Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Damian
"Damian, not to overstep, but you've been wound pretty damn tight at the board meetings lately.
" Cassian, an old-school investor I'd worked with for years, rattled the ice in his glass and blew out a smoke ring, eyebrow cocked.
"What's eating you? Not sleeping well at the estate, or is Ivy giving you hell? "
Manhattan's most exclusive private club. Cigar smoke curling through crystal chandelier light, mingling with the scent of aged whiskey. Tonight was a private dinner with Wall Street's inner circle.
At the mention of Ivy's name, my fingers tightened around my glass.
Ivy had been gone for over a month. She hadn't contacted me once.
I'd considered sending more people, hiring a private investigator to track her down separately, but Aunt Eleanor shut that down. She said I had to figure out exactly where I'd screwed up before I had any right to ask for Ivy's forgiveness.
Even if I found Ivy now, she'd slam the door in my face.
I didn't entirely agree with my aunt—I thought I'd already figured out the problem—but something in me held back from making a move.
I was trying to redirect the conversation back to next quarter's hedge fund project when the private room door suddenly swung open.
A wave of perfume hit me. Cecilia swept in wearing a meticulously tailored couture gown, a manila folder in hand. She flashed Cassian a smile, then walked over to me with unsettling ease and draped her hand across the back of my chair.
"Damian, I hope I'm not interrupting?" Her voice was syrupy enough to turn my stomach. "I just got back to the estate and ran into Charlie heading out to deliver this urgent closing document. He mentioned a family emergency, so I offered to bring it to you. Sweet of me, right?"
Cecilia's sudden appearance sent a sharp pulse through my temples. My hand clenched under the table.
I'd warned her countless times to keep her distance. And here she was, using Charlie as an excuse to insert herself into my business dinners.
Across from me, Cassian lifted his eyebrow. His gaze lingered on Cecilia's fingers draped over my chair, then slid away—cool, detached—back to me.
"Damian," Cassian said, sipping his wine, "why didn't Ivy come tonight? My wife was just saying she wanted to invite her to the opera."
Before I could answer, Cecilia cut in. "Cassian, Ivy hasn't been feeling well. She's resting at home. Besides, you're discussing nine-figure deals tonight. I'm probably better suited to be here than Ivy. After all, I actually understand what these numbers mean, don't I?"
The air in the room went dead.
Cassian didn't acknowledge Cecilia's rudeness. He just looked at me, disappointment flickering across his face, then poured himself another drink without a word.
The humiliation of being embarrassed in front of someone I respected—combined with Cecilia's veiled insults toward Ivy—finally pushed me past my limit.
"Cecilia." I lifted my head slowly. "You delivered the file. Now get the hell out."
The smile on her face froze. "Damian? I was just trying to help—"
"Charlie doesn't have a family emergency, and I know it. Take your little act and get out of my sight. Now."
Maybe she caught the finality in my tone. Cecilia's body swayed. She bit her lip, grabbed her purse, and fled.
The door clicked shut behind her. I closed my eyes, exhausted, and forced a weak smile toward Cassian. "Sorry you had to see that, Cassian. I've let someone without boundaries get too comfortable in my professional life. Biggest mistake I've made recently."
Cassian studied me, then let out a long, weary sigh.
He set down his glass and leaned back in his chair, eyes distant.
"Damian, you know what? Watching you just now—it was like looking at my younger self." He laughed bitterly. "Back when I first took over the family business. Arrogant. Untouchable. I thought the arranged marriage my old man forced on me was a cage. I hated being told what to do."
"And then?" My heart started to race.
"Then? I came home to hot meals and pressed shirts and thought it was just her way of sucking up because she depended on me."
Cassian drained his glass. His eyes were red-rimmed.
"Until she caught my secretary throwing herself at me and walked out without asking for a damn thing. Left a divorce agreement and vanished. I almost lost the one person who ever really loved me. Damian, don't be as stupid as I was. Some people—you lose them, you never get them back."
My fingers dug into the marble edge of the table until my knuckles went white and started to shake.
A sharp, twisting pain tore through my chest. Cassian thought he was warning me. Telling me not to lose Ivy. But he had no idea—Ivy was already gone.
And I had no clue how to get her back.
I could barely keep the smile on my face.
