Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Damian
"God, I'm exhausted," Cecilia yawned beside me, her voice syrupy with fatigue. "Damian, I can barely keep my eyes open."
I didn't respond. Three straight days of cross-border asset liquidation meetings in London, back-to-back high-stakes negotiations—I was running on fumes. All I wanted was a hot shower and a few hours of sleep.
The car pulled up to the estate just as night fell hard.
But when I pushed through the front door, there was no warm glow waiting for me. The entire house sat in darkness.
I yanked off my tie, scanning the rooms. There used to be a small lamp in the corner of the living room—insignificant, like Ivy herself.
Just another thing that belonged to me, Damian Wentworth.
No matter how late I came home, no matter how cold I'd been to her, that lamp would be burning. She'd be there, reliable as clockwork.
Tonight it was dark. That loss of control stabbed through me without warning, sparking an irrational fury.
"Ivy?" I called out, my voice echoing through the three-story foyer.
Nothing. Just wind tunneling through the corridor, hollow and empty. A strange confusion flickered through me.
"Why's it so dark in here?" Cecilia followed me inside, rubbing her wrist tiredly. She slipped her arm through mine, casual. "Maybe she went out? Don't stress. She's probably bored, grabbing drinks with friends or something."
I shook her off and shot her a cold look. Her face crumpled, wounded. I looked away. My mood was deteriorating fast. Ivy hadn't waited up for me? Logically, it shouldn't matter. But it pissed me off anyway.
"Sir, you're back." Mrs. Mackenzie appeared from the hallway as the lights came on. But tonight she didn't rush forward to take my jacket like usual. She stood at a distance, rigid, something suppressed and angry burning in her eyes.
"Where's Ivy?"
Mrs. Mackenzie hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Mrs. Wentworth left two days ago, sir. She said she left everything in the study. Asked me to tell you to go look when you got back."
"Left? Where'd she go?" My brow furrowed. An ominous feeling crept up my spine.
"She didn't say, sir." Mrs. Mackenzie lowered her eyes, her voice dropping to almost a sigh. "She took two suitcases with her."
My brain short-circuited. Two suitcases?
I wondered if the relentless workload had given me auditory hallucinations. How could Ivy leave? She loved me. She must be on vacation. Or dealing with something else.
I forced down the inexplicable panic rising in my chest. This had to be a misunderstanding. I took the stairs two at a time and threw open the study door. Cecilia followed close behind.
Under the bright crystal chandelier, dead center on my desk—the one I never let anyone touch—sat several thin sheets of paper. A massive diamond ring sat on top, refracting light so sharp it nearly blinded me.
I blinked. Then the words came into focus. Divorce papers? She was asking me for a divorce?
My fingers trembled as I picked them up. And there it was, crystal clear: Voluntary waiver of all asset division. Leaving with nothing.
Reading that line smoothed out some of my panic. This was obviously a bluff, a little stunt to make me care. What woman in this world would be stupid enough to walk away from a fortune, choosing to leave with nothing? Impossible.
Annoyance flared in me. This was absurd. Nothing inappropriate had happened between Cecilia and me. She was just crashing here temporarily. Ivy was overreacting. Playing this cheap drama—taking off her ring, threatening to leave with nothing—to strong-arm me.
Right. It was theater. Ivy loved me deeply. She'd never actually divorce me. I swallowed the dread back down.
"Oh my God, Damian..." Cecilia gasped beside me, clearly seeing the papers. "What's gotten into Ivy? Just because I'm staying here temporarily, she's pulling this extreme stunt? It's so undignified... This kind of trashy theatrics—if it gets out, the Manhattan media will eat you alive."
"Ignore her. She doesn't have the guts."
I stared at the document, anger building with every second. Finally I grabbed those flimsy pages and crumpled them into a ball without even reading the terms. Then I threw them—along with that expensive ring—into the bottom drawer of my desk like garbage. Slammed it shut with a bang.
Stay calm, Damian. This isn't real. It's just Ivy trying to prove she matters. She's using this performance of finality to grab my attention, force me to give in, make me kick Cecilia out.
