Chapter 11 #2
"You've lost weight, Ivy." This panic made me step forward, reaching for her hand on the counter. But she subtly drew back, perfectly dodging my touch.
My heart dropped. A sick feeling rose from my gut.
"How did you find this place?" Ivy looked at me, tone flat as if addressing a lost customer. She even kept working, putting the bills neatly back in the register—like my presence meant nothing.
Her deliberate distance ignited something wounded in my pride. "Your cake. It reached Wentworth Group." I tugged my collar, trying to mask my inner turmoil with usual authority. "Why did you leave? What did the family do wrong—I mean, maybe we should talk this through."
She said nothing. I saw her dark circles and fingers roughened from work.
My voice took on an edge of both concern and anger I didn't quite recognize.
"Ivy, look at yourself now. On the edge of Brooklyn, spending your days boiling jam and hauling flour, exhausting yourself—how much can you possibly earn? "
"Mr. Wentworth, if you came all the way to Brooklyn just to lecture me about my life choices, don't bother."
Instead of avoiding my eyes, Ivy actually laughed softly at my barely controlled interrogation. She still wore that apron marked with flour, but those eyes meeting mine shone almost blindingly bright.
"What's wrong with working here? Earning clean money with my own skills beats being a 'Mrs. Wentworth' less useful than furniture in that empty estate, doesn't it?"
"You—"
That proud ego in my chest flared instantly at her words. I wanted to snap back. Wanted to ask if she knew how dangerous it was out here, if she was deliberately punishing me for neglecting her.
But seeing her noticeably thinner face, that accumulated regret surged back, strangling my anger in my throat.
I couldn't fight with her. I'd searched too long to waste it on another argument.
"That's not what I meant, Ivy."
I forced down my irritation, tone awkwardly softening. I even lowered myself slightly. "Brooklyn isn't safe. You're here alone doing all this heavy work, I... I worry about you."
That last sentence burned my face the moment it left my mouth. This unprecedented vulnerability left me completely disoriented.
Ivy's body clearly stiffened. She looked up at me, surprise flickering in her eyes before sarcasm replaced it.
"Mr. Wentworth, you really want to know why?" She suddenly laughed bitterly. "Actually, the night before your business trip, I was outside your study."
My heart lurched. Dread exploded instantly.
"I heard your conversation with Cecilia.
" Ivy raised her head, meeting my eyes. I saw the heartbreak there.
"You told her yourself—you married me out of spite.
Damian, I may not come from your world, but I won't degrade myself by inserting into your old romance.
Besides, I already signed the divorce papers.
You can marry your true love legitimately now. "
My brain detonated. She heard that?
"Damn it! Ivy, let me explain!"
How could she have heard that? This answer never featured in any scenario I'd imagined during the drive.
Total panic set in. "That was a misunderstanding!
I never signed those divorce papers—legally, you're still my only wife!
" I desperately tried cutting her off before she asked more unanswerable questions.
My hands slammed on the counter, leaning forward.
"What I told Cecilia had a second half! I said marrying you meant I'd take responsibility for our marriage! "
"Responsibility?" She repeated the word, head tilting as she studied me.
Those eyes showed none of the reaction I hoped for, but I could only continue. "Yes, and that business trip with her was purely professional networking. You know those mergers needed someone's help. You have absolutely no reason to get upset over irrelevant nonsense!"
Right? What was there to be angry about? In Manhattan's elite circles, profit trumped everything. As a full-time wife, she should have that perspective and tolerance, shouldn't she?
After saying all this, I watched her tensely, hoping she'd understand my intentions. But the expected compromise or relief never came. Ivy just stared at me quietly, eyes completely still.
"Damian."
After an eternity, Ivy sighed softly. That sigh was faint but firm.
"Even now, you still think our marriage is an obligation?"
"I honestly don't know what to tell you... You think saying 'out of husbandly duty' covers up your real motive for marrying me? I thought we came together out of love. And instead?"
"That's not what I meant..." I tried desperately to interrupt.
Ivy waved her hand. Her eyes reddened slightly.
"It was just proof of your petulance. You just wanted to prove to another woman that without Cecilia, you, Damian Wentworth, could still casually marry some obedient woman. That's what disgusts and devastates me most."
I stood frozen, blood seemingly drained from my body in an instant. Couldn't utter a single word.
"Besides, this 'responsibility' you keep claiming—how much have you actually fulfilled?"
"In your eyes, trampling your wife's dignity and having ambiguous moments with your ex in the office all fall under 'no reason to be upset.' You've never truly empathized with my pain standing outside that door, just like you never thought ignoring my calls for two years was wrong."
She lifted her head, completely withdrawing the last bit of emotion from her eyes.
"I used to think I could endure it. As long as you had some space for me in your heart, I'd accept any humiliation. But now I know—you never had space for me. And my dignity won't let me keep fooling myself, clinging to a position that never belonged to me."
"Damian, let go. Don't make this uglier for both of us."
She walked out from behind the counter, face wearing distant politeness, pointing at the closed door. "So I think there's no point continuing this conversation. Mr. Wentworth, please leave. I need to close up."
"Ivy, I..."
I stepped forward somewhat frantically, instinctively reaching for her wrist.
But before my fingers touched her, she jerked back like I carried some disgusting virus. Those previously calm eyes now filled with thick rejection and revulsion.
Don't touch me.
She didn't say it aloud, but her eyes carved those three words into my face.
My hand froze in mid-air, finally dropping helplessly.
An unprecedented powerlessness drowned me completely.
I wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her I went crazy every morning waking to emptiness beside me, unable to find that familiar presence.
Wanted to tell her I kept zoning out in executive meetings thinking about her—the old me despised such unprofessionalism.
I wanted to tell her I needed her. Couldn't live without her.
But I couldn't speak. My mind was chaos.
I knew I'd said the wrong thing—that "no reason to be upset" was staggeringly stupid provocation.
I wanted to apologize, wanted to pin her against the wall with a forceful kiss erasing her resistance, wanted to conquer her with absolute power like every time in bed before.
But meeting those eyes holding zero warmth, my body felt leaden. I couldn't even muster courage to lift my hand.
"Leave, Mr. Wentworth. Don't make me take away even the last bit of dignity I want to leave you with."
Ivy's voice stayed soft.
I bit down hard on my back teeth, fists clenched tight. Hundreds of responses flashed through my mind. Finally, I just turned around pathetically and pushed open that door.
The glass door swung shut in my face.
I stood in Brooklyn's bitter wind. Next second, that warm orange light inside—under my gaze—mercilessly went dark.
The entire world plunged into complete darkness.