Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Damian
"Damian..." Ivy's broken voice pulled me from sleep. My eyes snapped open, breath coming fast.
Damn it. I'd dreamed about her. That tear-stained face had slipped into my mind the moment I'd closed my eyes, leaving me with this irritation I couldn't shake and something else—unease, maybe.
Truth was, I hated seeing her upset. It stirred up this weird ache in my chest, this guilt I didn't want to feel.
Six a.m. sunlight cut through the study's blinds, throwing shadows across the floor. I sat up slowly and pressed my fingers to my temples. My head pounded like I'd been drinking all night.
Ivy had always been perfect—obedient, proper. Two years of marriage, and no matter how late I came home, no matter how cold I was, she'd leave a light on downstairs, hand me a glass of water with that gentle smile. Sure, we lacked passion, but it was comfortable.
Last night, though, she'd thrown that ridiculous party without telling me.
People in our circle didn't do balloons and fruit-topped cakes. We did five-course dinners and waiters in tails. And she'd questioned me in front of my friends like I was some criminal.
So immature.
I yanked my shirt open and headed for the bathroom. The man in the mirror looked exhausted, jaw tight.
Of course, I knew why everything had gone sideways. I'd brought Cecilia home. Shattered the peace.
Thinking about Cecilia complicated things.
None of this was supposed to happen. I'd convinced myself I'd never see her again.
Two years ago, she'd left without a word—vanished the night before our engagement party for some art director position in Paris and a sponsorship deal so lucrative even I'd thought it was insane. No explanation. Nothing.
I'd stood in that venue for three hours waiting. Till dawn. Never told anyone how I got through that night—not even my aunt, the only family I gave a damn about. But afterward, I swore I'd never let a woman make me look that pathetic again.
Then I married Ivy. Maybe out of spite at first, but it had worked out fine.
Until a few days ago, when an email appeared in my private inbox.
From Cecilia.
"Damian, it's been a while. I'm back in New York.
I'm sorry to reach out like this, but I'm in trouble, and I don't have anywhere safe to stay.
I heard Wentworth's investment division is working on that Paris Art Fund acquisition.
You might need someone who knows the European art market?
I can help—my expertise for temporary housing. If you're willing."
Her words were careful, distant, almost pleading. Nothing like the proud girl I'd known.
I'd stared at that email for a long time, expecting anger or bitterness. But I felt nothing. Maybe time really does heal everything. All that remained was this vague need to show her how well I was doing now—childish, I know, but I'd agreed to meet.
When I saw her in person, she looked worse than her email suggested.
Thinner. Pale. When men in dark suits passed by, she'd flinch. She told me, eyes red, that she'd gotten caught up in some ugly business in Paris. She'd refused to sign forged documents, and now she had gangs and extremists after her.
"Damian, I'm scared. I know I shouldn't ask, but you're the only person in this city with the resources to protect me—the only one I trust."
Tears on her face. Reaching for my hand across the table, then pulling back at the last second.
That's when I'd softened. That old protective instinct kicked in. Wentworth Estate had the best security in New York, so I'd done something stupid. I'd brought her home.
Cecilia's crisis was real and urgent. I didn't have time to play Ivy's jealousy games and explain every little thing.
She was Mrs. Wentworth. She needed to see the bigger picture.
I spat out the toothpaste and splashed cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. Then I dressed and went downstairs.
Ivy was already at the breakfast table. She'd changed into a neat gray house dress, hair pulled back, that same gentle smile on her face.
"Morning, Damian. Sleep well?"
Her voice was hoarse, but perfectly polite.
"Yeah." I pulled out my chair and sat.
As I settled in, I caught the faint shadows under her eyes—concealer didn't quite hide them. She hadn't slept. The knowledge made me uncomfortable, but I shoved the guilt down. Work was demanding right now. I couldn't afford distractions. Not even Ivy.
A servant set down a perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg and whole wheat toast, placing black coffee by my hand.
I lifted the cup automatically.
"Oh, good morning, Damian."
Cecilia's lazy voice drifted from the stairs. She wore a silk robe, curls messy, that effortless French artist vibe.
She sat down next to me.
Then she reached over and took my coffee, sipped it, and made a face. "God, Damian, what have you been drinking these past two years? This tastes like dishwater. Have the Wentworth kitchens really declined this much?"
I frowned. Too familiar. I started to say something, but Ivy cut in.
"I made the coffee." Her voice was quiet but tense. "Damian's stomach has been bothering him. The doctor said to reduce caffeine, so I diluted it."
