Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Ivy
Our instructor finally claps her hands, merciful at last. “That’s it for today.”
Relief ripples through the room. I grab my water bottle and glance toward the glass wall that looks out onto the hall.
For half a second, I expect to see him there, the way I did the first time he showed up two weeks ago—watching me like he owned the view.
I take a long pull from my bottle, push the thought down—I’ve been doing a lot of that lately—then head for the door where Jennie is already waiting.
Jennie stretches her arms over her head as we spill out of the rehearsal studio, her face flushed from the last run-through.
“If I can still walk tomorrow, it’ll be a miracle,” she says. “That woman woke up today and chose violence.”
I pull my hoodie over my head, smiling.
“Since we actually escaped before she decided we needed one more for character,” Jennie adds, “you want to grab a coffee?”
I shake my head. “Can’t today. Since we finished early, I promised Elsie I’d pick her up from the school bus instead of the after-school club. She practically sprinted out of the apartment this morning when I told her.”
“Aww, that’s sweet,” she says as we fall into step. “Speaking of plans... you still on for this weekend?”
“Of course. I don’t think Brody would forgive me if I bailed.”
“Don’t you dare worry about that.” She stops, eyebrows lifting. “Was he thinking of you when he up and left?”
“Nope.”
“Exactly. So you do what you wanna do.” She hooks her arm through mine as we start down the steps, leaning her head against my shoulder. “And it’ll be fun. You don’t have other plans for Saturday, right?”
“No. I want to be there. We haven’t had a night out in ages.”
“Well...” She gives me a wicked little wink. “I’m not sure that’s entirely true. We’ve had plenty of nights out—you’ve just been busy... consumed by Sir Fuck-a-lot—and honestly? Fair.”
“I have not,” I lie, even as my brain immediately flips through the incriminating evidence like a greatest-hits reel.
The last two weekends have all been Dane’s, disguised under the flimsiest excuses. Not work. Nothing official. Just casual requests that sounded reasonable enough—the kind you agree to without thinking twice.
Come to this dinner.
Be my date for that thing.
Help me look less terrifying to people who write very large cheques.
Two client dinners that were meant to be harmless, public affairs with polite conversation, good wine, and sensible departures, both of them ending the same way.
His hand firm at my back, steering me out with quiet inevitability, and then the car.
Doors slamming. The second we were alone, we were tearing each other’s clothes off like we hadn’t just spent hours pretending to be civilized.
Then there was the charity gala.
Black tie. Champagne. Too many eyes. I had promised myself I would behave, actually behave, and yet somehow I ended up pinned back against a rack of fur coats in the cloakroom, their soft weight brushing my arms as Dane held my wrists above my head, my body trapped between him and the wall, my dress riding higher than it had any right to.
I was just starting to wonder how badly this could end when a woman’s voice cut through the space, announcing far too loudly that she was certain she had left her opera gloves in here.
Dane went utterly still, and I froze with him, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
We stayed exactly where we were; me pressed into the coats, wrists trapped overhead, his body shielding the view as she moved closer, muttering louder by the second, irritation rising with every rack she searched.
A fedora slipped from its hook and nearly ruined us; Dane caught it at the last possible moment with one hand, never releasing my wrists with the other, his mouth brushing my ear, murmuring all the filthy things he planned to do to me later.
When the woman finally stormed out, gloves still missing, the door slamming shut, we both lost it.
Not loud laughter, but contained and breathless, the kind that shakes you.
Dane leaned his forehead against mine, still holding me there, our faces close, my wrists still trapped above my head for a second longer than necessary.
The laughter faded, but neither of us moved.
His eyes held mine, and something in my chest shifted in a way that had nothing to do with nearly being caught.
And it hasn’t only been Saturdays. It’s been late lunches that turn into him pinning me against some expensive surface and looking at me like I’m something he can’t quite bring himself to give up.
He keeps pushing. I keep letting him.
Which is exactly why I need this night. A little space. A little perspective. A reminder that my life exists outside of Dane Black’s hands on my hips and that dangerous, wicked smile—before I tumble in so deep I forget which way is up.
My phone buzzes.
Dane.
Because apparently he’s tuned in to every crack in my willpower.
Jennie glances over my shoulder and smirks. “Speak of the devil.”
“Will you just stop,” I laugh, pulling her into a quick hug before we peel off toward our separate platforms. “It’s probably Sloane.”
