel more alive than I should, and who’s already made it clear I’m nothing more than a game he intends to win.