Chapter 2 #2
"It was your mother." Cecilia's voice dropped.
"She came to see me privately. Threatened me.
Said if I didn't leave you, she'd use every resource to bankrupt my father's architecture firm.
I'd just gotten the Paris gallery offer, and I...
I couldn't watch you fight your mother over me.
Couldn't watch my father's life's work destroyed. So I left."
Everything stopped.
"Your mother." Those two words hit like a hammer. Blood turned to ice. I knew that woman too well—she was capable of anything.
She never thought about consequences. Never cared who got hurt as long as she got her way. To her, anything that displeased her shouldn't exist—including my "unsuitable" marriage.
She'd ignored me as a child. Then suddenly, when I was grown, she'd played the loving mother, meddling in my life to satisfy her sick need for control.
Memories of that house, of being abandoned in the dark—they flashed through my mind. My stomach cramped. Cold nausea crawled up my spine.
"It's over now, Damian." Cecilia wiped her eyes, forcing a smile. "I came back not expecting to change anything. I just didn't want you hating me forever. Had to tell you the truth. Seeing you settled now, your wife... she seems nice. That's all I needed."
I looked at her. That knot of resentment and bitterness I'd carried for two years—it just... dissolved. Left nothing but emptiness.
She wasn't lying. I knew her. However spoiled, however privileged, she was honest to a fault. She'd played the villain to save me from my mother.
But what did it matter? Late truths couldn't resurrect dead pasts. What was lost was lost.
I had Ivy now.
"It's in the past, Cecilia." I looked away, folding the contract back into my briefcase. "Stay at Wentworth Estate as long as you need. I'll add security. As for what happened before... don't mention it again."
"And Ivy's sensitive. Don't do things like this morning that could be misunderstood—she's a good wife."
She clearly hadn't expected that. Tears still on her lashes, she nodded silently.
For the rest of the workday, neither of us touched the subject again. I had to admit, working with her was still easy. That unspoken understanding, not needing to explain—it made everything efficient.
Her instincts on the deal were sharp as ever. Every suggestion hit the mark.
"Damian, should we tackle the rest tomorrow?" That evening, as we entered the estate together, Cecilia flashed me a smile.
"Sure." I smiled back. We'd accomplished more today than in days prior. I headed upstairs, steps light.
The master bedroom light was on. Ivy was still up?
I pushed open the door. She sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't come help me with my coat like usual.
"You're back." Her eyes were calm in a way that felt unfamiliar.
"Yeah." I pulled off my tie and tossed it on the sofa. "Is Cecilia's room all set?"
Ivy laughed—cold and sharp. I raised an eyebrow. She stood, walked over, and looked me straight in the eye. "Damian, can we talk?"
"Fine. But if it's more of last night's pointless accusations, I'm not interested." I sank into the sofa, exhausted.
"This isn't pointless, Damian." Her voice held resignation. "You brought her into our home. She went to your office at lunch today, didn't she? You two spent the whole afternoon alone together!"
My expression hardened. She'd been checking up on me? Or was someone at the company gossiping? Being monitored like this—it pissed me off.
I swallowed the explanation I'd prepared about Cecilia.
"Ivy, watch your tone." I stood, disappointment clear, looking down at her. "Cecilia helped with a French contract. She's a consultant for Wentworth's investment division. As for her staying here, I explained last night—she's in danger. As her lifelong friend, I'm providing shelter. That's it."
"That's really all?" Ivy's eyes reddened, tears gathering but not falling. "If she's just a friend, why does one word from her erase everything I do for you? Damian, if you still have feelings for her, just tell me. We can—"
"We can what? Get divorced?" The word shocked even me as it left my mouth. Was she threatening me with this?
I cut her off coldly. "Ivy, don't be childish. I chose to marry you. The Mrs. Wentworth position is yours. I have no other intentions. Haven't I given you enough? Stop overthinking."
I grabbed my jacket, irritated, not wanting to look at her tears. They'd make me weak.
"I'm sleeping in the study again tonight. Cool off. Think about what's appropriate for someone in your position to say."
I didn't acknowledge the quiet sobbing behind me. Just pulled the door open and walked out.
If Cecilia were Mrs. Wentworth, she'd never make a scene over minor professional courtesies. She'd wear couture to Wall Street galas, charm every power player, use her French expertise to solve contract crises. So much more mature and gracious than Ivy.
And Ivy? Two years, and she still hadn't learned how to be Mrs. Wentworth.
For the first time, I felt tired of this marriage. Maybe there were other feelings mixed in—guilt, shame, sadness? But I didn't want to think about it anymore.