Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Dane
Eighteen Months Later
“I can’t,” I say into the phone, already lowering my voice. “No, we’re not rerouting funds tonight. I don’t care if it’s clean. I don’t care if it’s urgent. It’s opening—”
“Closing,” Charlotte corrects from my left, not looking at me. “And if you take one more call, I’m confiscating your phone.”
“I’m in a theater,” I add flatly. “They’re not delaying a Broadway performance so you can wire money.”
The house lights dim.
“That’s your answer,” I say and end the call.
Charlotte presses two fingers into my chest and pushes me back into my seat. “Sit down,” she murmurs. “The show is about to start.”
The orchestra swings into a bright, rousing rhythm, and Ivy steps into the light like she belongs there.
Not just on the stage, but in the very center of it.
Her voice slides over the music, rich and playful, wrapping the room in something warm and electric all at once.
I’ve seen this number more times than I can count, and still I don’t look away.
I never do. There’s something about the way she moves, the way her body listens to the music and answers it, that keeps pulling me back in.
Every turn is clean. Every step is smooth.
Every smile feels real. After what she went through, she didn’t shrink.
She leaned into it. Stronger, surer, brighter.
Eight shows a week, rehearsals stacked on top of each other, and she only grew more luminous inside it.
Watching her, it’s impossible not to feel a slow, aching pride twist in my chest. Most nights she’s home late, hair still half pinned, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
She crawls into bed beside me like she’s running on fumes, curling into my side. It’s my favorite part of the day.
The men who destroyed my old life are in prison now. Julian and I made damn sure of that. Justice, in its neat, legal way, has been served. But Ivy was never about filling what was taken from me. I didn’t need something to replace what I had lost. I needed something to bring me back to myself.
And somehow, impossibly, she did.
She glides across the stage, skirt swirling around her thighs, and when her partner steps in close, I feel it in my gut.
Too close. Their bodies align, not touching everywhere, but near enough that the space between them seems charged.
His hands settle at her waist as she spins, turning into him, away, then back again.
Their movement is seamless, like a conversation spoken in motion.
He leans in, her back briefly to his chest, his grip firm as he steers her through a lightning change of direction. For a heartbeat, they’re locked together, breath to breath, the choreography demanding trust, proximity, control. His hands linger a fraction longer than they should.
He smiles at her. She smiles back, professional, radiant, alive in a way that still hits me square in the chest.
I clench and unclench my fists, reminding myself that I’m not sixteen, that I’m not about to commit a felony in a theater aisle, that Ivy is choosing me every single night she comes home.
It doesn’t help.
Desire coils low and hot as she moves, every line of her body a quiet provocation.
I don’t just want her. I want to pull her close and remind her where she belongs.
I want my hands on her, my mouth on her, my name on her lips.
I want her to come back to me flushed and breathless, carrying that fire with her.
When I first fell in love with her, I thought it was strong.
I had no idea it could keep growing like this.
When the curtain finally falls, the noise is deafening. Flowers appear everywhere. People are crying openly. I stand with everyone else, clapping hard, watching her take her bows. She finds me in the crowd—she always does—and her smile shifts. Becomes something just for me.
That look still ruins me.
Charlotte turns to me, eyes bright, applause still rolling through the theater. “Ivy was phenomenal,” she says, breathless. “Absolutely unreal.”
I nod, my gaze never leaving the stage. “She always is.”
Elsie wriggles out of Sloane’s arms and climbs straight into my lap, small and warm and vibrating with excitement. I steady her, tapping the tip of her nose until she grins.
“Did you see Ivy?” she asks, eyes huge. “She was flying.”
“She was,” I tell her.
Sloane leans in. “She’s never looked happier.”
People around us are starting to stand, gathering coats and programs, but I stay seated a moment longer, letting the feeling settle.
“I’m going backstage,” I say. “I’ll meet you all at the bar for the after party.”
Charlotte smiles. “We’ll be there.”
“Kent’s waiting outside,” I add, glancing at Sloane. “He’ll take you and Elsie home and then bring you back to the bar.”
Elsie frowns. “But there’s a party.”
“There is,” Sloane says gently, “but you’re too young for closing-night parties, sweetheart.”
“But—”
“Lara’s babysitting.”
Elsie’s whole face lights up. “Lara?”
Sloane nods. “Mm-hmm.”
“Well... okay then,” she decides, satisfied.
Charlotte laughs. “That was easy.”
Sloane squeezes Charlotte’s arm. “I’ll see you there.”
I stand as the last of the audience finally move, but my focus is already elsewhere.
A security guard steps in front of me as I reach the stage door.
“I’m looking for Ivy Black,” I say.
