Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ivy half flower shop, walls covered in greenery, wooden buckets filled with freshly trimmed roses.
Through the bright floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the fireplace burning, natural wood tables and chairs, customers talking softly by the window.
Everything Wentworth Estate would never have—warmth, ease, the scent of real life. Stop it, Ivy. Stop thinking about that place.
The wind chimes jingled as we pushed through the door.
Lucas looked up from the floral arranging table. He wore a simple navy denim shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing strong lines. When he saw me, this usually composed man visibly froze.
My chest tightened. My old friend still looked at me with such gentle eyes, even though I'd ignored him for two years.
"Ivy? Penny?" His gaze lingered on my pale face for two seconds, then shifted to Penny's indignant expression. He seemed to understand.
"Sit. I'll make coffee." Lucas didn't ask questions. But Penny couldn't hold back. While waiting for the coffee, she machine-gunned through the whole disgusting mess at Wentworth Estate.
"Divorce papers signed means a fresh start." Lucas sat down, pulled over a blank sheet of paper, and extracted a pen from his chest pocket. He looked at me. "Ivy, how much startup capital do you have? Give me a number so we can plan this out."
I bit my lip self-consciously and named an embarrassingly small figure. My savings from the past two years.
"I can pitch in anytime!" Penny jumped in eagerly.
"It's enough. In Brooklyn, this'll cover a secondhand German oven and three months' rent." Lucas calculated silently, then smiled.
I stared at the paper filling with numbers. My cold fingers slowly began to warm.
With Lucas and Penny's help, "Oats & Flowers" secured a storefront on a tree-lined old Brooklyn street within days.
The next week, the empty space became our makeshift headquarters.
Carpenters hammered away in the back kitchen. I'd changed into worn jeans and a work jacket, crouched on the floor scrubbing down the secondhand wrought-iron tables and chairs we'd scored.
Lucas walked in carrying two iced Americanos and handed me one. He sat on a dusty wooden crate nearby, steadying a wobbly table leg for me.
"Did he sign?" Lucas asked suddenly.
I froze mid-wipe, surprised. Since when did this rational man care about romantic gossip?
I must really matter to him as a friend.
"Not yet." I laughed bitterly, my expression darkening. "The lawyer says there's been zero progress on their end. He probably thinks I'm playing hard to get, trying to force him to cave."
"Typical arrogant capitalist." Lucas snorted. "He's been so full of himself for so long, he has no idea what he lost. Ivy, you deserve better."
Better? I looked at my roughened hands from painting walls and shook my head.
"I'm not interested in dating right now. Getting this shop open—that's all I want." I looked down, hiding the exhaustion in my eyes.
Actually, I had a secret I hadn't told anyone.
I touched my lower abdomen lightly. Inside, a tiny life had been growing for four weeks.
When I signed the lease today, I'd hesitated for a long time. Looking at my two exhausted friends working so hard for me, I'd swallowed the secret.
Not yet. It wasn't time.
When Lucas left, Penny walked in carrying a box of dried flowers for decoration. She must've heard the last part because she leaned in conspiratorially. "Ivy, you're totally clueless. Haven't you noticed Lucas treats you completely different from me?"
"Penny, don't joke about that." I cut her off, serious. "Lucas is just loyal. And right now I'm divorced, and even..." I swallowed the word "pregnant" and smiled bitterly. "Right now, I just want to focus on my business."
Seeing my determination, Penny sighed but muttered under her breath. "Fine, focus on business. But eventually you've got to move forward, right?"
Move forward. Easy to say. But reality slapped me hard on opening day.
That first evening at "Oats & Flowers," after the initial buzz faded and the handful of regulars Penny and Lucas had dragged in left, I stood at the counter holding my signature lemon tart—the one I'd perfected after countless tries.
The glass display case still held over half the pastries I'd baked so carefully, their buttery aroma tinged with loneliness. The ledger showed a pathetic few dollars in sales.
Cold New York wind seeped through the door cracks, chilling me to the bone.
Staring at those meager numbers, I fell asleep that night suffocated by anxiety and self-doubt.
Could I really do this? Could I actually survive on my own?
But the next morning at six a.m., something amazing happened.
I'd barely opened the door, eyes still red, when a little girl burst in, pulling a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform.
"Do you still have... lemon tart?" The woman rubbed her hands nervously on her apron. "My daughter's classmate brought half of one home. She said it was the best thing she'd ever tasted. I asked around forever to find out it came from the new shop on this street. I'd like to buy two for my kid."