Only now was I starting to understand what I'd lost.
Once again, I let myself drown in alcohol.
Without Ivy's hangover soup and soothing massages, I dragged myself into the next day's meeting with a skull-splitting headache.
International executives were grimly reporting quarterly data on-screen when my phone shrilled—loud, intrusive. My private line. I frowned, about to dismiss it, but caught the caller ID: Sacred Heart Hospital.
That hospital had a longstanding partnership with the Wentworth family. They only called me directly when something serious happened to a family member.
I raised a hand to pause the meeting and picked up. "This is Damian Wentworth."
"Hello, Mr. Wentworth." The voice on the other end was cautious. "I'm sorry to disturb you. We noticed that Mrs. Wentworth missed her scheduled prenatal appointment this afternoon. She hasn't contacted us to reschedule or explain. We wanted to check if you'd like to adjust the time, or if—"
I shot up from my chair so fast I knocked over a glass on the desk. "Say that again. What prenatal appointment?"
On the big screen, dozens of international executives went silent, staring at me with varying expressions.
"Meeting postponed until tomorrow." I didn't bother explaining. I cut the video feed and growled into the phone. "Who the hell did you say was supposed to come in for prenatal care?"
"Uh... your wife, Ivy Wentworth. Our system shows she confirmed a pregnancy at the hospital last month. You... didn't know?"
The phone slipped from my hand and clattered onto the desk.
All the strength drained out of me. I collapsed back into my chair. My mind exploded.
She was pregnant. Ivy was carrying my child.
When she left me, she was already carrying our child.
Wild, overwhelming joy crashed through me. I actually laughed out loud. In that instant, all the anxiety and frustration from weeks of searching for her evaporated.
I finally had a perfect, undeniable reason to bring her home.
Now that I knew about this, even Aunt Eleanor wouldn't be able to stop me.
She was carrying the Wentworth heir. As the father—as the head of the family—finding her, at the very least knowing where she was living, was my right. My duty.
I didn't even wait until the end of the workday. I drove straight back to the estate. I wanted everything restored before Ivy returned. I'd prepare surprises for her.
I didn't go to the master bedroom's walk-in closet. Instead, I pushed open the door to Ivy's private dressing room at the end of the second-floor hallway.
Since she'd left, I hadn't been able to set foot in here. Too many reminders of her. Too much longing.
The air still carried her faint scent. I walked to her vanity. A single tube of lipstick sat there, nearly used up. It was from last Valentine's Day—something I'd had my assistant pick up on a whim. She'd treasured it for an entire year.
Next to the lipstick lay a half-read Jane Austen novel.
I touched the book, as if I could still feel the warmth of her fingers.
Unlike other society wives who spent their days at auctions and luxury boutiques, Ivy's only real pleasure was reading.
After we married, she'd resigned from her position as executive assistant to the CEO—not because she wanted to, but because the Wentworth elders didn't allow it.
They said Ivy only needed to be a proper society wife.
She shouldn't waste energy on menial work unsuitable for public image. That extended even to her hobbies.
For two years as my wife, she couldn't even enjoy a book without the Wentworth family's judgmental eyes watching her every move.
Aunt Eleanor was right. I was a complete bastard.
I picked up the book. A bookmark slipped out—not a store-bought one, but a handmade card she'd drawn herself on stiff paper. A delicate colored-pencil sketch of a small, warm, oat-colored kitchen. Next to it, a line of neat handwriting: "Is Damian's stomach feeling better today?"
Staring at those careful words, something in my chest twisted violently.
I remembered now. Our first year of marriage, I'd had a stomach ulcer flare-up so bad during an important business dinner that I vomited blood.
Ivy—still shy from being newlyweds—had fumbled around in the kitchen for hours making broth. When she finally brought the steaming bowl to my bedside, her delicate fingers were covered in blisters from the heat.
I hadn't said a word. I'd thought it was her duty as my wife. Damn it. I'd been so wrapped up in my anger over Cecilia that I'd been cruel. But Ivy hadn't cared. She'd just quietly left a box of stomach medication and a note full of reminders on my pillow.
Over two years, she'd made countless handmade things. Knitted scarves. Baked from scratch. Slowly turned this cold estate into a place that felt alive.
