Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Damian
"Mr. Wentworth, this is a sample gift from the cross-border summit logistics team. It got the best response from our partners this afternoon."
Charlie walked in while I was leaning back in my office chair, fingers pressed against my throbbing temples.
Over a week now. The relentless insomnia made my migraines worse each day.
And the fact that Ivy still had no trace—it drove me to the edge of madness.
I was starting to question what the hell those investigators were good for.
I didn't expect them to drop a complete report on my desk overnight.
But three full days, and they hadn't turned up a single goddamn lead.
Ivy was ordinary. She had no training. She couldn't just erase every trace of herself.
Unless someone was blocking me.
I narrowed my eyes. Couldn't figure out who'd dare cross me.
"Sir." Charlie set an elegantly wrapped oatmeal-colored box gently on my desk. "You've been working nonstop for days. Maybe you should call it early tonight." His tone carried clear disapproval.
I ignored him. Just gave the box a casual glance. The lid had delicate gold-stamped floral patterns. Something about it felt familiar. But I had no interest in trivial procurement decisions right now.
"Got it," I said flatly.
Truth was, I didn't want to rest. Didn't want to go back to the estate. That place suffocated me with silence now. Every time I went back, I had to face the fact that Ivy was gone.
Four brutal hours of cross-border video conferences left my temples pounding. The board members' bickering still echoed in my skull through the wireless earbuds.
My eyes drifted back to that box. I normally had zero interest in these high-sugar garbage treats. Hell, I barely touched what Ivy made for me either, and I was picky as hell.
Whether it was missing Ivy or my irregular eating schedule, acid burned through my stomach in waves.
Irritated, I straightened up and yanked the ribbon off the box. Inside sat several pristine fruit-filled petit fours, arranged perfectly.
I grabbed one and bit into it almost vindictively.
The soft cake melted between my teeth. But when my tongue hit the core flavor, when I took that second bite, I froze.
My pupils contracted violently.
This taste...
Fresh lemon juice with that subtle peel bitterness cutting perfectly through the heavy cream, all sitting on a base where the butter's caramelized richness hit exactly right, traveling down my throat into my stomach.
This taste was too familiar. So familiar it yanked me instantly back to those quiet nights at the estate.
Whenever I worked late and came home past midnight, there'd always be a plate of these on the table—sweetness and tartness balanced just right.
I'd pushed them away countless times, dismissively thinking they were just Ivy's way of killing time.
But now, this taste hit me like a silent hurricane, blanking out my mind completely.
Impossible.
I stood there, almost desperately shoving the entire piece into my mouth, chewing carefully. That familiar texture, that sweetness deliberately lowered to suit my demanding palate—it lingered in my mouth, unmistakable.
Ivy. Had to be. I covered my face, caught between tears and laughter. Couldn't name what I felt. Excitement? Elation? Grief—
"Charlie, get in here!" Something clicked. I slammed the intercom button, voice so loud it startled even me.
Wall Street's logistics department worked with countless bakeries, but not one could recreate this taste. Only Ivy. Only my Ivy could make something this unique. I had to seize this chance to find her!
Maybe my tone alarmed him—Charlie rushed in looking flustered. "Sir, what happened? What's wrong?"
I jabbed at the half-empty box. "Where'd this come from? Which supplier did logistics order from? Find out now! I need the shop's name and exact address!"
"Yes, sir, let me check... oh, it's a new independent bakery in Brooklyn. Our usual place got shut down, so the PR firm grabbed this last-minute local order. Is there a problem with the cake? Sir, should I notify legal to process a return?"
Brooklyn? She'd been in New York this whole time!
"No problem. Add a generous tip. Send me the name and address right now. Immediately."
I didn't wait for him to finish. Grabbed my car keys and the remaining cakes, then bolted out of the office.
"But Mr. Wentworth! You have dinner with investors in thirty minutes!" Charlie's anxious voice cut off as the elevator doors sealed shut.
Fuck the dinner. I pulled up my phone and saw Charlie's location pin. Ivy, you didn't go far. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?
My emotions defied description—tender, soft. Ivy. I repeated that name silently, and all my exhaustion and pain seemed to dissolve with each internal echo. My Ivy. Had she missed me these past weeks? She must have. I was certain of it.
Manhattan's neon streaks blurred past both sides. I gripped the wheel tight, foot practically flooring the accelerator. My chest heaved. Ivy, I'll see you any minute now.