"Yes! Yes! Just a second, fresh from the oven!" I practically ran to the back kitchen and carefully packed two lemon tarts—still warm, fragrant with cream, tops glazed golden-caramel—into paper boxes. In that moment, New York's gloom seemed to lift.
I took a deep breath and clutched those bills in my palm. My new life had truly begun.
Damian
A week had passed without any word from Ivy.
"Mackenzie!" I yanked open my shirt's top button, irritation bleeding into my voice. "Where's that navy diagonal-stripe tie I had custom-made on Savile Row last month? Why isn't it in its usual spot?"
"I'm sorry, sir, your ties... the missus always organized them personally. Let me look for it."
I waved Mrs. Mackenzie away impatiently.
Ivy again.
Why were her fingerprints all over everything?
But as Mrs. Mackenzie's footsteps faded, something clicked. The irritation dropped away, replaced by a secret, surging excitement.
The tie was missing. Yes, my tie was missing.
This realization made me grab my phone almost desperately. Damian, you're not groveling. You're just inquiring about your property. She failed in her duties as Mrs. Wentworth. You're simply handling business.
As soon as I made this call and gave her an out, she'd respond sweetly on the other end. Then she'd come back.
I scrolled to the top of my contacts, took a deep breath, and hit dial.
Time seemed to freeze. Phone pressed to my ear, I could hear my own thundering heartbeat.
Then a cold, mechanical female voice announced the number was disconnected.
The rejection hit like a slap across the face, shattering my excitement. She'd actually given up the number she'd used for two years?
I hung up and opened Instagram, typing her name into the search bar. All that came up was a cold "User does not exist." Charlie's words from days ago suddenly echoed in my head—"The missus deleted all her accounts." Only now did I believe him.
Something else occurred to me. I rushed to the walk-in closet and opened the corner compartment. It used to hold her favorite cotton knit sweaters and some old photo frames from her small southern hometown. Now it was completely empty. Not even dust remained.
But all the Chanel dresses and expensive crocodile-leather bags my assistant had sent after the wedding hung untouched. She hadn't taken a single one.
She'd only taken what was hers to begin with—those insignificant little things.
I stared at that empty compartment, the room spinning. I grabbed the wall to stay upright.
She'd taken everything that mattered to her. She'd actually chosen to leave me completely.
She wasn't throwing a tantrum?
The realization shattered the smug certainty I'd maintained all week. Ivy wasn't playing games. She'd even left behind all the luxury trappings I'd given her—the things that could've helped her survive in New York—thrown them aside like garbage. Including me.
Once I realized Ivy was really gone, my head stayed foggy all day. I couldn't even remember walking into the conference room, forcing myself to power through the meeting.
"Sir? Regarding this quarter's settlement, Miss Ashton's recommendation is..." The VP's report turned to static in my ears.
Why did she leave?
Was it because I let Cecilia stay? Or because I hadn't paid enough attention to her lately?
Frustration boiled up, impossible to suppress.
I didn't think I'd done anything wrong. Yes, Cecilia was my ex, but more importantly, she was an excellent business consultant.
If I'd made any mistake, it was neglecting Ivy—but I'd only wanted her to be more compliant.
What more did she want? Did she really have to punish my arrogance with such a drastic exit?
Besides, Cecilia just needed a safe place to stay. Once her case wrapped up, she'd move out naturally. She posed no threat to our relationship.
I couldn't make sense of it. But that night when I pushed open the master bedroom door, expecting cold darkness, I found dim pink aromatherapy lamps casting shadows, filling the room with thick, cloying rose scent. I froze, then joy flooded through me. Had Ivy come back?
"Damian, you're finally home." A husky, flirtatious voice drifted from the bed I shared with Ivy. My smile died instantly. That wasn't Ivy's voice.
I walked over, jaw clenched.
Cecilia lay naked on the bed. Her hair spilled messily across the pillow. In the dim light, her pale flesh radiated mature sensuality. She stretched one arm toward me seductively, eyes blazing with confident desire.
"The London situation's handled, Damian. Now it's just the two of us in this house. Don't you want to relive what we had back in Paris..."
She crawled toward me as she spoke.
My brain exploded with a roar. Rage shot from my feet to the crown of my head.
How dare she lie in the bed I shared with Ivy!