Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Ivy & Damian
Ivy
I stood alone behind the bakery counter, cloth in hand, polishing the marble surface until it gleamed. But I wasn't really there. My body moved on autopilot, wiping the same spot over and over.
Last night kept replaying in my head. The moment Damian's body pressed against mine—I couldn't resist. I didn't want to resist. I just wanted him closer. Closer.
After the pleasure faded, reality crashed back. I hated myself. What the hell was I doing? Saying I needed distance while my body screamed for him.
Panic sent me pushing him away again, hiding behind cold indifference. I couldn't fall back into that trap—becoming the woman who hung on his every glance, lost in him completely. That marriage had stripped me of too much dignity. Even now, remembering how pathetic I'd been made me sick.
But I couldn't deny it either. The changes Damian had made lately were shaking everything I thought I'd decided.
I hadn't even called my lawyer to check on the divorce papers.
The mess in my head got so bad I closed the shop an hour early.
The apartment was quiet except for the humidifier's steady hiss. After a hot shower, I collapsed onto the couch, drained. My hand drifted to my stomach, fingers tracing the small swell beneath my shirt.
The baby shifted. My heart melted.
"Is it the pregnancy?" I muttered, half-mocking myself. Maybe the hormones were making me sensitive. Weak. Maybe that's why I was starting to feel something dangerous for that selfish bastard again.
Pull yourself together, Ivy. You can do this.
I shoved those messy feelings down and dragged myself to bed.
Sleep didn't come easy. Damian haunted my dreams. When I woke up, I caught myself glancing at the couch, expecting him there.
Bad sign. I was missing him. Missing the Damian who'd spent entire days at the bakery, helping however he could.
Every alarm in my head was screaming. But worrying too much wasn't good for the baby either.
At least I'd rested enough to open the shop with something like energy.
Morning air smelled like rain and earth. I tied on my apron and stood at the familiar espresso machine, running through my routine.
Beans out. Machine on. I grabbed two clean cups from the shelf and set them on the counter. The clink of porcelain froze me.
Two cups.
Damian had left yesterday. Gone back to Manhattan.
He wasn't coming today.
Right now, he was probably settling into that fancy top-floor office at Wentworth Tower.
"Ivy, morning! Perfect timing, huh?"
The bell chimed. Lucas pushed through the door carrying fresh white daisies still wet with dew.
He held them up with a grin, then walked over and arranged them carefully in the vase on the counter. The space looked less empty now.
Lucas dusted off his hands and glanced around. His eyes landed on the corner where Damian usually sat.
"Hey... Damian's not here today?"
My fingers tightened on the portafilter. I slipped the extra cup back under the counter. "He went back to Manhattan. Something urgent at the company."
"Oh. Right..." Lucas nodded slowly, about to say more.
"Actually, Lucas," I cut in quickly, "the supplier's dropping off rye flour this afternoon for the community fair next week. Two bags. I'll need help moving them."
"No problem! Got it covered."
Looking at his easy smile, I forced that gray-suited figure out of my head.
By nine that night, pregnancy exhaustion mixed with a day of scattered thoughts knocked me out. I closed up early.
Just as I collapsed into bed, my phone buzzed on the pillow.
Damian.
Joy hit me so fast I didn't recognize it. I sat up and answered.
"Ivy..."
Hearing his voice made me realize how much I'd missed him. Terrifying.
"How was your day?"
The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
"Ivy, are you worried about me?" His voice lit up.
I swallowed the urge to hang up. "No. Just asking."
He sounded exhausted. Probably worked straight through.
"I know, Ivy." He laughed. "I'm not that tired. What matters is... I miss you too."
My face burned. "Okay. Get some rest."
I hung up fast. Because the next second, I might have asked when he was coming back.
But after hanging up, I couldn't sleep.
My brain wouldn't shut off. I buried my face in the sheets, chest heavy, suffocating.
Two a.m. The doorbell downstairs shattered the silence.
I bolted upright, heart slamming. In this neighborhood, a doorbell at two in the morning meant trouble.
I threw on a cardigan, grabbed the baseball bat from behind the door, and crept downstairs. I peeked out.
The bat clattered to the floor.
Damian stood outside.
His expensive suit was wrinkled, hair falling in his eyes, bloodshot gaze exhausted. But he clutched a shopping bag from some high-end Manhattan store.
I stared. Two seconds later, I fumbled with the locks and yanked the door open.
Cold air rushed in, bringing cigarette smoke and the chill of a Manhattan night.
This man had clearly driven straight here the second his meeting ended. Didn't even change.
Something loosened in my chest without permission.
"Come inside."
I stepped aside.
Damian took a deep breath and walked in. He stood awkwardly on the entryway rug and set the bag on the side table. "Got you some supplements. Picked them up on the way."
I walked to the kitchen and poured him water.
His fingers were stiff from gripping the wheel too long. I sighed. "You said two days when you left yesterday."
He drained the glass in one gulp, throat working. Then he looked at me and smiled. "I crammed two days of board meetings into one, Ella."
He paused, stepped back—like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for me. His voice dropped. "I just wanted to let you know I'm back. I'm staying nearby. So you don't worry. I'll... I'll go now."
He looked at me once, long and deep, then turned to leave.
Cold wind swept in from the hallway, lifting the edge of his shirt. I stood in the warm room watching his tall figure retreat, lonely and careful in a way I'd never seen before. My hands trembled beneath my robe.
I didn't ask him to stay.
Not yet, Ivy. Not yet.
Damian
After leaving Ivy's place at two in the morning, I collapsed into my empty bed and slept less than three hours.
The pull toward her woke me early. After last night's desperate drive, I finally understood myself. I couldn't live without Ivy. I wanted to be near her. Even if it cost me everything.
