Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Ivy
I wake slowly, the way you do when pain pulls you back before consciousness is ready for it. My ribs ache with every breath, a dull, insistent reminder that something went very wrong. For a few seconds, I lie still, staring at the ceiling, and then it hits me fully—Brody is dead.
The thought lands with a quiet finality, and before I can stop it, a single tear slips sideways into my hairline. Not for the man he became, not even for the choices he made, but for the boy I once loved, the one who never learned how to outrun his own damage.
The impact had come from his side of the car. Mine took enough to leave me bruised and breathing. Whether that was coincidence or something planned, I don’t let myself follow the thought. I just lie there, the weight of it pressing down.
I turn my head, swallowing past the tightness in my throat, and then I hear him.
Dane’s voice carries faintly from the corridor outside my room, low and controlled, softened in a way I’ve never quite heard before. He’s on the phone, pacing by the sound of it.
“No,” he says, voice calm. “That can wait. Have Julian handle it. I’m not available.”
A pause. Then, quieter still, undeniably certain: “I’m with Ivy. I’m not leaving her.”
Warmth slips through the heaviness in my chest. I smile despite myself.
I push the blankets aside and slide my feet to the floor, wincing as I stand. The movement sends a sharp reminder through my ribs, but I grit my teeth and pad toward the door anyway, drawn by the sound of him like gravity. I ease it open slightly and peer through the crack.
He’s standing a few feet away, phone pressed to his ear, hair mussed as if he’s been dragging his hands through it all night.
His shirt is open at the collar, tie gone, sleeves rolled back showing off his strong forearms, his free hand braced on his hip as he paces in short, restless arcs.
Even like this—tired, unguarded, worried—he’s devastatingly handsome.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice rough but teasing. “How’s a girl supposed to sleep around here?”
He turns instantly.
The phone drops to his side, forgotten, and for a heartbeat, he just stares at me like he’s seeing a mirage. Then he’s there, closing the distance in three strides, his hands coming up to cup my face as if he needs the confirmation that I’m real, that I’m upright, that I’m breathing.
“Ivy,” he breathes.
My chest tightens at the sound of my name in his voice.
I try for humor, even as emotion threatens to break through. “If you hang around the hospital too long, they’ll worry you’re planning a hostile takeover.”
A faint, broken sound escapes him—half a laugh, half relief—as his forehead comes to rest against mine. His thumbs stroke my cheeks slowly, reverently.
“I thought you were asleep,” he murmurs.
“I was,” I say. “And then I wasn’t.”
“You didn’t have to stay,” I add.
“Yes,” he says at once, without hesitation. “I did.”
We stand there for a moment longer, not speaking, just breathing each other in. He’s still looking at me when a stabbing ache cuts through my ribs, and I wince.
In an instant, his expression changes. “Hey—no. Sit down.”
He fusses over me, guiding me back toward the bed with gentle insistence, adjusting pillows, making sure I’m steady before he sits beside me. The care in his movements undoes me more than I care to admit.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“You’re here,” I begin, twisting the sheets, cringing internally at how stupid I sound.
“I am.” That slow, disarming smile curves his mouth, the one he rarely gives, the one that gets me every damn time.
“And I’m not leaving,” he adds, expression turning serious. “So if you want me to go, I’ll just hang out in the hospital waiting room.”
“Like a crazy stalker,” I say, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “If that’s what it takes.”
He reaches for my hand. I let him take it, let his fingers close around mine, because right now he’s the only thing holding me together.
“Look, Ivy,” he starts, and then stops. His voice isn’t unsteady exactly, just stripped of its usual certainty.
I take a breath, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. "Can I say something?” I ask quietly. “There’s something I need you to hear.”
He stills. His grip tightens a fraction, like he’s bracing himself for the worst.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t leave the gala because of you.” My voice wobbles, but I don’t stop. “I panicked. Jennie was freaking out, said Brody was in a state—muttering about the accident—and instead of thinking, I ran.”
He watches me closely, not interrupting.
“I should have told you the moment I knew,” I continue. “But I thought if I could end it the right way, no one else would get hurt. I wasn’t choosing him. I never chose him.”
His jaw tightens. “I know that now.”
I search his face. “You didn’t yesterday.”
“No,” he admits. He rakes his hand through his hair as if he’s trying to make sense of his thoughts. “Yesterday I couldn’t see past the fear and the guilt.”
He doesn’t look away from me when he continues.