“Uh-huh. Bet you any money it’s not,” she calls, already halfway down the stairs.
I open the message feed, and—yep—my heart does that stupid tightening thing the second I see his name.
dane
I need to see you.
A stupid, sloppy grin lights up my face as I type.
me
I've seen you three times this week. How many tasks can a girl do?
dane
You should have read the small print when you signed up. Rookie error.
me
I guess I forgot who I was dealing with.
dane
Saturday night. I have something in mind.
me
Sounds ominous.
dane
It is.
me
I’ve got something at Vice nightclub I can’t miss on Saturday. What about Friday?
dane
Friday is my father’s engagement party. Reschedule Saturday.
I roll my eyes at his usual bossiness.
me
No, it’s something I promised a friend.
I swallow hard as the dots appear. Flicker. Disappear.
Dane Black doesn’t do no, but I can’t let Brody down. I promised I’d be at his launch night at Vice.
The dots reappear.
dane
Fine. But you’re mine after.
My pulse skitters.
Before I can respond, another message lands.
dane
Don’t make me wait long.
Ugh. He’s impossible.
I hesitate, then type—
me
I’ll be at Vice until late, so if this is for an event, I won’t be much use.
The dots appear again.
dane
I think we can stop pretending this is about events.
I stare at my phone, lost for words. I mean, I’m not clueless; I know what this is, and believe me, I have no fancy ideas that I’m special. Even so, I thought I could handle it.
I’m not so sure anymore.
I lock my phone and drop it into my bag.
I don’t answer—
because I don’t know how much longer I can do this without getting hurt.
By the time I muscle my way onto the subway, my pulse has mostly stopped doing gymnastics over Dane’s last text. Mostly.
The ride is mercifully short, and the November air slaps my face awake as I climb the stairs to street level. I start toward Elsie’s bus stop—and freeze.
Sloane is already there, looking perfectly composed among the cluster of waiting parents, the only one in a tailored coat and heels. She waves a gloved hand at me.
“What on earth? Did the universe glitch?” I say, approaching her. “You don’t leave Dane’s office until the streetlights come on.”
She snorts. “He let me go early to make up for Friday night.”
I blink. “Come again?”
She nods, visibly baffled. “He wants me at his father’s engagement party on Friday. More specifically, he wants me there because the Bexleys will be attending, and he wants someone who can ‘anticipate their needs.’ He actually used that phrase. Twice.”
“The Bexleys are in New York?” I ask.
“For meetings. And apparently, this engagement party is turning into the social equivalent of the Avengers assembling. Anyone with power, money, or a private equity firm seems to be invited.” She leans closer. “Honestly? It’s weird. Dane’s in a good mood. Like... good, good.”
A strange little flutter stirs in my stomach.
It’s not because of you. Don’t be stupid.
Before I can answer, a high, delighted shriek cuts through the air.
“AUNTIE IVY! MOM!”
Elsie barrels toward us, her backpack bouncing, curls flying everywhere. She slams into both of us in a hug that knocks the wind out of me.
“You’re both here!” she beams. “Can we go to the park? Pleeease?”
Sloane caves immediately. “Ten minutes.”
At the park, Elsie finds friends instantly, leaving Sloane and me on a bench.
“So,” Sloane says, “the Bexleys. What are they like? I need to know whose egos I’m managing.”
“They’re nice,” I say. “Impeccable manners. Well spoken. Stan and Felicity Bexley are warm, so they’ll be in their element. Felicity, particularly, seems to love a party.”
“What about Hugo?” she asks. “Dane mentioned he will need to be managed.”
“Hugo Bexley is...” I lower my voice. “Your classic red flag. Drunk, high, probably allergic to sobriety. Honestly? A walking STD with a trust fund—someone has to keep him from setting himself on fire.”
Sloane winces. “Yikes, no wonder Dane wants me there.”
“But Dominic Bexley, his younger brother,” I add. “He’s a sweetheart; you won’t have any problems with him.”
“Well, that’s one silver lining.”
My stomach tightens, not because of the Bexleys but because I haven’t told her about Dane and me. Every time I get close, something stops me.
It’s nothing. A fling. A mistake with a timer. There’s no point in worrying her.
Elsie runs toward me. “IVY! Push me on the swing, please!”
I stand grateful for the rescue. “Duty calls.”
I’m halfway through pushing her on the swing when Sloane walks over.
