Then, I see her.
Ivy enters from the garden doors. She is wearing a green silk dress. One that clings and drapes like liquid money. She spots me and weaves through the crowd.
"Status report?" she asks, reaching me in a cloud of vanilla and rose. "Is Betty happy? Is the raw bar staying cold?"
"Betty is taking credit for everything," I say. "Which means she's ecstatic."
Ivy grins, a flash of genuine humor that vanishes the second a shadow falls over us.
"Brooks," a voice oily with false warmth says. "And the lovely... fiancée, I presume?"
I stiffen. Royce Aston. He looks like a caricature of a tycoon, white mustache, tuxedo slightly too tight, holding a martini like a weapon.
"Royce," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "I didn't know you were coming."
"I wouldn't miss it," Royce says. His gaze lingers on the bruise on my temple, covered with concealer but still visible. "We were all so... concerned when we heard about the incident. Good to see you upright, boy. I hope you're up for the vote. It's a lot of pressure for a man in your... fragile condition."
The insult is wrapped in concern, but the threat is clear:I know you're weak.
I open my mouth to respond, but Ivy beats me to it. She doesn't bristle. She doesn't glare. She beams.
"Oh, Mr. Aston, isn't it?" She extends a hand, her smile dazzle-bright. "Brooks has told me so much about you. You're on the hospital board, right? The one who called his father about his admission?"
Royce blinks, caught off guard. "I—yes. I felt it was my duty to?—"
"I'm not an expert on these things," Ivy says, her tone light and curious, "but isn't sharing patient information without consent against HIPAA? I could be wrong."
Royce's face goes pale. "I was acting in a personal capacity. As a family friend. Not in any official?—"
"It is so refreshing," Ivy interrupts smoothly, "to meet a man of your generation who is still so... involved. Ones who care so much." She says it like it's a synonym for meddlesome, but her tone is pure sugar. "Most board members are content to just cash the checks," she continues, looping her arm through mine and leaning into me affectionately. "But you? You're in the weeds, aren't you? Checking intake logs, making phone calls... It's tireless. I keep telling Brooks he needs to appreciate that kind of attention to detail. It's almost maternal."
Royce's mustache twitches. He pulls his hand back. "I care about the stability of the company, young lady."
"And we love that about you," Ivy coos. She tilts her head, studying him with concern. "Though, you look a little flushed, Royce. Is the heat getting to you? I know these late nights can be taxing when you're... settled."
She lands the word settled like a polite death sentence.You are old. You are tired. Go away.
Royce straightens up, bristling. "I am fine."
"Of course you are," she says, soothingly. "But please, don't let us keep you standing. I'm sure there's a chair somewhere with your name on it. We wouldn't want you to overexert yourself worrying about Brooks. He has plenty of stamina."
She does it again, a perfect, terrifying, society-wife performance.
Royce looks at her. He looks for the insult, but he can't get a handle on it because it's greased with so much politeness. He clears his throat, adjusting his tie.
"Enjoy the party, Brooks," Royce mutters, his eyes cold. "Lovely to meet you, my dear."
"Oh, the pleasure was all mine," Ivy calls after him as he retreats into the crowd.
She watches him go, keeping the smile plastered on her face until he is safely out of earshot. Then, without moving her lips, she drops the act.
She takes a sip of my scotch. "He's tacky. He wears too much cologne, and he looks at you like he's trying to calculate your scrap metal value."
I stare at her. "You just called a senior board member 'maternal' and 'elderly' to his face, and he thanked you for it."
Ivy shrugs, handing me back the glass. "That's the trick, Brooks. If you serve the poison in a crystal glass, they usually drink it."
She turns her gaze back to me, her eyes sharp. "He's the leak, isn't he? The one creating the 'instability' narrative?"
