Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Damian
The hangover and the ache from last night's intensity spread through my limbs.
I rubbed my throbbing temples and sat up from the ancient fabric couch in the apartment living room—too narrow for my long legs to stretch out.
My height made me look ridiculous, knees tucked up, feet perched awkwardly on the armrest.
Ivy's sweet scent still lingered at my nose. Remembering last night's frenzy made my lower abdomen tighten again.
Because of her pregnancy, even though I was hard as hell, I'd forced myself to hold back. I'd used my mouth instead, careful, gentle.
When she trembled and collapsed against me, I'd felt this massive surge of satisfaction. But minutes later, Ivy pulled away.
She led me upstairs, let me shower, then tossed me a blanket and pointed coolly toward the living room. "Sleep on the couch, Damian."
I stood there holding that blanket for several seconds, stunned. With my looks and my name, women had always been the ones trying to climb into my bed. First time in my life I'd been intimate with someone and didn't even qualify for a spot beside her.
But I took it silently. Told myself maybe she wasn't ready to start over. I couldn't rush her. At least she'd let me stay the night, right?
Clinging to that thought, I'd slept like the dead. When I opened my eyes again, sunlight leaked through the curtain gaps.
Sounds from the kitchen—bacon sizzling, coffee brewing.
I padded over barefoot and leaned against the doorframe.
Sunlight fell across Ivy. She wore nothing but a loose white shirt—mine from last night, washed and dried.
The hem barely covered the tops of her thighs, exposing legs so pale in the morning light they almost glowed.
She'd rolled the sleeves clumsily twice, revealing slender wrists.
Her back was to me, head tilted down, focused on arranging freshly fried eggs on toast.
For a second, I thought we'd gone back two years—to some newlywed morning when she'd worn my shirt just like this, making me breakfast in the sunlight.
"You're up?" Ivy must've heard my breathing. She turned around. The instant our eyes met—hers catching my burning gaze—a flicker of discomfort crossed her face. Then she looked away and stiffly shoved a plate of golden toast into my hands.
"Ivy, about last night..." I started softly, trying to catch any softening in her eyes.
"Damian, last night was an accident." She didn't even let me finish. "It doesn't mean anything. We're not back together. I haven't forgiven you. It was just—you know, two adults who understand each other."
My heart plummeted. Overwhelming sadness and bitterness swallowed me whole. What was this? Some disposable one-night stand? Had I become her tool for relieving physical pressure?
I wanted to ask her. But I opened my mouth and realized I was too chickenshit to demand an answer. I was terrified. If I pushed, she'd reject me outright in the cruelest terms possible, and I'd lose even this—the chance to be near her.
"So if you need other... services again, you can call me next time too." I choked that out after a long pause. The safest reply I could manage.
Who cared if I was her sex toy? Right now, I wasn't passing up any opportunity to get close to Ivy.
Ivy froze. Like I'd startled her. Didn't exactly fit my usual character. I let out a low laugh, staring straight into her eyes, voice heavy with suggestion. "Any service. Anytime. I have no limits."
Ivy quickly looked away. Her answer came out muffled. "We'll see. Eat breakfast first."
The morning table was weirdly quiet.
I mechanically chopped the bacon on my plate into bits with my fork, eyes constantly drifting toward her, trying to find even the tiniest trace of last night's warmth in the way her fingers gripped her coffee cup.
A sharp ringtone shattered the silence.
I pulled out my phone. The name on the screen made my brow lock tight—Caden, Wentworth Group's chief legal counsel.
I hit answer. Before I could speak, Caden's panicked voice blasted through.
"Mr. Wentworth! We've got a problem. Early this morning, the Commerce Department and FBI received a formal complaint alleging our trust funds are involved in major overseas money laundering and fraudulent capital injection!
All overseas accounts have been temporarily frozen.
The board's in chaos. You need to be here today for emergency meetings! "
"What?"
My grip on the phone tightened instantly.
Money laundering? Formal complaint? Wentworth Group's financial system was the tightest in New York. How the hell could there be such a fatal, amateur-level hole in our offshore trusts?
I instinctively looked up at Ivy sitting across from me.
Last night we'd finally made progress. If I left this morning, would she misunderstand?
"Damian, go deal with your work."
Ivy didn't even lift her head. She kept cutting her bacon. She'd obviously heard what was on my phone. But right now, her calm hurt worse than her coldness.
"Ivy, I—"
I took a deep breath, set down the phone, and reached urgently across the table for her hand resting at the edge. But she naturally shifted, dodging me with the motion of grabbing a napkin to wipe her hands.
My hand hung awkwardly in midair. Finally, I let it fall back, clenched into a fist.
"Ivy, I promise I'll handle this as fast as possible. I'll be back soon. This is a big mess, but you trust me, right?" I braced both hands on the table, practically begging her for reassurance.
Ivy kept her head down, scooping bright red raspberry jam from a jar, spreading it slowly and evenly across the toasted bread.
"You don't need to promise me anything, Damian."
She tugged at the corner of her mouth, almost mocking herself.
"We don't have any employment relationship.
There's really... nothing here that needs Damian Wentworth.
Manhattan's where you're needed—I mean that.
Plus, Lucas is coming this afternoon to help with the shop.
All the orders are on track. Whether you're here or not doesn't really affect anything. "
Then she took a small bite of the jam-covered toast. My chest felt like someone had punched it. Bitterness spread down my throat.