“Alright Els, time to get you home for dinner,” she says.
Elsie whines, but one raised eyebrow from Sloane ends the protest. She hops off the swing and takes Sloane’s hand.
That’s when I hear a familiar voice.
“Ives?”
Brody.
He jogs across the park, hands in pockets, hood pulled up against the wind. Elsie charges at him and wraps her arms around his legs. “Brody!”
“Hey, Munchkin,” Brody says, crouching to ruffle her hair. “Geez, look how tall you’ve got.”
Sloane stiffens slightly and leans down, putting her arm around Elsie. “Come on, sweetheart, we need to go.” She shoots me a sisterly warning look over her shoulder as she leads Elsie away.
Brody waits until they’re gone before nodding toward the half-deflated basketball abandoned near the hoop. “Wanna shoot?”
“What...you came all the way to play ball?” I smile as he picks up the ball, tossing it to me.
“Is there a better reason?” He grins, walking backwards to the court, motioning for me to toss the ball back.
I shake my head and pass it back, following him.
We fall into an easy rhythm—passing, taking turns shooting, missing more than we make.
It’s comfortable in a way only old history can be.
He shoulder-checks me lightly when I sink a shot.
“Okay, relax, Steph Curry,” he teases.
“You’re just mad I’m winning.”
“You’re not winning.”
“I’m absolutely winning.”
“You travel every time you touch the ball!”
I gasp. “I would never disrespect the sport like that.”
He doubles over laughing. And for a second—one small, suspended second—it feels like the version of us that used to work.
Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out half a joint, lighting it with cupped hands.
My stomach sinks. “Brody?” I say.
He takes a drag, tries a smile. “Relax. It’s just a joint.”
“You’ve been clean.”
“I am clean. Mostly.” He exhales, gaze drifting. “Just... been a lot on my mind.” Then—so smoothly it almost doesn’t register—he pivots. “How’d your date go with Finance Bro?”
Oh, and there it is. A quiet re-routing of responsibility. The familiar sting of guilt crawling up my spine, the one he always knew how to press. The same guilt I felt during my parents’ divorce as if it were my fault.
“It wasn’t a date,” I mutter. “And what you do isn’t on me.”
His jaw ticks for a fraction of a second before he masks it. “Didn’t say it was.”
He did.
Without saying it.
Before the words can settle between us, he suddenly snatches the ball from my hands, spinning it once on his finger.
“Alright,” he says, voice brightening just a shade too quickly. “Next point wins.”
It’s typical Brody. Tip the floor under your feet enough to make you stumble—then grin like everything’s perfectly fine again. A reset disguised as a joke. A distraction wrapped in fun.
I force a laugh, even though my chest is still tight. “You’re on.”
We keep shooting until the last of the daylight fades, and by the time he walks me out of the park, the tension has settled into something gentler.
“So I guess I’ll see you Saturday then. Come ready to party,” Brody says, leaning in for an awkward hug.
“I’m always ready to party,” I say, stiffening when the hug lingers a bit too long. Eventually, he lets me go, swinging a leg over his bike before revving the engine.
I watch him roar away and head back to the apartment when he turns the corner. When I swing through the front door, I’m just in time for my favorite part of the day: Elsie is in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a picture book in her lap.
“You’re late,” she huffs, handing it to me.
“I’m fashionably late.” I settle beside her. “Which is different.”
I open the book, and she snuggles in next to me, clutching her pink blanket. We read about a prince on a quest to find his missing smile, and she listens intently as her head grows heavier against my shoulder, her eyelids starting to droop.
“Is Brody your boyfriend?” she mumbles halfway through the book.
“Not anymore,” I whisper.
She thinks about that. “Do you think that’s why he’s sad?”
I stroke her hair. “If someone isn’t happy,” I say, voice soft, “you can’t make them happy. They have to be happy for themselves.”
She nods like she understands, even though she probably doesn’t. She yawns. “Is that true for grown-ups too?”
“Especially for grown-ups.”
Her eyes drift closed a moment later, her breathing soft and steady against my arm.
I close the book quietly and sit there a moment longer, watching her tiny hand curled around mine.
Then another thought slips in—quiet, sharp, unavoidable:
You can’t force someone to love you, either, no matter how much you may want that.
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of unease settle.
Because when I think about the last couple of weeks...the stolen nights...
Dane’s mouth on mine...his steady certainty, his hands, his heat—
none of it feels like something I can keep.