Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ivy
"Who is it?" After a few rings, my mother's familiar voice came from behind the door.
My eyes stung a little. I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. "Mom, it's me. Ivy."
"Oh my God! Ivy? My baby!" Mom's delighted voice rang out, followed by hurried footsteps and the sound of the lock turning.
The door flew open. Mom stood there in her apron, flour still dusting her face. She froze for a second, then her eyes welled up as she pulled me into her arms. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"
I leaned into her warmth. "Mom, I missed you. We thought we'd just come by." My voice cracked as I hugged her tight. In that moment, I realized just how much I'd needed this.
Mom released me, her gaze shifting past my shoulder to Damian. Her smile faltered. "Mr. Wentworth?"
The formality made us all freeze. Damian recovered first, stepping forward with a slight bow, his tone more earnest than I'd expected.
"Please—just call me Damian. Before, it was my bad.
I should have come to visit you more." He paused, a rare nervousness in his voice. "I'm sorry to drop in like this."
Mom blinked, clearly not expecting this version of Damian. "You're not interrupting. Come in." She stepped aside, something complicated flickering in her eyes.
I took Damian's hand and walked into the living room. Dad poked his head out from the kitchen. When he saw us, he nearly dropped his spatula.
"Ivy? You..." His eyes lingered on Damian for a few beats. "Mr. Wentworth?" Dad's voice carried obvious awkwardness and surprise.
Damian stepped forward immediately, bowing slightly. "Mr. Sinclair, I haven't done enough before. I should have visited more."
"Sit down." After a stunned moment, Dad reverted to his usual seriousness.
We settled into the cramped living room. Mom brought out lemonade and fresh-baked cookies.
An awkward silence hung in the air. Damian lifted his glass, opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Sweetheart, has the pregnancy been hard?" Mom asked softly, her eyes tender on my belly.
I leaned toward her, my voice playful. "Yeah, Mom. The first few months were rough—so much nausea. It's better now, but I keep craving your cooking."
Mom patted my hand with a smile, then looked at Damian. "Have the checkups been going well?"
Guilt flashed in Damian's eyes. I knew he was beating himself up for missing them.
"The checkups... they've been fine." I jumped in before he could speak, squeezing his hand and winking at Mom. "Baby's healthy, just keeps kicking me. Probably going to be a troublemaker."
Mom's eyes glistened again as she nodded.
The mood lightened. Dad finished in the kitchen and joined us, actually cracking a smile. "Just like you when you were little. Always restless." He paused. "Remember climbing trees?"
"Dad!" I protested, which only made him laugh harder.
"I've still got your old photos around here—let me find them."
Before I could stop him, he disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a photo album, setting it down in front of us.
I tried to grab it. "Dad! Don't—they're so embarrassing..."
"Not embarrassing. Adorable."
But Damian got there first, his hand pressing down on the album's edge. He bent over it, turning the pages slowly, deliberately.
The album held my childhood—loved fiercely by my parents. Eating strawberry sundaes in the park. Playing a tree in a school play. Birthday cake smeared across my face, grinning like an idiot.
God, I was sitting here with Damian Wentworth looking at my baby pictures!
My face burned. I wanted to disappear. But Damian looked up, his eyes soft, a faint smile on his lips.
"You were always this cute." His voice was barely a whisper, like he was afraid to disturb something precious.
"Stop looking..." I reached to close the album, but he caught my fingers.
"Let me finish." His gaze never left those yellowed photographs.
My parents exchanged a glance and quietly left us alone. The living room held only the soft rustle of turning pages and occasional birdsong from outside.
Damian's finger stopped on one photo—my fifth birthday. I wore an ill-fitting pink tutu, a crooked paper crown on my head, eyes squinted shut with laughter, clutching half-eaten cake.
He stared at it for a long time before speaking. "This one. This looks most like you now."
I looked away. "That's the ugliest one."
"Not ugly." He met my eyes, dead serious. "The best one. Because you're smiling without any weight on you."
I froze. His expression was so earnest it almost pulled me under.
I suddenly thought—if time could stop right here, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
On the drive back, night had fully fallen. Streetlights streaked past the window like a flowing river of stars. Damian drove, glancing at me occasionally.
Soft music filled the car. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly peaceful.
"Damian," I leaned back in the passenger seat, staring out the window, finally asking the question. "Why did you suddenly want to go to Queens today?"
Damian gripped the wheel. He drove slowly, silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then, in a low voice, "Because I realized I've missed too much of the real you.