And I'd always thought those things were childish. Embarrassing.
How could I have been so blind?
I set the book down, turned, and pulled open the wardrobe.
A few silk robes she hadn't taken with her still hung inside. I reached out, fingertips brushing the soft fabric, as if I could still feel the warmth of her body clinging to it.
I buried my face in one of the robes, breathing in her scent—desperate, greedy. All the sweet memories I'd been deliberately burying, deliberately smothering with cold indifference, came flooding back.
No matter how late I came home, she always left a small lamp on, waiting for me. Her eyes always full of me. In bed, though she was shy and reserved, she'd try so hard to please me, responding to every frown, every shift in my mood, until she was crying and begging in my arms.
"Ivy, Ivy..." I clutched the robe to my chest, eyes squeezed shut, a low growl escaping my throat.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Heat surged low in my gut, thick and demanding, my cock throbbing painfully against my zipper. Fuck, I missed her—with a desperation that clawed at my chest.
Breathing ragged, I yanked my pants open and freed my aching length.
I grabbed her silk robe, still warm from her skin, still carrying that faint, intoxicating scent of her.
Wrapping the cool, slippery fabric around my swollen cock, I groaned at the teasing glide, imagining it was her soft hands, her eager mouth.
She knelt before me, those wide, adoring eyes locked on mine, lips parted in hesitation before she leaned in. She'd take me slowly, tongue swirling tentatively, then bolder, sucking me deep with sweet, desperate devotion.
"Oh, Ivy..." I hissed, stroking faster, the silk growing slick with precum.
I pictured pinning her beneath me, her gorgeous body arching, legs wrapped tight around my waist as I thrust into her tight, wet heat. The way she'd gasp my name, nails raking my back, whispering "I love you" between broken moans.
God, I should have said it back every damn day. I should have held her closer, never let her go.
My hand pumped harder, hips bucking into the robe. In my fantasy, she shattered around me—crying out, trembling, begging me to stay inside her forever.
"Ivy—fuck, Ivy, I need you—" The orgasm hit like lightning, ripping through me.
I came hard, a guttural shout tearing from my throat. Hot spurts of cum splattered across the edge of her robe.
I sagged against the wall, sliding down to the floor, gasping. Hollow. But clearer than I'd been in weeks.
I couldn't live without her. I couldn't even imagine it—how empty, how unbearable life would be without her.
I cleaned myself up, straightened my suit, and pulled out my phone. I dialed Charlie.
"Charlie, use every resource and contact Wentworth Group has in New York. Start searching for Ivy again."
Charlie hesitated. "Yes, sir. Actually, we've been quietly investigating all week. But... there's a problem."
"A problem?"
"Yes. When Mrs. Wentworth left, she didn't use any of the credit cards you gave her.
Her bank accounts show no activity. Not only that, her old phone number's been disconnected.
There are no new lease agreements or business registrations under her name.
It's like someone's been actively erasing her trail. Every lead's gone cold."
Charlie paused, then added carefully, "So finding her could take a while, sir."
"I don't care, Charlie. Hire private investigators. Use gray channels if you have to. I don't care how much it costs or how long it takes. Find her."
I hung up and tossed the phone onto the vanity. Aunt Eleanor. She had to be the one covering Ivy's tracks. She'd made it clear she didn't want me going after Ivy yet. But so what if the leads were cold? In New York, there was nothing money—and the Wentworth name—couldn't uncover.
More importantly, I knew Ivy.
She'd been in love with me since college.
She'd given up her career for me, spent two years at the estate as Mrs. Wentworth, enduring everything without complaint.
I understood now—how much she'd sacrificed.
When she came back, I'd make it up to her.
She loved me. Loved me more than anyone in the world.
She only left because of Cecilia living here.
I was already searching for a secure place for Cecilia to stay.
Once I found it, she'd leave the estate.
Ivy would come back when she heard that.
And besides, she was carrying my child now.
What mother could bear to keep a child suffering out there alone?
Once I found her, I'd see those eyes full of me again. Feel the brush of her fingers against my neck as she fixed my tie.
This time, when she reached for me, I'd pull her close and tell her I loved her.
Just the thought of seeing Ivy again lifted the weight I'd been carrying for days.
I couldn't wait to win her back.