Recognition flickers across his face. He steps aside without another word.
Backstage is a narrow spine of corridors, the walls scuffed and crowded with call sheets and fading show posters. Performers move past in loose waves, still flushed from the stage, bouquets tucked under their arms, laughter and relief spilling everywhere. Someone brushes past me, trailing glitter.
I move through it without slowing.
The scent of flowers lingers everywhere. Red roses. White lilies. Cardboard boxes stacked with them, brushes, and lipstick trailing across makeup tables. I hardly register any of it except the fact that I haven’t found her yet.
Then I hear her laugh, floating down the corridor. My stride lengthens without meaning to.
By the time I reach her hallway, the noise thins, anticipation tightening low in my gut. I don’t just want to see her; I need to touch her.
I stop short outside her dressing room.
Her dance partner is hovering, just a little too concerned, a little too earnest. Talking too much.
“I just wanted to check on her,” he says when he sees me. “She was sick earlier. I mean, she crushed it, obviously, but—”
“She gets nervous,” Ivy says from inside, amused. “I’m fine.”
I take in the situation. The dancer’s posture. The tone. The way he’s lingering.
“She’s fine,” I repeat, taking a step forward, crowding him so he takes a step back.
He hesitates. “Right. I just—”
I smile. Not warmly.
“Closing night,” I say. “High emotions. Easy to misread things.”
His jaw hardens. He nods once, mutters something about congratulations, and disappears down the hall.
I close the door and cross the room, backing her gently against the wall, and kiss her. Hard. Claiming. The kind of kiss that says mine without apology. She melts into it instantly, hands fisting in my jacket, familiar and certain.
When I pull back, I murmur, “Careful, I’m married.”
She smiles against my mouth. “Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”
Then her expression tightens just slightly, her fingers twisting my shirt button.
“Hey,” she says. “I—there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay,” I say carefully.
She studies my face, then exhales. “Don’t freak out.”
That’s never a promising sentence.
“I’m listening, Ivy.”
“I didn’t feel great before the show because—well. Remember our honeymoon? The shellfish incident?”
“How could I forget?”
“Turns out the pill doesn’t work very well when you can’t keep it down.”
I stare at her.
“Ivy?”
She takes my hand, presses it to her stomach, and keeps it there.
“Dane, I’m pregnant.”
The world stops.
Not metaphorically. Literally. My body locks. My mind goes completely blank. I stand there, staring at my wife, as if the concept of language has just abandoned me.
Seconds pass. Maybe more.
She tilts her head. “You’re very quiet.”
I swallow. Hard.
“You are... sure?”
“Yes.”
Then she adds, tone light. “You’re the father, in case you’re wondering. God knows you’ve been practicing enough.”
“How long?” I manage.
“Not long,” she says. “I wanted to wait until after tonight.”
Of course she did.
I drag her into me, forehead pressed into her hair, breath leaving me in something that might be a laugh or a prayer. My hand stays exactly where she put it, like it’s always belonged there.
“Jesus, Ivy,” I say, voice hoarse
She smiles against my chest. “Is that good or bad?”
“This,” I breathe, my hand brushing her stomach, “is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Her smile breaks wide.
I kiss her again, slower this time.
“We should go,” she says eventually. “There’s a party waiting. Closing night is usually wild.”
I nod once. “And this?”
She places her hand over mine, still resting on her stomach. “This stays ours. For now.”
I lean in, forehead to hers. “I can do quiet,” I say. “Briefly.”
She laughs under her breath. “Good.”
She reaches for the door, then pauses, glancing back at me.
“You okay?” she asks again.
I don’t hesitate this time. “More than okay.”
She smiles again, turning back to the door. Before she steps out, I grab her wrist.
“Maybe we should go home,” I say. “Rest.”
She looks back at me, one hand settling on her hip. “I’m not sick. I mean, I won’t be dancing on any tables.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as she takes in my expression, the tension I’m failing to hide. Old fears surfacing.
“Hey.” She steps closer, looping her arms around my neck. “Nothing’s going to happen to us,” she says softly. “I promise.”
Her lips brush mine, and I lean into it.
“I’ll be a good girl,” she murmurs.
“Ivy,” I warn, my hands sliding down to her waist, my voice low. “If you’re trying to make sure I drag you home right now, you’re succeeding.”
“We can celebrate later,” she whispers, her mouth grazing my jaw, pulling a quiet groan from me. “Properly.”
“But now,” she adds, slipping out of my arms, turning back to the door, “we need to go. Everyone’s waiting.”
She takes my hand.
And I follow.
I always do.
The End
Thank you for reading The Devil of Downtown. If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review or a rating. Your support means the world to me and helps others discover the story!
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