But what right did I have to demand anything from her? I'd used similar words before, pushing her away from my side again and again. Turned out not being needed by the person you love—it hurt like hell.
Before I left, I couldn't help myself. I went back downstairs to the shop's back kitchen.
Ivy had changed into that clean beige apron. She stood at the prep counter, both hands working hard, kneading a big ball of freshly risen dough.
"Ivy." I stood in the doorway, hesitantly calling her name.
"Yeah?" She didn't even pause her kneading. Just made a faint sound of acknowledgment.
"Two days max. Once I handle things in Manhattan, I'll definitely be back in two days." I stood there, greedily drinking in the sight of her back.
"Mm-hmm."
She hummed lightly without looking up, continuing her work.
God, I wished she'd turn around. Even if she just said "be safe" or a cold "I know," it would fill this hollow space inside me.
But there was nothing. In the end, I turned and walked out, jaw clenched.
On the drive back to Manhattan, I floored it. The engine's roar echoed my inner turmoil, carrying me back to that world of ice and power.
"Mr. Wentworth, this complaint is extremely professional. All the internal data structures and offshore trust flows match up perfectly. This was definitely done by someone who understands the company's core finances." In the conference room, Caden briefed me item by item.
The CFO, audit team, and over twenty senior attorneys sat around the long table, conducting high-intensity vulnerability assessments. But I couldn't concentrate. My mind kept circling back to Ivy's cold figure when I'd left.
My other phone suddenly buzzed.
"Damian, I heard you've been staying in Brooklyn lately.
Has Ivy agreed to let you get close?" Aunt Eleanor's voice carried a hint of surprise.
"That's wonderful! Looks like you listened to me.
But I don't care how many acquisitions you're handling in Manhattan—don't neglect her again. You must bring Ivy back!"
I stood and walked to the partition, brow furrowed. "Aunt, I can handle things at the company, but Ivy hasn't forgiven me. She won't tell me anything..."
"Where's that sharp business brain of yours?" My aunt sighed in exasperation. "Ivy's sensitive. She buries all her hurt inside. What you're doing now is good—start with daily life. She's easily moved by details. Of course, you have to be genuine with her."
"I will be." I already was. And I was certain I'd keep doing it.
My aunt paused. Her tone turned cold and serious. "Also, legal dug up something interesting in Europe. That Cecilia—her overseas activity lately has been excessive. I heard about Wentworth Group's situation and looked into it. She seems connected to some bankrupt French mob trusts. Watch yourself."
"Understood." My eyes darkened. Cecilia. If this leak was tied to her, I'd make her regret ever showing her face again.
Ten p.m. Top floor of Wentworth headquarters. The CEO's office still blazed with light.
I yanked off my tie, rubbing my temples that felt ready to explode, finally kicking out the top-tier legal and compliance officers who'd flown in overnight from Wall Street and London.
After over ten hours of intensive investigation, we'd plugged the overseas asset leak. What remained was shoring up the evidence chain. Because I wanted to see Ivy sooner, I'd pushed myself to maximum efficiency.
Once it was quiet, Ivy flooded my mind.
I collapsed into the massive executive chair, pulled out my phone, stared disappointedly at the empty message screen. But quickly I adjusted. Carefully, almost nervously, I sent a text. "I'm done for today. Are you asleep?"
Time crawled.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
The phone screen stayed dark. For the past two years, she'd always texted back instantly. Now every second of waiting felt like torture.
Just as I was about to set the phone down, resigned that she wouldn't respond tonight, the screen lit up faintly.
Ivy: Not yet.
Cold. No warmth at all.
But I was like a kid who'd just gotten candy. I called her immediately. It rang three times. She picked up.
"Damian?" Her voice came through tired.
"It's me." I didn't know what to say.
"What is it, Damian?" Her voice traveled through the current, still brief.
"Nothing... just wanted to hear your voice." I softened my tone, greedily soaking up any sound from her end. "How was your day? Shop busy? Are you feeling okay?"
"Fine. Business was good. The supplier delivered this afternoon. Lucas happened to be at the shop, so he helped me carry two cases of the heaviest flour." On the other end, Ivy turned a page in a book, a faint smile in her voice.
Lucas.
Fuck! I'd been away from Manhattan less than twenty-four hours and that bastard was already back sniffing around Ivy. Those two cases of flour—I'd promised to come back and help her move the heavy stuff.
I couldn't keep my promise because of work, and that guy had taken my place. Spent the whole afternoon with her.
"Damian, I'm tired. I want to sleep." Ivy didn't notice my heavy breathing. She just yawned, exhausted, cutting off the conversation.
"Oh. Good night."
The call ended.
I stayed frozen, holding the phone, staring at the now-black screen.
Screw the board. Screw the trusts. Screw restraint and boundaries. A panic I'd never felt before—nearly deranged—swallowed me whole in an instant.
If I stayed in Manhattan today for these billion-dollar assets, would that broke Brooklyn kid be lying on what should be my couch tomorrow?
I shot to my feet, shoving the expensive leather chair aside. Didn't even grab my coat. Just stormed out of the CEO's office.
In that moment, I was done ignoring what my heart wanted. Even if Ivy rejected me, I had to see her. Just one look.
I loved her. I couldn't live without her.
Tonight, no matter what happened, I had to get back to that Brooklyn street corner. Right now.