“And nothing. Just an observation.” He taps his temple. “That's what I do. Observe while you fuck things up.”
I down half my drink in one swallow. “Speaking of fucking things up, how's Punk?”
A genuine smile breaks across his face, transforming him from my cynical twin to someone I barely recognize. “She's better. Feeling well enough to hack into the resort's security system just for fun.”
“That's…” I pause, searching for the right response. “Adorable? Concerning?”
“All of the above.” He rolls his lips beneath his teeth. “Fucking asset, I’m telling you.”
I fight an eye roll. “You're whipped.”
“Proudly.” His eyes narrow, studying me with that irritating perception he's had since we were kids. “You know what your problem is, Ash?”
“I have many. Be specific.”
“You think you're above it all. The fame, the money, the girls.” He gestures around the room. “You've convinced yourself you're just playing a part, that none of this means anything. But Ivy? She's not part of the act, is she?”
I drain my glass, whiskey burning all the way down. “Drop it, Atlas.”
He ignores me, as usual. “You're reckless with everything else because you don't give a shit. But with her? You're reckless because you give too much of a shit. That's what scares me.”
“Nothing scares you.”
“This does.” He sets his glass down and leans in. “Because I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.”
The trophy they gave me earlier sits abandoned on a nearby table, gleaming under dim bar lights. Another piece of metal to gather dust. Another accomplishment that means nothing. I've spent my entire adult life chasing thrills that last seconds, highs that fade before they've fully bloomed.
But those moments with Ivy on the chairlift? Those felt eternal. Felt real in a way nothing has in years.
Atlas straightens his jacket. “I'm heading back to check on Punk. You coming?”
My phone buzzes, and I expect another text from Camille. Instead, it's a notification from one of those gossip accounts Atlas follows “for research.” My stomach drops as I read the headline:Ashvy are back, bitches! Images sent from Veilarath where Winter Games is currently being held proves that.
Below it is a photo from the chairlift. My hand under her clothes. Her head thrown back. The angle makes it two dimensional. Easy to brush off.
Fuck. No it isn't.
I should care about this. Should be calling my publicist, my lawyer. Instead, all I can think about is getting back to the house. To her. Is it my fault for hauling her ass into the public eye from the get-go? Both of us playing cat and mouse in front of paparazzi? Possibly. But that was when the lines were clear. Now there are none.
“Yeah.” I toss money on the bar. “I’m coming.”
The gondola car sways as we settle in, Atlas across from me, the island spreading out below us in a flurry of lies.
I pull out my phone. Her number stares back at me from the screen, unsaved but memorized. I should text her, warn her about the photos. Apologize for the mess I've created.
Instead, I put the phone away. That won’t help anything.
Atlas is right about one thing—I am playing with fire. But what my brother doesn't understand is that sometimes, burning is the point. Sometimes destruction is the only path forward. Sometimes you have to reduce everything to ash before you can build something real.
And Ivy? She's the most real thing I've felt in years.
And that's a fucking problem.
Chapter 17
Ivy
Iswirl my wine around the glass goblet, lifting it to the dark sky above. Winter Games finished hours ago, yet no one has come home.
