Ivy:
Don't contact me again.
But on the King’s phone, her last thread of messages came this morning:
Ivy:
I don't know what to do anymore. Everything I worked for is gone. I feel like I'm drowning.
King:
You're not drowning. You're surviving, darling. And you're stronger than you think.
Ivy:
I don't feel strong. I feel broken.
King:
Broken things can be repaired. You're not beyond fixing, Ivy.
Ivy:
What if I am?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard now. I start typing.
King:
You're not. I promise you're not.
Then I delete it and attempt to start again as the truth, as Declan pretending to be King.
King:
Ivy.
I can’t type anything else.
Because the second I send this text, she'll know. And the tiny, selfish part of me that's desperate to stay connected to her even through a lie can't let go. I lock the phone and shove it back into my pocket.
Jake's right. I'm a coward.
***
The penthouse is dark when I get home. I drop my bag by the door and head straight for the liquor cabinet, not bothering to turn on the lights. The whiskey burns going down, but it doesn't numb the ache.
I pour another glass. Then another.
By the time the door opens and Riley's voice calls out to me, I've taken so many drinks, I’m beginning to believe the city lights hold answers.
"Declan?"
I don't turn around. The light comes on. A headache flares, and I rub my temples. Riley crosses the room, Rowan trailing behind her.
"Dec, you look like hell," she says softly.
"Thanks."
