Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Ivy
When the clock hit seven-thirty, I unlocked the shop door.
The door swung open, but the second I saw who was sitting outside, I stumbled back, eyes going wide. "Damian? What the hell are you doing here?"
Damian scrambled to his feet, brushing dust off his pants, voice tight with nerves. "Ivy, I came to apologize."
I looked him up and down—his clothes were wrinkled to hell, stubble shadowing his jaw. Christ, had he been here all night?
Wait. What did he just say? Apologize? After I'd told him to get lost, he was here apologizing?
My fingers tightened on the door handle. I didn't buy it. "Mr. Wentworth, if this apology is just more of the same bullshit, don't waste your breath. Or my morning."
"No, Ivy." He cut me off fast.
"I know sorry doesn't cut it. Because I didn't just screw up once.
These two years, you bent over backward for me.
You memorized what I liked, what I hated, when I ate, what settled my stomach.
You changed your clothes, your habits, even the way you talked—just to fit into my life.
And I never once stopped to think why you had to change so much. I just figured it was... expected."
The words tumbled out in a rush, barely a breath between them, his voice raw in a way I'd never heard.
I pressed my lips together. Pretty words. Anyone could say pretty words. They didn't mean a damn thing.
He tugged at the hem of his shirt, eyes locked on mine, and kept going.
"When you threw that birthday party for me, I never asked how much work you put into it.
When Cecilia moved into the estate, I didn't bother discussing it with you first. She crossed your boundaries over and over, and I saw it—I did—but I kept thinking you should be more gracious, more mature.
Even when you were at your lowest, I told you not to test my patience with jealousy.
Looking back now, I don't even know how you put up with me. I was such a bastard."
I sucked in a breath. That old hurt flared up again. Damian, you bastard.
"I always thought you'd never leave. You loved me so much—so no matter what I did, you'd be there at the estate, waiting.
I treated your love like it was some infinite resource.
Used it to prove that no matter how cold I was, you'd never really go.
" He let out a bitter laugh. "There's no bigger fool in the world than me. "
I stood frozen. Fool? Was he talking about himself?
This was the first time in two years I'd heard Damian Wentworth talk about himself with anything close to self-loathing.
Damian raked a hand through his hair, eyes burning into mine.
"I'll admit, when I married you, part of it was spite.
Running from the past. But that's no excuse for hurting you.
I made you doubt us. I called you immature, told you that you didn't understand what being Mrs. Wentworth meant.
But I was the immature one. I demanded you be the perfect Mrs. Wentworth without ever learning how to be a decent husband. "
I stood there, forcing down the emotions his words stirred up, keeping my face cold. "So what? You say all this, and I'm supposed to forgive you?"
Damian shook his head, something complicated crossing his face.
"I'm not here begging for forgiveness. That wouldn't be fair to you.
I just wanted you to know—all those times you doubted yourself, thought you weren't good enough?
The problem was never you. It was me. I'm sorry.
I know it's not enough. But I owe you that much. "
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Words were cheap. Always had been. The old Damian had hurt me again and again. I couldn't just pretend those wounds didn't exist because he'd finally figured out how to apologize. But... damn it. Something in my chest shifted. Just a little.
"I heard your apology. But I'm not coming back to you just because you finally learned how to say the right things." I looked away, feeling awkward.
"I know." His answer came fast. That threw me.
Damian's voice dropped. "That's not why I came."
"Then what do you want?"
He paused. Looked at me carefully. "To see if there's anything I can do."
I frowned. "I don't need anything." The second I said it, regret twisted in my gut. Did I really want this man out of my life for good?
"I know." He nodded. "So I won't get in your way."
And then he actually stepped back.
I watched him for a few seconds. Finally turned and went inside.
The door didn't quite close. Damian stood outside for a moment. Then he slipped in quietly and sat in the farthest corner.
His apology left me off-balance, unsure how to act around him. So I let him stay.
Once he realized I wasn't kicking him out, he jumped in whenever something heavy needed moving or trash needed taking out. He'd finish and retreat right back to his corner without a word.
"Hi, are you making the mini muffins today?" I'd just started cleaning the counter when a customer walked in.
"Sorry, honey, I have to close early today. Something came up." I gave her an apologetic smile. "But we have lemon tarts—twenty percent off."
"Works for me. I'll take four."
Damian, wiping down the espresso machine, froze at that. He looked over at me, uncertain.
