King:
Hello, Ivy. You still up?
The response comes quickly.
Ivy:
Unfortunately. Can't sleep.
King:
Bad day?
Ivy:
Annoying day. Went to a charity gala and saw some people I didn't want to see.
My chest tightens.
King:
Anyone in particular?
There's a long pause. The typing indicator appears and disappears several times.
Ivy:
Just someone from work.
But I want to know how she sees Declan, not King. I send the picture of just me and her, where she's clearly visible.
King:
A journalist friend of mine sent this to me, saying that's your picture with a man. Who is he?
I’m fishing, testing. Trying to understand what she’s thinking without revealing myself.
Nothing.
The typing bubble doesn’t appear. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and loud.
I shouldn’t push. I know that. I push anyway.
King:
Does he matter to you?
The second I send it, I grimace. I sound unhinged. Jealous. Like some possessive asshole she has zero reason to reassure.
But the truth is simpler—and more dangerous.
If she won’t admit anything to me, maybe she’ll admit it to King. Maybe she’ll say something she doesn’t realize matters. Maybe she’ll trust the version of me she thinks is safe.
The minutes tick by. I set the phone down. Pick it up again.
Then it buzzes.
Ivy:
