Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ivy
Brooklyn welcomed its gentlest sunny day of the year in the week since I'd gotten out of the hospital. Sunlight poured through the clean glass windows of the corner café, chasing away the gloom of the past few days.
Things between Damian and me had settled into an unspoken thaw.
Truth was, the moment I saw him step in front of me that night, I'd already stopped wanting to blame him. He'd been willing to risk his life for me... All that resentment and anger I'd been carrying suddenly didn't seem to matter anymore.
After I woke up, he dropped everything. Stayed by my hospital bed, wouldn't leave. When the nurse came to change my dressing, he watched that needle like a hawk, terrified they'd hurt me. That careful, anxious version of him was nothing like the ruthless Damian I knew.
I never thought the workaholic Damian would camp out in a hospital for that long. He even silenced his phone, shut out all those emails and calls outside the room.
Once my vitals checked out and I got back to the café, he started coming even more often.
He fixed that wobbly chair I'd been meaning to deal with and replaced the dim light in the back kitchen. He even remembered I'd mentioned liking the mint plant on the windowsill—brought me a new one the next day. These small acts of tenderness seeped into the crack between us like sunlight.
I had to admit, his presence stirred something secretly hopeful in me.
I kept warning myself not to fall, but day by day, through all that quiet protection, I realized I'd started craving this—enjoying the steady peace of having him around.
Ivy, you're pathetic.
I patted my flushed cheeks, tied on a clean beige apron, arranged the fresh macarons in the display case, then checked my watch with a flutter of anticipation.
Right on schedule.
The bell above the door chimed its crisp "ding."
Damian walked in. Today he wore a low-key oatmeal cashmere sweater. Everything about him looked clean, put-together. I was used to it by now. Had to say, even without the three-piece suit, he was still devastatingly handsome.
"Ivy, feeling okay today?" He set his bag in his usual corner spot, then came to the counter.
"Great today, really." I smiled and slid him his regular Americano. "Just ground it. Perfect temperature."
He took the cup, his fingertips grazing my hand.
"Thanks." He carried the coffee back to his seat, but the warmth of his touch lingered on my skin.
"Hey, got any bagels today?" A customer pushed through the door.
"Sure do, honey. What flavor?" I pulled my mind back and turned to help the new customer.
Business officially open for the day. Lately, the café had been doing surprisingly well, revenue climbing, my mood brightening right along with it.
At this rate, I'd be able to open a second location soon. I ran the register and calculated in my head.
All day I hustled through endless small tasks, while Damian sat in that corner, quietly drinking his coffee. He seemed not to watch me, but every time I needed help, he appeared right when I needed him.
Carrying something heavy, reaching a high shelf—a steady hand always extended, handling it for me.
Near evening, the front cleared out. I leaned against the counter to catch my breath.
A hand reached over. Damian passed me a cup of warm milk. "Rest. I'll handle cleanup."
I rubbed my aching back and took the milk with a nod.
Watching him roll up his sleeves and wipe down the counter, I sipped the warm milk, sweetness spreading from my tongue to somewhere deeper. I felt suddenly dazed—this scene gave me the illusion of "home." I shook my head quickly, pushing away that temporarily unrealistic thought.
"Ivy?"
"Yeah?" I looked up, met his concerned gaze.
"I finished cleaning up, and you..." His expression turned oddly hesitant, eyes holding a careful kind of hope. "This weekend... are you free? I want to take you somewhere."
My fingers paused on the edge of a receipt by the register. That habitual wariness flared an instant alarm in my head.
This weekend?
I repeated the words, staring at the milk residue on the cup rim. Didn't answer right away.
He rarely asked me out. Last time he'd dragged me to some gala—where I couldn't fit into his world and spent the whole night awkwardly standing in corners. After that, I'd avoided appearing with him in public.
We'd been getting along lately, sure. But that didn't mean I wanted to step back into that kind of relationship.
"But the new baker still isn't familiar with the routine..."
But when I looked up and caught that almost fragile vulnerability deep in his eyes, the polite excuses on my tongue stuck in my throat. The image of him standing in front of me, covered in blood, flashed through my mind. I sighed, my tone softening involuntarily.
"Saturday afternoon then. After two. Lucas and Penny can handle the café."
Whatever. Even if it's another gala, I owe him this much for saving me. Though... if it really is that, there's no reason for us to keep tangling ourselves up.
In that instant, Damian's eyes lit up like kindled stars. He tried to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth, but a trace of it leaked through. "Okay. Saturday, two o'clock. I'll pick you up."
As he left, his steps were visibly light, like he was walking on clouds. Watching his back, I suddenly felt the weekend might not be so bad after all.
Something told me Damian was different now. He wouldn't pull that kind of thing again.
Over the next few days, even the air seemed sweeter. Penny asked why I'd been smiling so much lately. I just smiled and shook my head, earning a playful punch from her.
Saturday at two-thirty, Damian pulled up in the Rolls-Royce right on time.
"We're taking this today?" I frowned. These business cars always triggered bad memories.
"Yeah, is it uncomfortable? Want me to switch cars?" Damian's hand paused on the door.