"Ivy, you're closing now?"
I kept working and didn't turn around. "Mr. Wentworth, you can leave now. I have an errand to run this afternoon."
Damian set down his cloth, inching forward shamelessly, testing the waters.
"Ivy, where are you going? Can I drive you?"
I wasn't planning on telling him. But... if I was buying those things... whatever. He already knew anyway.
"Baby store. Picking up clothes and supplies for the baby."
At the word "baby," Damian's eyes flickered, his breathing quickened. He practically burst out, "Can I come with you?"
"You?"
"Yeah, Ivy, I'm the father. I have a responsibility. Even if you still want to divorce me, make me your ex-husband—I want to do something for our baby. Please."
I rolled my eyes. Was this the same high-and-mighty Wentworth CEO? Where the hell did he learn to be this shameless?
Maybe it was the raw hope in his eyes. Maybe it was seeing him drop every shred of his usual pride. Either way, I found myself not entirely hating the idea.
"Fine. Whatever." I glanced away. "If you're coming, keep up."
"Yes! I'll drive!"
Twenty minutes later, inside the baby superstore. God, looking at all these tiny clothes that would soon be on my baby—my heart felt as soft as the fabric.
And Damian...
"Ivy, not this one—the tag's on the inside, it'll rub the baby's neck."
"This cotton blanket's thread count is too low. Not soft enough. I'll have Charlie order organic long-staple cotton from that estate in Scotland..."
I rubbed my temples. "Damian, most people don't obsess over blanket specs."
I'd expected someone like Damian—who probably couldn't even identify his suit fabrics—to stand around like a statue in a place like this. Instead, he was like a chattering peacock.
"No, Ivy." Damian was dead serious. "For the baby, we need to be careful. Look at this bottle material..."
I rolled my eyes and pushed the cart past him toward the strollers.
When I glanced back, Damian was bent slightly at the waist, squinting at shelves, pulling out his phone to search something.
Watching him hold a pair of tiny knitted baby socks, his eyes full of tender, careful affection—I stood there as a thought cut through me.
"Damian." I walked over and pressed my hand over his as he picked through cotton blankets.
He turned, eyes bright. "What? Are you tired? Let's sit over—"
"Is this act—the groveling, the attentiveness—because you finally realized you screwed up, or because you want this baby?" I locked eyes with him, my voice shaking slightly as all the doubts and hurt surged up. "Did you only decide our dead marriage was worth saving because I got pregnant?"
The air between the shelves stilled.
Damian looked like he'd been stabbed. His face went white. He dropped what he was holding and grabbed my hand. "No! God, no, Ivy! I love you whether or not there's a baby!"
He looked panicked, words tumbling out. "I figured out how I felt before I even knew you were pregnant...
I swear, even if you never let me see this kid, I'd still be on my knees outside your place in Brooklyn begging you to come back.
I love you, Ivy. Only you. This baby is a gift I don't deserve. But you're everything."
His voice rose, drawing stares from other shoppers. I ducked toward a shelf, embarrassed, but warmth spread through my chest.
I turned away, voice flat. "We got enough clothes. Let's go."
I wasn't ready to let him think his apology was enough.
Damian's face fell, but he rallied quickly and went to check out.
He carried all the bags, hovering protectively as we left. He drove like the road was made of glass, slowing for every tiny bump.
When the car finally stopped outside my building, he rushed around to open my door, hauled all the baby stuff upstairs, and set everything neatly in the entryway.
"Ivy, get some rest. I'll come back tomorrow to help." He stood outside the door, giving me a hopeful, pleading smile, then gently closed the door for me.
After he left, I leaned against the door, feeling my heartbeat quicken.
Ivy, you're pathetic.
Over the next few days, Damian and I found a rhythm at the shop.
He kept his word. Didn't push me to forgive him. Just quietly helped with tedious tasks, asking what I wanted first—so different from his old urgency.
Was this even the same Damian?
A few times when Lucas stopped by, Damian actually nodded hello. His face stayed tight, but at least he wasn't glaring daggers anymore.
"Damian, maybe you should head out early."
I stood by the window watching the sudden downpour hammer the glass.
Rain slammed into the windows like fists. The whole block turned damp and cold in seconds.
"I'm good. My place is close anyway. Plus—I'm not done with these files." Damian flashed me a reassuring smile.