Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Dane
“This is ridiculous,” Charlotte grumbles, tapping her French manicure on the pristine white linen. “They said eight, and it’s already nine. I’ve got a meeting first thing.”
“Haven’t we all,” Julian yawns, already halfway to tipsy. He’s polished off most of the wine bottle; my glass sits untouched. Charlotte sips mineral water like she’s trying to dilute the night.
“Maybe he’s busy consoling the intern again,” Julian drawls, tracing lazy patterns on the tablecloth with his butter knife. “Public service is exhausting.”
“Julian!” Charlotte chokes on a mouthful of water, descending into a coughing fit. I slap her back to make sure she’s okay and keep one ear on a conference call with an investor in Dubai.
It would be funny if it weren’t half-true.
Dad met Mitzy at the office. Or rather, she appeared there one day and never quite left.
A junior staffer at first. Too young. Too eager.
Too present, far too soon after the funeral.
Rumor has it she’s skilled with her tongue.
She must be if Dad put a ring on it. I don’t want to know how she convinced him.
No doubt she has enough dirt on him to bury him ten times over.
It’s ironic, really. Dad’s obsessed with his image, but he’s made a career out of silencing scandals. If it were down to talent alone, he wouldn’t have made it past city council.
Despite their impending nuptials, Mitzy makes it painfully clear to everyone but my father that it’s me she really wants.
I catch her watching me constantly—openly—like she’s already undressed me in her head.
And whenever she gets close, she makes sure I feel her: brushing against me, backing into my space, pressing in where there’s no excuse for it.
I’ve never been remotely interested. She’s gorgeous, sure. But beneath the gloss and implants, she’s pure rot.
“Sweet Jesus,” Julian whistles under his breath. I can’t tell if he’s disgusted or impressed as Dad strides in with Mitzy, her top so low cut, you’d think her tits were on tonight’s menu.
Her gaze locks on me instantly, with that twisted little smirk playing at her lips. I hold it, expression flat, as I finish my call. She totters over on what must be six-inch heels.
Dad, predictably, makes a scene out of greeting Charlotte—his precious princess.
Julian gets a stiff pat on the shoulder.
I get the usual firm handshake, quick and cold.
We’ve never been close. He’s always seen me as competition—the firstborn who stole my mother’s attention before he started seeking it elsewhere.
Only weak men are threatened by their sons.
Mitzy, on the other hand, greets me like a bad habit she can’t quit. Her hug lingers too long, her hand sliding dangerously close to my ass before I step back.
As soon as we’re seated, I signal the server. The sooner this charade is over, the better.
“We missed you the other day,” Dad says, taking first aim, disapproval carved into every word.
I raise a brow. “I doubt you missed me,” I reply dryly. What he means is that he hates when he can’t control the narrative.
“Dane had just got back from London,” Charlotte cuts in. She’s always my fiercest defender, even though I don’t need her to be. But of course, it goes both ways. If anyone ever came for her, I’d kill them with a smile on my face.
“Since when has a business trip to London made you incapable of attending a simple dinner?” Dad goes on.
I grit my teeth, willing myself to get through the evening. Between Dad’s sniping and Mitzy’s unwanted attention, I’m just about ready to slip out the side exit.
We’re barely through the starters, and Mitzy’s leg has brushed mine so many times I’ve lost count. Julian’s slurring, Charlotte’s fidgeting, and Dad’s laying out his exhaustive engagement-party plan like it’s a NATO briefing.
“The engagement party,” he crows, leaning forward like he’s addressing a press conference. “It’ll be at the Langford Estate. Guest list’s already finalized—governors, donors, and a few key members of the press. Optics matter. The world needs to see a unified front. No surprises, no scenes.”
My jaw tightens. Optics matter. That’s his gospel. Everything’s a show—the speeches, the marriage, even this dinner.
Mitzy beams beside him, fingers tracing his sleeve. “It’ll be divine,” she purrs, eyes cutting to me. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Dane?”
“Of course, he’ll be there,” Dad answers before I’ve even opened my mouth.
“Yes,” I say, flashing Mitzy a sarcastic smile. “I wouldn’t want to miss welcoming our new stepmother to the family.”