"No need. This one's fine." I shook my head and slid into the passenger seat. The interior was clean, no offensive cologne smell.
But I stayed tense the whole ride. This car? Where's he taking me? Oh no, am I really about to be stuffed into another restrictive couture gown for some exclusive private club?
Or maybe he just wanted a top-tier Michelin meal. I didn't love those places, but it beat the pretentious scene. Just thinking about those intoxicating Manhattan venues made my stomach turn.
But against all my expectations, the car didn't cross the East River toward Midtown. Instead, we pulled into a neighborhood weekend market far from Manhattan's chaos, full of everyday life.
No champagne or flashbulbs here. The air smelled of earth, handmade leather, and the rich sweetness of funnel cakes.
Warm sunlight poured down. At the market's corner, an old man in a worn jacket sat on an overturned crate, playing an accordion. A cheerful folk tune filled the air with warmth.
The streets lined both sides with all kinds of humble stalls—some selling rough handmade silver jewelry, others dried flowers wrapped in old newspaper.
My eyes widened. This place is amazing!
"Here, careful, it's hot, Ivy."
Damian took a slice of pizza from a white-haired old woman at a roadside stand, carefully wrapped it in a paper bag, and handed it to me.
"Damian, how did you find this place?" I took the pizza, looking around in wonder.
He smiled, afternoon light reflected in his eyes. "Last time you said you didn't like those places. I thought you might like this. As for how I found it—secret."
I bit into the pizza, its fragrance melting on my tongue, something inside me softening too.
We wandered aimlessly.
Today he wore just a plain gray cashmere sweater. Gone was that Wall Street edge—he looked like the most ordinary husband, patiently accompanying me through every unremarkable stall.
Passing a handmade pottery stand, my steps faltered.
An irregular pale green ceramic cup, its surface bearing the imperfections of handcrafting.
That shade of green caught my eye instantly.
I picked it up, ran my fingers along the textured bottom, but seeing the thirty-five-dollar price tag and thinking of my studio apartment already crammed with baking tools, I sighed with some reluctance and set it back down.
"Like it?" Damian asked quietly.
"The color's pretty special."
I snapped out of it, returned the cup, forced a smile, and kept walking. Damian said nothing, just glanced thoughtfully at that pale green cup before following me.
At the market's end, I was drawn to a pure hand-knit cream-white wool scarf.
"Miss, I wove this myself on a hand shuttle loom. Only one like it in all of New York," the vendor said with a smile.
"How much?" I couldn't stop touching the soft fabric.
"Seventy dollars."
I bit my lip. Expensive, but it would be so warm in winter.
Just as I reached for my wallet, long-fingered hands beat me to it, holding out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
"Keep the change, thanks," Damian said softly. He took the scarf and, under the vendor's teasing remarks, gently wrapped it around my neck, loop by loop, still warm from the sun.
The scarf was soft, burying half my face. I breathed in its dry wool scent, watching his ears turn red from being so close, feeling my own face heat up too.
We covered the whole street, ending up at the food stalls.
"What do you want for dinner?" He turned, eyes landing on a steaming cart nearby.
"Hmm..." I touched my stomach. "Kind of craving that cheese beef sandwich from near my place, but not sure if anywhere here does it right."
Damian's eyes suddenly brightened. "Ivy, how about we go to Queens for dinner tonight!"
"Huh." I looked at him, surprised. "Now?"
"Yeah. And I'd like to see where you once lived."
Queens.
My old neighborhood. That place holding all my ordinary yet cleanest childhood memories—the low-income housing complex.
I froze for half a second, seeing that hope in his eyes, then smiled. "Okay!"
Two years ago, when we married, he was the high-and-mighty Wentworth heir, my parents just ordinary retired workers from Queens. In those two years at the estate, aside from meeting them once out of politeness at the wedding, he'd never shown the slightest interest in my past, where I grew up.
And now he wanted to see where I'd lived.
We drove east. When the wheels hit Queens' somewhat cracked concrete roads, I felt disoriented.
After marrying Damian, I rarely came back—too busy handling estate affairs and Damian's complicated social obligations. Everything that happened recently, except the pregnancy, I hadn't mentioned to my parents. Didn't want them worrying. Wanted to wait until everything settled before explaining.
Damian parked the car—that symbol of class and privilege in Manhattan—casually beside a roadside dumpster. We walked hand in hand like the most ordinary couple in this old neighborhood, turning down streets covered in fallen sycamore leaves all afternoon.
He patiently went with me to the old community library I'd frequented as a kid, listening to me ramble about battling the clerk to save a few bucks on membership fees.
We stopped by my old high school. He watched students in uniforms eating hot dogs, something almost wistful in his eyes.
After finishing that steaming cheese beef sandwich, Damian looked at me. "Ivy, want to go home? See your parents?"
I paused and met his serious gaze. "Together?"
Damian touched his nose self-consciously. "Yeah... I know it's sudden, but I'd like to meet them." He hesitated, voice dropping. "I never properly visited them."
True. In our two-year marriage, work was his everything. He needed his assistant to remind him of my birthday. Forget about setting foot in this rundown neighborhood.
We walked past red brick buildings, stopping at a small apartment complex at the end.
I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.