Who did she think she was? Challenging my decisions.
"But... where could she even go? She doesn't have any money." Cecilia twisted her skirt hem nervously, watching me.
"Where could she go? Cecilia, you're giving her too much credit. She's just some common girl from nothing. She's gotten used to the good life here—private drivers, personal chefs, unlimited black cards. You think she can go back to that crappy apartment where the elevator's always broken?"
I figured in three days, tops, when reality hit her—the storms, the cost of living—she'd crack. She'd come crawling back with her suitcases, meek and apologetic like always.
The next day I went to the office as usual, planning to shelve this nonsense and tackle the work that piled up while I was gone.
But during the meeting, my mind kept drifting—back to that moment when Ivy sat on the stairs trying to stop me before I left.
She'd wanted to say something. I cut her off. She never finished a single sentence.
"Mr. Wentworth?" The legal director's voice yanked me back to the conference room. "This clause, what do you think—"
"Proceed as planned." I cut him off, my tone measured and cold as ever.
But only I knew my fingers were digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks beneath my cuffs.
This wasn't the first time I'd zoned out in a meeting.
Since yesterday afternoon when Ivy walked away cold, since last night in the study, this creeping panic had stuck to me like a disease. I couldn't shake it.
I hated this loss of control, hated even more the thought of examining what I was actually afraid of.
I called the meeting early, burying myself in the most efficient, unquestionable work mode I could muster, trying to prove to myself that everything was still under Wentworth's control.
"Charlie, move next week's vacation days to this week. Then call Ivy." I leaned back in my chair, irritably rubbing my throbbing temples. "Tell her to pack now. Pick anywhere she wants—Paris, Maldives, whatever. I'll take her."
I'd been neglecting her lately. That's why she was throwing this fit. I'd never changed my schedule for any woman before. Once Charlie relayed my concession, Ivy would hear my compromise and come back.
Relax, Damian. How could she bear to leave?
"Yes, sir. Right away." Charlie left.
I closed my eyes, thinking that would be the end of it. But less than ten minutes later, the office door opened again. Charlie's face looked uncertain.
"Sir, Mrs. Wentworth's phone, it won't go through."
"Then keep trying. She probably turned it off on purpose, waiting for me to come grovel in person." I laughed bitterly.
"It's not turned off, sir." Charlie paused, his voice suddenly very soft.
He looked down, as if afraid to meet my eyes.
"Mrs. Wentworth's private number is now disconnected.
And I had IT check all of Mrs. Wentworth's public and private social media accounts—Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest...
everything was permanently deleted two days ago. "
Disconnected? Permanently deleted?
"What? What do you mean permanently deleted?"
"Sir... are you alright?"
I realized what a stupid question I'd asked. I waved him off weakly.
To spite me, she'd cut off all her contacts and erased her entire social presence? What was she trying to do? Declare war?
Or... was she really planning to leave?
No. Impossible. An unprecedented wave of terror crashed over me, but I forced it down again.
Ivy was different. She wouldn't leave.
"Stop looking." I ground my teeth, feeling the vein in my temple throb violently. I grabbed my phone and hurled it onto the desk with a sharp crack. "She'll come back."
Damian, relax. She won't leave you. I picked up the files again, ignoring the sharp pain in my stomach, trying to refocus on work.
Truth was, even when I got back to the estate that evening, I was still distracted. Damn it. When Ivy came back, I'd make it crystal clear—no more of these games.
The dining room blazed with light. The long table held expensive black truffles, French seared foie gras, and air-freighted bluefin tuna. Cecilia untied her apron and personally carried over a plate of beef stew fragrant with red wine.
"I figured you didn't eat properly today," she said lightly. "Had the kitchen prepare your favorites. Try it? I learned this dish especially for you."
I couldn't even fake a smile. The spread really was everything I usually liked, but I had zero appetite. I sat down and mechanically speared a piece of beef, putting it in my mouth. It tasted good, but I might as well have been chewing flavorless cotton.
"What's wrong?" Cecilia noticed my mood. "Are you working too hard?"
"I'm fine." I lifted my wine glass and took a sip. My stomach protested sharply.
Unbidden, images of Ivy's simple, light meals floated through my mind. After days of business dinners, my stomach was weak. Now, facing this beef, it rebelled.
"It's delicious, Cecilia." I forced a smile and choked down the nauseating bite.
Stop thinking about that heartless woman, Damian. I blamed all my discomfort on Ivy's undignified behavior.
"Sir, this is the broth Mrs. Wentworth always instructed the kitchen to prepare whenever you returned from business trips."
Mrs. Mackenzie suddenly entered the dining room, head down, and silently set a small bowl of soup in the farthest corner of the table.
"Mrs. Wentworth always said you drink too much during business meetings, sir. When you come back, you shouldn't have red wine or heavy French food..."
"Mackenzie." I looked up at her, my tone carrying a warning.
She immediately bowed her head and, reading the room, said nothing more. She turned and left.
Cecilia smiled, seemingly casual. "Can't blame them. Ivy spent so long in this house—the staff remember her kindness."
I didn't respond, glancing at the soup but not touching it. Just silently finished my wine.
After dinner, Charlie suddenly contacted me about an urgent document needing my signature. I had him bring it to the estate.
He delivered a supplemental file for a merger case to my study. Inside the folder were also charity gala documents, along with several separate pages covered in dense lists.
"What's this?" I flipped through the pages.
"It's a checklist of all the matters Mrs. Wentworth handled," he explained. "HR found it during the transition. She was afraid you'd forget details, so she documented everything clearly."
I scanned a few pages—from last year's charity gala seating arrangements to every important partner's dietary restrictions, down to what details needed advance coordination when hosting overseas clients last month.
Each item had neat handwritten notes. Even trivial things like one partner's wife being allergic to almonds—she'd remembered it all.
I stared at those pages for a long time. My brain, which prided itself on controlling everything, felt an incomprehensible jolt.
So all those effortless, perfect social events and elegant dinners over the past two years—she'd been quietly orchestrating everything behind the scenes.
I closed the folder, my fingertips rubbing the hard cover. A buried memory suddenly loosened—I vaguely recalled two years ago when she was still an intern at the company, her direct supervisor had publicly praised her more than once. Said she was sharp, incredibly talented.
But back then, I was above it all. I just thought she was obedient and sweet. After we married, I'd completely trapped her in the estate, taking it for granted she was only fit for afternoon tea and flower arranging.
Two years of marriage, and I'd... never really tried to know Ivy.
I pulled that checklist out separately and put it in the bottom drawer of my desk, right next to the crumpled divorce papers.
As the drawer closed, a strange confusion and fear washed over me—an unfamiliar feeling, like something that belonged to me was slipping silently through my fingers, and I couldn't hold on.
I shut the drawer and pushed the feeling down, diving back into work.
Late that night, I finally finished everything and sat alone on the cold sofa in the dark. Cecilia had tried to come down an hour ago to keep me company, but I'd coldly dismissed her with "I want to be alone." Seeing the hurt on her face, I felt no sympathy—only endless irritation.
I didn't want to admit it, but I couldn't deny it—damn it, I was missing Ivy uncontrollably.
My brain was like a malfunctioning machine, obsessively calculating where Ivy could possibly be.
She had virtually no social circle. Her parents lived in an old Queens neighborhood. She rarely visited after the wedding. Her only friend seemed to be that girl Penny, who lived on some noisy Brooklyn block.
I considered pressing the intercom right now, having Charlie's team deploy the Wentworth family's top-tier private investigation network across the country to tear those two places apart and drag that reckless woman back by force.
But the instant my hand touched my phone, my towering pride and need for control stopped me cold.
No, Damian. You can't cave first. She's just playing runaway, testing you with psychological games. I stood up and crushed the spent cigar viciously into the ashtray. Then I walked to the bar and poured myself a glass of harsh whiskey, knocking it back in one motion.
The burning alcohol scorched down my throat and into my stomach, bringing a sharp, dull ache.
The pain scattered that nameless confusion in my chest. I turned off the bar light and climbed the stairs slowly, letting myself sink into the cold, dark bed.