The color slowly drains out of Mitzy’s face, while Julian snorts into his wine, but she recovers quickly.
“Don’t be so ridiculous. I’m a couple of years younger than you.” She sips her wine, her face the picture of innocence, while her hand drifts perilously close to my thigh.
“Will you be bringing anyone special to the party?” she adds.
Dad clears his throat. “You should bring someone, Dane. A woman with class. Someone who softens your edges a bit.”
Mitzy’s smile sharpens. “Yes, do. I’d love to meet whoever’s managed to keep your attention.”
I swirl my wine, watching the red cling to the glass. “No one’s managed that yet.”
Charlotte leans in. “You must have someone,” she presses. “You always do.”
I shrug, a flicker of a smile ghosting across my mouth. “Maybe I do.”
Julian perks up, grinning. “She got a name, or are we back to paying them by the hour?”
Charlotte elbows him in disgust. Dad doesn’t even flinch. “If you do, I hope she’s respectable,” he says as if Mitzy is a pillar of the community. “What does she do for a living?”
My jaw flexes. “What, do I need to submit her résumé for approval now?”
I set my fork down, leaning back, but my pulse does a slow, deliberate climb.
Ivy’s face flashes in my mind. Somehow, she’s the first name that surfaces when anyone mentions a woman.
Dad’s question sticks in my head like a splinter—What does she do for a living?
I don’t even know what she does. Don’t know a damn thing about her, except she’s in my head.
Dad keeps talking, his voice a dull thrum in the background. “What about Leandra? That model who was hanging on your arm for a while. She was good for the brand. Beautiful girl. Always made an entrance.”
“I think she’s in Paris,” I say, not bothering to glance up as I pour more wine.
He cuts into his steak, smirking. “So even a runway model isn’t good enough for you now?”
I huff out a sound that could pass for a laugh. “Guess we weren’t meant to be.”
The words come out flat, half-distracted, like I’m already somewhere else. Because I am.
A flash of dark hair. That sharp intake of breath when I pushed her back against the wall. The pulse in her throat when my thumb traced her lips.
My hand finds my phone without me realizing, thumb hovering over her contact. I shouldn’t. But the itch to close the distance wins out.
What do you do for a living?
I hit send, lock the screen, and look up like nothing happened, draining the rest of my wine.
Dad’s still droning on about God knows what.
Mitzy’s talking about flowers and invitations.
Charlotte, ever the diplomat, nods along like she’s fascinated, as though she didn’t once tell me that marriage is just a useless piece of paper.
Mitzy launches off on another tangent about orchids versus lilies.
I barely hear any of it. My phone stays silent beside my plate like it’s damn well mocking me.
By the time I’m in the car, Kent driving me home, I’ve checked the screen enough times to feel stupid about it. But just as I slide the phone into my jacket pocket, it lights up.
ivy
Why, you hiring?
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I don’t text back. Not yet. I just sit there, the buzz of her reply humming under my skin.
Kent slows to a stop at Sutton Place, a quiet pocket of Manhattan that billionaires use to disappear. The East River glints between the gaps in the building, black glass and concrete softened by old elms. My building sits at the end of the block. Forty stories of smoked glass and pale stone.
Kent holds the car door as I step out and into the quiet of the lobby, taking the elevator to the penthouse, which occupies the entire two top floors.
The second I’m through the door, I pull off my tie and unbutton my shirt, tossing my keys on the counter.
The sound carries further than it should, echoing in the huge space.
There was a time I filled the silence with whichever woman was convenient, but all I really did was trade one kind of hollow for another.
After Helena died, the quiet was a type of penance. Survivor’s guilt, or whatever bullshit label you want to slap on it. I told myself that I needed it. Now I’m not so sure I still do.
I pour myself a scotch and head for the shower. Tiredness hits as I stand under the spray, palms braced on the tiles, letting the heat drag through me. I close my eyes and let everything melt away.
Almost everything.
She’s still damn well there, and I don’t know what to do about that.
She lied to me. I don’t trust liars. And experience taught me that if someone deceives you once, they’ll do it time and time again.
