They leave. The room goes quiet.
It's just me and Ivy now.
She stands up, picking up her hat. She looks small against the backdrop of the city skyline, but she's standing tall.
"So," she says. "The Hamptons."
"The Hamptons," I agree. "My driver is downstairs. Your bags are in the car?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go. We have a lunch reservation in Southampton at one. My mother will be there."
Ivy pales slightly. "Today? I thought I had time to... acclimate."
"Trial by fire, darling," I say, moving toward the door. I pause as I pass her, leaning in close. She smells like vanilla and terror. "And don't forget Clause 4."
She stiffens. "Which part?"
"Hand-holding is permitted."
I reach out and take her hand. Her fingers are cold. Mine are warm. The fit is... irritatingly good.
I pull her toward the door.
"Showtime, fiancée."
We ride the elevator down in silence. The mahogany doors of the lobby open, and the humidity of the New York summer hits us instantly.
My black SUV is waiting at the curb. My driver, Tony, opens the back door.
I usher Ivy inside. She slides across the leather seat, arranging her dress carefully. I climb in after her.
"Eastmoor, Tony," I say. "And take the LIE. I want to get there before noon."
"You got it, Mr.Taylor."
Normally I'd take the helicopter from the West Side helipad—thirty-five minutes, door to tarmac. But the neurologist was specific about altitude restrictions post-concussion, so I'm stuck on the Long Island Expressway like a civilian.
The partition slides up. We are alone in the cool, leather-scented dark of the car.
Ivy lets out a long breath, slumping against the door. "Okay. Phase one complete. No lawsuits filed."
"Yet," I remind her, pulling out my phone to check emails.
"You're charming," she mutters, looking out the window as the city starts to blur by.
I ignore her, scrolling through the updates from the office. But I can't focus. I'm hyper-aware of her presence next to me. The rustle of her linen dress. The way she's tapping her finger against her knee.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Is she appropriate? The last girl you brought home wore denim.
I glance at Ivy. The white dress. The sleek hair. The posture that suggests she's ready for war or a cocktail party, whichever comes first.
I type back.