I paused. It had tasted weak. She'd done that for me.
"Oh?" Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, Mrs. Wentworth, I didn't know. Damian used to love Italian espresso—guess marriage really does change people."
I glanced at Ivy. Her lips were bloodless, fingers tight around her cup. Those clear eyes locked on mine, searching—wanting me to defend her.
For a second, I felt something. But seeing that wounded look on her face, guilt and irritation surged up, drowning out sympathy.
Was she blaming me for bringing Cecilia home? Cecilia just talked like that—blunt, bold. Sometimes people misunderstood. I knew she didn't mean anything by it.
But she had crossed a line. We weren't close enough to share coffee anymore. I pushed the cup away.
"Mackenzie," I said coldly, breaking the tension. "Get that Jamaican Blue Mountain from my study. Make a fresh pot. Regular strength."
"Yes, sir."
In my peripheral vision, Ivy set down her silverware. Her shoulders, usually so straight, curved inward.
Watching her shrink like that, my chest tightened. But I wasn't about to contradict myself in front of others. Later, when Cecilia and I were alone, I'd talk to her about watching what she said around my wife.
Besides, I knew Ivy. She didn't hold grudges. A check before I left this morning, or a high-end jewelry set from my assistant, and she'd forget all about this unpleasantness.
Women were easy to appease.
Manhattan's skyscrapers scraped the sky. The tallest belonged to my company. I'd always been proud of how I'd grown the family business. When I pulled up, my VP was already waiting in the conference room.
"Mr. Wentworth, regarding the London art fund acquisition—they still won't budge on the offshore account liquidation clause..."
The investment division VP stood by a massive projection screen, voice urgent.
I sat at the head of the table, spinning a pen, eyes on the dense legal data on screen.
But my mind had drifted back to Ivy at the estate. That look of disappointment kept surfacing.
Two years ago, right after Cecilia left, I'd been destroyed but desperate to prove I didn't care. So I'd turned my attention to my assistant, Ivy. She'd thought she'd hidden it well, but her eyes lit up every time she saw me. I'd needed exactly that—someone clean, pure, loyal.
These two years of marriage—aside from necessary public appearances, I'd barely spent time with her.
We had no passion, but I'd liked being in control.
I had to admit, being with Ivy felt safe...
Maybe I should talk to her properly, tell her I had no feelings for Cecilia, that she was the only one fit to be my wife.
"Mr. Wentworth?" The VP's careful prompt pulled me back.
I snapped into focus, gaze sharpening. "If they want to fight, let them take the tax liability on that trust. And revise clause thirty-two. I want the final version in my inbox in half an hour."
In business, I never hesitated.
I buried myself in contracts, letting numbers and acquisitions fill my brain. Only by drowning in work could I stop thinking about Ivy's hazel eyes at breakfast—red-rimmed, filled with disappointment.
Until someone knocked on my office door.
Expecting lunch, I didn't look up. "Leave it."
"What, is President Wentworth too busy for an old friend's lunch invitation?"
I froze, then looked up. Cecilia walked in carrying an elegant handbag, smiling. She'd changed into a sharp business suit, hair pulled back, looking polished and professional.
"What are you doing here?"
"Fulfilling my consultant duties." She approached my desk, pulling a printed French contract from her bag. "This is for that French fund you're meeting this afternoon. I found a loophole in their financial statements—"
I took the document and scanned it. My eyes narrowed.
She was right. The flaw was buried in dense French art terminology. My Wall Street legal team had missed it completely.
"Sit."
My tone softened.
We went through everything carefully, making sure there were no other risks in the deal.
Afterward, I called my assistant for two lunches.
Cecilia sank into my leather sofa naturally.
She gazed out at the skyline, almost wistful. "Damian, these art pieces... remind me of that Boston exhibition we went to. Remember? We waited three hours in line, then got caught in that blizzard on the way home..."
My pen stopped spinning.
Those memories, buried deep—college days when I wasn't this cold business machine. When I'd given a girl my coat in a snowstorm.
"Yeah. Time flies," I answered casually, nostalgic but strangely calm inside.
Cecilia turned to look at me, something conflicted in her eyes.
"Damian, speaking of which... I've owed you an explanation for two years." Her hands clenched in her lap. "When I left for Paris, it wasn't because I stopped loving you. And it definitely wasn't about that damn sponsorship money."
My heart skipped. I stayed quiet, waiting.