Back at the estate, I trapped you in my world, my rules.
I never knew what libraries you liked. Never knew you were a wild kid. "
"Today, I wanted to make up for what I missed." His voice was especially deep in the darkness.
I fell quiet for a moment. "Damian, you don't have to..."
"Yes, I do." He cut me off, his tone firm. "I owe you more than one afternoon. When you first left, I didn't understand why. But now I get it."
I turned to look at his profile lit by passing streetlights, something aching in my chest.
He knew now—knew about all those silent, enduring moments. He saw the hurt he'd caused. So now he was trying, bit by bit, in his own way, to make me happy again.
"You know," he said suddenly, his voice low and tender, "I never had photos like that."
I turned, surprised. "None at all?"
"Not candid ones like yours." His mouth quirked with self-mockery. "Every photo of me was staged—where to stand, what expression to wear, even where to put my hands. Someone always told me beforehand. I looked polished, perfect. But never real."
"You never told me this."
"Because no one ever asked." His voice was quiet. "Before you, no one wanted to know the real me. And admitting that—it's proof you're weak."
"How?"
"Because Wentworths don't do weakness. By the time I met you, I'd lost the ability to love." His voice trembled. "I'm not making excuses. I won't deny my mistakes anymore. But maybe... would you want to hear about my past?"
"Wait." I stopped him. Seeing disappointment cloud his eyes, I smiled and turned on the music. "I think we need something mellow for this."
Soft piano notes filled the space. Damian blinked, then his lips curved into the faintest smile.
"Ivy, my childhood... nothing like yours. My grandfather and aunt raised me. My parents were too busy with their affairs. I grew up alone because they never saw me. Once, they even forgot me on a private Ferris wheel halfway up a mountain. For almost an entire night."
"What?" I gasped, staring at him in disbelief. "All night? How old were you?"
"Seven." His voice was calm. "That's when I stopped believing anyone could love me. Sorry, Ivy. I know this is heavy. But I want you to understand why I didn't know how to cherish you at first."
My breath caught. How desperate must he have been? I'd never imagined Damian's past looked like this. I laid my hand gently over his on the console. He flinched, then wrapped his fingers around mine.
"Later, when I was older, they sent me to boarding school in Switzerland. It was big. Cold. Nothing there but rigid rules."
He stopped abruptly. "Sorry. I'm saying too much. It's just—no one's ever been willing to listen before."
This was the first time in two years of marriage that Damian had willingly torn through that hard shell built from money and power, exposing the real soul underneath.
My heart clenched. I'd never imagined that privileged Wentworth carried such loneliness inside.
"Damian," I said softly, "you don't need to apologize. None of that was your fault. But I think our problems weren't just your past. They were also all the things we never said."
I took a deep breath. "You know what? I was waiting too. Waiting for you to tell me these things. I thought you'd never let me into your world."
"So we were both waiting for the other to move first. And neither of us did." He gave a bitter laugh, his thumb brushing my knuckles. "Is it too late now?"
"I don't think so." I shook my head, meeting his eyes. "As long as we're both willing to move forward, it's not too late." I tightened my fingers around his. "Damian, starting today, let's try saying all the things we kept inside. Okay?"
He was quiet for several seconds, then slowly nodded, something melting in his gaze. "Okay."
"Of course, what happens next depends on how you act." I tilted my head, trying to lighten the heavy mood. "I haven't said I'll forgive you."
He laughed quietly, relief in the sound. "Then I'll have to prove myself. Not to earn forgiveness—because I love you."
The car finally stopped in front of the Brooklyn bakery.
Engine off, the cabin held only our breathing—intertwined, growing thick and heavy.
"Ivy, this is for you." Damian suddenly produced a box. I opened it, confused—
"Oh! When did you get this?" Inside lay the mug I'd admired that morning.
"When you were looking at the paintings." Damian smiled. "You seemed to like it. Sorry for deciding without asking."
"It's fine. I love it." I cradled the mug, my fingertips tracing the rough glaze, warmth spreading through me. "Thank you, Damian."
"Don't mention it." He paused, his voice dropping. "From now on, I'll pay more attention to what you like."
I looked up at him. In the car's dim light, his features seemed especially soft.
"Good. I'm counting on it." I pushed open the door, then looked back.
He kept a gentlemanly distance, standing in the streetlight's long shadow, saying quietly:
"Good night, Ivy. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
His headlights didn't disappear from the alley until I'd climbed to the second floor.
I touched my chest where my heart was pounding hard—because of that man.