When I pushed through the bakery door, Ivy was alone in her apron, rushing back and forth. She'd landed another big order—not one I'd arranged, but a real client won by her talent. Made me realize she'd be fine without me. The bakery would thrive either way.
But Lucas and Penny were both out, so she was handling everything from baking to decorating.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her loose shirt clung to the curve of her belly.
I'd never understood food prep. The help I'd given before was just muscle work. Honestly, I could analyze complex merger data all day, but put me in front of precision handwork, and my brain shut down.
Still, watching Ivy struggle, I couldn't just stand there. I pushed through the curtain.
"Ivy, let me help. Just... you'll have to teach me."
She stopped reaching for a measuring cup and looked at me, surprised. "You? What can you do?"
"Anything. As long as you show me."
She raised an eyebrow. After a pause, she sighed and pulled a clean black canvas apron from a hook.
I reached for it, but she stepped closer instead.
She shook it out, stood on her toes, and looped it over my head. Then she moved behind me, soft hands reaching for the ties.
I turned to stone. Stopped breathing.
Her fingers brushed my lower back through the shirt while fumbling for the strings. That touch—like an electric current straight up my spine.
She didn't pull away. Just kept working the knot, slow and deliberate. I didn't dare move. Even a breath might shatter this.
The air smelled like malt and her shampoo. I wanted this moment to last forever.
When she stepped back, I finally breathed.
"Start with basics, Damian. Whip this heavy cream for me. Two kilos."
She cleared her throat, pushed a bowl of liquid cream in front of me, and pressed the electric mixer handle into my palm.
"Easy."
I'd watched her do this a hundred times. I grabbed the mixer confidently, thumb on the button, and cranked it straight to high.
The motor screamed. Before I could react, the metal beaters slammed into the steel bowl. Two kilos of cream exploded into a blizzard, flying everywhere—my face, my gray cashmere sweater, the freshly painted walls.
"Damn it! How do I turn this thing off?"
I panicked, trying to find the switch, but my hands were too slick with cream. The more I struggled, the worse it got.
White cream everywhere. My face, my nose, my hair. Even Ivy's clean apron got splattered.
"Shit!" I swore.
Bright laughter burst out behind me.
I wiped cream off my face and turned. Ivy was doubled over against the shelf, clutching her stomach, eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming.
She was laughing so hard she could barely stand.
Her eyes curved into crescents—no trace of the cold distance I'd feared.
In two years, she'd never laughed like this around me.
Okay. Okay. If Ivy's happy, I'm happy.
Seeing her smile melted my embarrassment instantly.
"Stop laughing, Ivy... I swear I didn't mean to."
"Damian, you start whipping cream on low speed. You went full throttle like you were fighting it."
Still laughing, she walked over and snatched the mixer away. She grabbed some paper towels, stood on her toes—almost annoyed—and scrubbed the white mess off my face and forehead. I grinned through the rough wiping, soaking up every second of this painful sweetness.
"Go grab that white jar and pour the flour into the big ceramic bowl. We're starting over on the cookie dough."
I stared at two identical white jars. I picked them up, comparing carefully. The powder in the left one looked finer. Had to be that one.
I scooped three big spoonfuls into the bowl where Ivy had already measured the butter, then stirred it with the spatula, feeling pretty proud of myself.
"Damian! What are you doing?"
Ivy rushed over, freshly washed hands freezing mid-air when she saw the bowl. The dough was turning into a sticky, sickly sweet glob.
She ripped the spatula from my hand. "You dumped powdered sugar in instead of flour! That's decorating sugar! Damian Wentworth, you just wasted half a pound of premium New Zealand cultured butter!"
"I... they looked the same..."
I shrank back, head down like a kid caught breaking something.
"Out! Go back to Manhattan! You're making everything worse!"
Ivy shoved me aside, grumbling, but her hands moved efficiently—dumping the ruined dough, pulling out the scale, butter, and actual flour. Starting over.
I didn't leave. Just stood in the corner watching her work with total focus. A dull ache spread through my chest.
Maybe for those two years, this was her life. Quietly managing every little thing.
And I'd taken it all for granted. Assumed housework was nothing compared to my job. Anyone could do it.
Today I realized I couldn't even whip cream correctly. Couldn't tell sugar from flour. Couldn't make basic cookie dough without destroying it.
That's when it hit me how wrong I'd been.
These "little things" I'd dismissed for two years—every single step required patience, time, care. And love. Deep love for this home.
And I'd never once asked if she was tired. Worse, I'd looked down on her with arrogance and pushed away the girl who'd given me everything.
"Stop spacing out. Bring the baking sheet over and roll these into balls."
Ivy's voice pulled me back. She'd already remade the dough. She glanced at me—annoyed, but resigned.
"Okay."
I hurried over, carefully and clumsily pinching off pieces of soft dough and rolling them in my palms.
Warm light bounced off the steel counter, casting gentle shadows.
I stood beside her. My shadow swallowed her whole.
Watching her measure ingredients with quiet focus, something swelled in my chest. Happiness I couldn't name.
I'm an idiot. The "home" I'd chased for thirty years on Wall Street and at the estate had been right here. In all those moments I never valued, I'd fallen for this girl without even knowing it.
"Why are you smiling like that?"
Ivy's voice broke through.
I looked at her, smile widening. "I just realized I'm an idiot."
An idiot who only understood what he had after losing it. An idiot who almost threw away something priceless.
Ivy tilted her head, looking mildly disgusted. "You are. I've never met anyone who can't tell sugar from flour. Do you have any idea how much you cost me?"
I pressed my lips together, fighting a grin. "Sorry. My fault. I promise it won't happen again."
God, she's adorable. Looking at her puffed-up face, I swear I'd give her every beautiful thing in the world.
I wanted this moment to last forever.