We pull up to the curb ten minutes later. I don't get out immediately. I roll down the tinted window just an inch.
I scan the park. It’s lunchtime. The place is crowded with tourists, nannies, and office workers eating sandwiches.
I spot her instantly.
She is sitting on a bench near the fountain. She is wearing a trench coat belted tightly at the waist and dark sunglasses. She looks like a spy from a noir film. She looks breathtaking.
And she is not alone.
Sitting next to her—too close, invading her perimeter—is the man. The one with the cheap suit.
My hand tightens on the door handle until the leather creaks.
He is talking to her. He is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, holding a paper coffee cup. He looks intense. Serious.
And Ivy...
She isn't pulling away. She is leaning in. She is listening. Her lips are parted. She takes a sip of her own coffee, then says something that makes the man pause.
She smiles.
It’s not a polite smile. It’s the sharp, dangerous smile she gave me in the shipyard before she blew the crane. It’s the smile of a woman enjoying the game.
130 BPM.
She is excited.
She is getting a rush from this man. From this secret meeting in the middle of my city.
Is it sexual?
The thought hits me like a physical blow. Jealousy creates a red haze in my vision. I want to get out of the car. I want to walk over there, grab that man by his throat, and crush his windpipe in front of the Shake Shack line. I want to drag Ivy back to the car by her hair and remind her who owns her.
But I don't move.
I am a predator. Predators wait.
I need to know the extent of the betrayal. If I intervene now, she’ll lie. She’s become an expert liar. She’ll say he ambushed her. She’ll say she was just being polite.
I need to see how far she goes.
The man reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a file folder. He hands it to her.
She opens it. She looks at the contents. Her posture stiffens.
135 BPM.
She closes the folder. She doesn't give it back. She slides it into her oversized purse.
She stands up.
The man stands up too. He reaches out, grabbing her arm.
I reach for the door handle. If he doesn't let go in one second, he dies.
Ivy pulls her arm free. She says something sharp. The man steps back, holding his hands up.
She turns and walks away, heading toward Fifth Avenue. She walks with a stride that screams confidence. She doesn't look back.