“I knew I loved you. Even when the truth about Brody blew up, and my mind went to the worst possible places.”
He lets out a deep breath like he’s forcing himself not to retreat.
“And it didn’t stop anything. I still loved you. And I hated myself for it.”
His thumb digs into my palm before easing.
“I never dealt with the guilt properly,” he says. “So it sat there under everything. Every time I looked at you. I knew I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted anyone. And it felt like a betrayal.”
My chest tightens, the ache spreading somewhere deeper than my ribs.
“She died loving me,” he says quietly, as if each word costs him. “And one day I’ll die loving you. I think some part of me decided that if I pushed you away first, I could outrun that. And when things started to spiral, I did the one thing I’m good at.”
He swallows.
“I shut it down. I shut you out.”
His voice roughens. “I should have protected you. Instead, I left you alone and exposed. I’m sorry.”
I lift my hand, brushing my thumb along his jaw, feeling the tension there.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I say. “I was trying to believe people can still do the right thing, even when they’re broken.”
His fingers tighten around mine.
“I don’t want a life that doesn’t include you,” he says.
“If you’re willing,” he adds, “I want to stop running.”
Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them away; a stray one finding its way down my cheek.
“Come with me,” he says after a moment, his knuckles brushing the tear away. “To the Catskills. Just for a while. Let me take care of you.”
I study him. Searching for any sign that I can’t trust my instincts.
Before I can answer, the door opens and Sloane steps in with Elsie at her side, both of them stopping short when they see I’m awake, like they’re afraid I might disappear if they move too fast.
Sloane doesn’t hesitate.
The moment she sees me, she crosses the room and pulls me into a careful hug, arms firm but mindful, like she’s holding something fragile she refuses to drop. I feel her shake before I hear her sniff.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she murmurs into my hair.
“I know,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
She pulls back to look at my face, eyes shining, then smooths my hair away from my forehead the way she used to when we were kids. “Don’t. Just... don’t.”
Elsie hangs back for a second, suddenly shy, and then Sloane straightens, swiping at her cheeks. “I spoke to the head nurse,” she says, all business now, like that’s how she keeps herself together. “They’re happy for you to go today. I brought your clothes, nothing tight that will hurt you.”
“You always think of everything,” I say, smiling.
Sloane follows my gaze as it drifts past her to where Dane is standing near the window, and when I look back at her, something unspoken passes between us. A silent blessing.
“I’m going home with Dane,” I say, voice gentle but clear.
His eyes lift to mine, his mouth curving, some of his tension melting away, and it’s an effort to drag my gaze away.
There’s another pause before Sloane nods.
“Okay,” she says, her eyes communicating that she’s happy for me.
Only then do I notice Elsie standing suspiciously close to Dane, hands folded in front of her, head tipped at an angle that is unmistakably coy.
Oh my god.
I swallow a smile. Elsie is completely in love with him.
“Els,” I say. “Did you meet Dane?”
Her little face lights up adorably, wide eyes still stuck on him. “Yes. When you were sleeping.”
Dane clears his throat. “She was filling me in on... an interesting nickname you apparently had for me.”
Heat rushes straight to my cheeks. “Absolutely not.”
“It was Doctor—,” Elsie starts.
“Elsie,” Sloane cuts in, though she’s already smiling.
I laugh despite myself, and regret it instantly as pain flares through my ribs. I fold forward, eyes squeezed shut.
“Jesus, Ivy.” Dane is at my side immediately, hand hovering like he doesn’t know where it’s safe to touch.
“I will personally eliminate anyone who makes me laugh today,” I manage, lifting a hand in warning.
His mouth curves. “I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”
“Did I just witness instant karma?” Sloane says, grinning.
I inhale carefully and glare half-heartedly in her direction. “I’m warning you, Sloane.”
Sloane checks her watch. “We need to get moving,” she says. “School run.”
Elsie pouts and turns back to me. “Auntie Ivy, can you take me to the park later?”
“Not today, Elsie,” Sloane says. “Ivy needs rest.”
She looks at me then, her voice quieter. “You’ll be safer at Dane’s,” she adds. “No little feet launching themselves at you at six a.m.”
Something in my chest settles fully at that. I nod, unable to stop smiling.
After they leave, the nurse appears with a clipboard and a kind smile.
“You’re doing well,” she says, checking my vitals. “The concussion symptoms are settling, and your ribs are badly bruised but stable. If you feel up to it, we can discharge you this morning.”