Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Dane
I promised myself I would never do this—let my frustration with Ivy bleed onto Sloane.
But here I am, snapping at her for what feels like the hundredth time today.
Just one fucking text.
Two words. I’m fine.
That’s all I got from Ivy after she bolted out of the gala last night without warning, leaving me standing there like an idiot pretending I hadn’t felt something crack in my ribs as she walked away. I knew I shouldn’t have taken her. And, as usual, my instincts were right.
“Sloane, where in the Bexley draft contract—” I snap, letting the sentence hang long enough for her to feel the bite. She’s hovering over my desk with a stack of documents, her expression perfectly neutral, the way it always is when she’s silently judging me.
“Page forty-six, subsection three,” she replies, tone even. “The clause you requested was added this morning, Mr. Black.”
Of course it was; I know it was. I just need something to throw my irritation at, and today it is the only person in this office competent enough to take it.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Fine. Bring the team in. We’re starting.”
Within minutes, the meeting table fills with senior execs, legal leads, M&A, and PR. Forty billion dollars of company movement sitting across from me, acting like we’re closing a lemonade stand acquisition instead of the most aggressive takeover our firm has ever attempted.
Julian drops into the seat beside mine, shooting me a look like please don’t verbally decapitate anyone today.
Bad timing.
“Alright,” I say, leaning back just a touch to project boredom, which always makes them nervous. “Walk me through the holdup.”
The head of mergers clears his throat. “We, uh... we think Bexley’s board will respond better if we slow the pressure on the—”
“Slow?” I cut in. “We’ve been dragging them across the finish line for weeks. I could’ve acquired three other companies in the time it’s taken these people to grow a spine.”
“Dane,” Julian warns.
“No,” I say, not looking at him. “Continue. Someone here must have a compelling reason we’re holding their hand through a deal they begged us to propose.”
The team exchange panicked glances. They hate it when I’m like this—controlled, clipped, too calm to be safe.
The PR director clears his throat. “The optics matter. Bexley’s CEO is... fragile. If we appear too forceful, it could hurt future negotiations.”
“Future negotiations,” I repeat, tasting the words. “I’m not negotiating with Bexley again. And if other companies want to interpret efficiency as aggression, they’re welcome to go bankrupt on their own timelines, not mine.”
Julian leans back, crossing his arms. “It’s better for the firm long-term if you handle this delicately. He’s right.”
I turn, pinning him with a look. “I handle everything delicately until incompetence forces me not to.”
No one speaks. They rarely do when I sound like this.
I lean forward. “Finalize the language. Push the board vote. I want the deal on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
Everyone scrambles to gather their papers.
“Meeting adjourned,” I say, not loud, but firm enough that the room empties in under ten seconds.
Julian waits until the last exec clears the doorway before blowing out a breath.
“What the fuck,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, “has crawled so far up your ass today that you’re taking chunks out of everyone?”
“Nothing, Julian.” I snap. “I’m trying to run a fucking business, not a kindergarten daycare for executives who need emotional support to sign a contract.”
He lifts a brow. “Uh-huh. And this definitely has nothing to do with a certain brunette who sprinted out of a gala without explanation?”
I shoot him a look that could shred steel.
Before he can poke again, there’s a soft knock.
Sloane reappears, portfolio clutched like a riot shield. “Mr. Foster wants to speak with you, and he says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through,” I say, already reaching for my desk phone.
She hesitates. “Actually... he’s here.”
She steps aside, and Kieran Foster—head of Communications, unflappable, annoyingly cheery Kieran—stands in the doorway looking like he’s about to be marched to his execution.
A cold tension coils under my ribs.
“Kieran?” I say. “What’s going on?”
He takes a breath that doesn’t seem to help. “Sir... I’ve just come across a press release that’s about to circulate. It’s... personal, very personal.”
Julian sits up straighter.
I feel a hard, icy thud in my chest. “What kind of personal?”
Kieran steps forward, placing his tablet on my desk with careful, almost reverent hands—as if the thing might explode.
His voice drops to a grave murmur.
“Sir... it’s about Ivy, and someone named Brody.”
Kieran has barely lowered himself into the chair when my phone buzzes once.
.. then again... and then the vibrations multiply so fast the whole device trembles against the desk like it’s trying to escape.
Notifications erupt across the screen in a relentless cascade, the light stuttering with every new alert.