So I convince myself, this is simple: I’ll teach her a lesson.
Use her, break it off, move on. But what I didn’t factor in is this tightness in my chest. The stupid thrill every time I see her.
God, even waiting for her to text was an exercise in stupidity.
Groaning, I kill the water.
I’m not an impulsive person. I think, then act.
Not with her.
She’s got me wading into hotel swimming pools wearing nothing but a towel and stalking her to cheaply lit dance floors on a Saturday night.
What next? Karaoke?
If I stoop that low, you may as well shoot me now.
I towel myself dry and pad through to the bedroom, scotch in hand.
I switch on the bedside lamp and slump back onto the pillow.
Reaching for my phone, I ignore all the million other messages and navigate straight to Ivy’s Why.
You hiring? No surprise Ivy can’t answer a simple question.
She seems intent on trying every shred of my patience. I pull up a new message and type.
me
Just checking your résumé is up to scratch.
I wait for a beat, not expecting an immediate reply. My heart gives a pathetic kick when the three dots flicker.
ivy
I thought I already had the job.
me
You do. It's called being at my beck and call.
ivy
?? *Rolling eye emoji. Why do you need to know what I do, anyway?
me
Because if I’m going to own your time, I should know what else tries to take it.
ivy
Are you always this bossy? Actually, don’t answer that. I’m a dancer. Anything else you need to know? Or can I sleep now?
me
Are you in bed?
Goddamn it. My cock stirs at the image of her tangled in sheets, skin bare, hair spilling across the pillow.
ivy
Yeah, that’s usually where people go to sleep.
me
Alone?
ivy
Not technically. Archie is here.
My grip tightens around the glass, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. An irrational spark of envy has my fingers flying across the screen in fast forward.
me
Archie better start saying his prayers.
ivy
Archie is an atheist.
me
Good. I won’t feel any guilt when I kill him.
ivy
Hey, don’t you come for my Archie.
me
Are you trying to make me mad, Ivy?
After that, there’s radio silence. No flickering dots. Nothing.
Irritated as hell, I jump out of bed, dragging a hand down my face as I pace the length of the room, the burn of scotch still hot in my throat. This damn woman twists more emotion out of me in one text exchange than I’ve experienced in the last thirty-seven years.
Before I can think better of it, my thumb’s already hitting Video Call.
Her face fills the screen, and the irritation dissolves instantly. She’s luminous. Long dark hair spilling over her shoulders, blue eyes still bright even in low light, and a pale pink tank top that hugs her breasts tight enough to render me mentally incompetent.
“Are you jealous of a stuffed bear?” she asks, lips curving into that smile that always lands like a gut punch.
“Did you just play me?”
“I think you played yourself.” She shrugs, stretching into a lazy yawn, completely unaware of how much that movement does to me.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
“Is there a reason for this call?” She smirks. “Or was it just to threaten a bear?”
“Saturday night, I have a task for you,” I bark, pushing back a smile.
“You do?” Her teeth catch on her lip, worry flickering across her face.
I didn’t until I saw her face ten seconds ago. Now I’m fighting the urge to demand she come here right now.
“I need a date for the Robin Hood Gala. You think you can manage that?”
“I don’t have anything to wear for that kind of thing. Sloane might have something, so I’ll check.”
“I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, and we’ll buy something.”
“Oh, there’s really no need—”
“It’s not a suggestion, Ivy. It’s what’s happening. Or did you forget the terms of our arrangement?”
“What if I’m busy on Saturday?” There’s a glint in her eyes. She loves pushing my buttons.
“Then make yourself un-busy. I’ll pick you up at four. Where do you live?”
“No, I have rehearsals until five on Saturday. You can pick me up after that.”
“Rehearsals?”
“I’m preparing for a show. I’m a dancer, remember?”
“Text me the location. I’ll pick you up there at five.”
I swipe out of the call before she resists and throw my phone down.
I fall back against the silk sheets, muscles tight, frustration simmering just below the surface. After one damn video call, I’m harder than if I’d downed a bottle of Viagra.
A low rasp escapes my chest as I fist myself, breath harsh.
Fuck.
I’m in serious trouble.