I rehearsed what to say.
"Ivy, feeling better? Had your fun? Come home with me."
"Come back. I'll handle the Cecilia situation. She won't stay at our estate anymore."
Yes. Exactly that. I could already picture her seeing me—those tears brimming, that wounded yet docile look. She'd grab my sleeve like she'd done countless times before, eyes red, sobbing out apologies, then climb obediently into my car.
After all, she'd loved me for years.
My gaze pierced through the windshield. Suddenly, I flashed back to those early newlywed scenes.
Ivy back then always wore that slightly outdated apron around the estate. Whenever I was home, she spent most of her time in the kitchen. Sometimes passing by, I'd catch her staring at a pot of simmering jam, or watching the oven timer, flour dusting her face, those bright eyes full of hope.
Hearing me come through the door, she'd nervously yet eagerly push a plate of fresh pastries toward me, asking softly, "Damian, rough day at work?"
And what did I do?
Out of obligation to my wife, I'd take a perfunctory bite. But I always thought these sweets beneath Wentworth standards, so I'd add, "Very good, but the estate employs top chefs. You don't need to waste time on this, Ivy."
But she seemed to only hear that initial compliment, smiling with crinkled eyes. "It's fine, Damian. I'll figure out flavors you love."
After enough times, I just let her do her thing. She was bored at home anyway. And honestly, as time passed, her cakes got better and better.
My lips curved up at those early marriage sweetness. But in that instant, another memory sliced through my brain.
Cake? Wait—on my birthday, didn't I make Ivy remove the cake in front of everyone just because Cecilia felt nauseous smelling it?
No, no, no. Only a complete asshole would do something like that.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. If Ivy was angry about that, I'd apologize. She had such a soft heart, constantly forgiving servants' mistakes at the estate. Surely, as her closest husband, I deserved even more leniency.
The car soon entered Brooklyn's old district, roads bumpy and rough. Nothing like Fifth Avenue's luxury—just cheap bar beer smells and rotting garbage stench. This miserable environment made me frown deeper, convincing me that every second Ivy spent here disgraced the Wentworth name.
I checked my phone's location, finally stopping outside a corner bakery.
Most shops had already closed, darkness everywhere. Only this tiny place still glowed with warm orange light. Through the spotless glass window, that gentle radiance looked out of place in the shadowy corner—yet it made my heart clench.
I stood at the door, forcing my breathing steady, almost pathetically straightening my already-checked shirt collar. Then I pushed inside.
The door chime rang a crisp note.
The front tables and chairs were neatly arranged—clearly closing time.
I stood in the center. The overwhelming scent of artisan baking hit me—faint honey, slightly bitter black tea, and something unusually cool...
lavender? This complex aroma made me momentarily dazed.
I remembered the estate before Ivy left—different scents filling it daily.
Just smelling them lifted your mood. She'd managed the estate beautifully. I just never noticed before.
The shop's setup was simple. A few natural wood tables and chairs, a slightly faded cream-colored counter, some plain framed prints on the wall. Compared to the estate's opulence, this place looked pathetically shabby, like a toy dollhouse.
Behind the counter, a slender figure bent over the register, carefully organizing bills with focused attention.
She wore a clean oatmeal-colored apron, her somewhat messy long hair casually pinned back, a few playful strands falling along her neck. Under the light, her profile remained soft, but the old timidity had vanished, replaced by vitality I'd never seen before.
Hearing the chime, she didn't even look up. Just said in that slightly weary yet gentle voice, "Sorry, we're closed. If you need bread, please come back tomorrow at seven a.m."
I stood in the doorway, staring at the woman who'd driven me crazy for weeks. My throat felt stuffed with thorny cotton. All those lines I'd rehearsed the entire drive—I couldn't force out a single word.
"Ivy."
Finally, I found my voice. Her name came out hoarse and raw.
The register's snap shut instantly. The figure behind the counter clearly stiffened. Her hand holding the bills froze mid-air. Time seemed to stall for a century. Only the oven's faint cooling hum remained.
After a long moment, she seemed to steel herself, then lifted her head incredibly slowly. Those eyes once brimming with devotion crashed into mine across nearly two months of separation, completely unguarded.
"Damian?" She murmured the name. No joy. No anger. Just a calm that terrified me.