“What now?” I mutter, reaching for it, already bracing for another tedious crisis.
But I don’t even get the chance to unlock the first notification because Julian’s phone chimes at the exact same moment. He glances down, and then he stops moving entirely, his expression freezing mid-breath.
“Dane...” he murmurs, voice pitched low, tight. “You need to see this.”
That tone. The one he only uses when something is about to detonate beneath my feet.
I take a slow, wary step toward him, and he turns his phone so I can see the headline blazing across the screen.
brEAKING: LOCAL DJ brODY WEST LINKED TO HIT-AND-RUN THAT KILLED HELENA REED AND EMILIA BLACK— INVESTIGATION REOPENED AFTER NEW EVIDENCE SURFACES
For one suspended second, my entire body drops out from under me.
A freefall without end.
I don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Don’t hear anything except the roar rising behind my ribs.
“No,” I manage, the word scraping raw. “No. That’s—”
But Julian is already scrolling through the static, frozen text and images, his mouth tightening as each new piece of content loads.
There are photos. So many photos.
Helena’s smiling headshot, radiant and bright.
My mother’s portrait from her last charity luncheon.
Brody, sweaty and glassy-eyed, onstage.
And then Ivy, younger, still breathtaking, laughing outside some grimy venue years ago, Brody’s arm slung around her like a claim.
My chest constricts so violently that I have to brace a hand on the desk.
Julian watches me carefully. “Dane... this isn’t the full article.”
I snap my attention to him. “What does that mean?”
Kieran swallows, stepping forward. “It means, sir, that the story was originally... larger. A major one. But we intercepted part of it before publication—the part that connected Ivy to Brody, and by extension, to you. We buried that section before their editors even saw it.”
For a moment, I can’t speak.
“You’re saying the original story named her?” My voice is low, dangerous.
“Yes,” Kieran admits, his throat tightening.
A cold, merciless shot of fury slices through me.
“And now?” I ask.
“Gone,” he says quickly. “Scrubbed before it printed. The version that was just published only mentions Brody West and the victims. No Ivy. No connection to you. No speculation.”
My phone vibrates again—journalists, PR teams, half the city demanding clarity, but at least none of them know about Ivy. Not yet.
I exhale slowly, though nothing about me feels calmer. “Show me the part they were going to publish. The part you removed.”
Kieran hesitates, then shakes his head. “I deleted it, sir. Truly deleted. I didn’t want it resurfacing later.”
Julian nods. “He did the right thing.”
My pulse is still too fast, too loud, too unsteady.
The article updates again on Julian’s screen:
Authorities have not confirmed whether West acted alone. Sources allege that additional passengers may have been present.
Something fractures deep inside me, quiet and invisible but no less painful.
Julian steps in closer. “Dane, breathe.”
But I can’t. Not when I can still see that photo of Ivy—blue-toned and blurry but clear enough to twist something deep inside me.
“She lived with him,” I say, voice cracking like thin ice.
“That doesn’t make her involved,” Julian answers, tone firm.
I let out a jagged, humorless sound. “If the full article had gone live, it would’ve made her complicit in the court of public opinion.”
“And it didn’t,” Kieran repeats. “Because we stopped it.”
I scrub a hand down my face, forcing steadiness into my voice. “That’s all for now, Kieran. Get out, I need a minute.”
He’s out of the chair before I’ve finished speaking, practically fleeing the room with relief.
The door clicks shut, and silence expands, dense and suffocating.
I turn to Julian. “Get the fucking PI on the phone. I want to know why the press got to this before he did.”
Julian exhales once, heavy with tension, then walks to the door and pulls it open. “Come in, Eric.”
The PI steps inside with a thick file tucked under his arm, the expression on his face already telling me that whatever he’s about to say won’t make anything easier. His gaze flicks briefly to mine, assessing the tension in the room.
“You’ve... already seen the news, I assume?” he asks.
“Yes,” Julian says. “So start talking. Because we just got blindsided by a headline you were supposed to deliver.”
Eric lowers himself into the chair, palms open, posture deferential but composed. “I’m aware. The timing wasn’t mine.”
“That’s not an answer,” I bite out. “We hired you so that we would know first. Not the fucking press.”
Eric clears his throat and opens the file with careful precision, as if the neatness can soften what he’s about to reveal.
“What you read,” he begins, “is... mostly correct.”
My fingers curl into fists so hard my nails dig half-moons into my palms.