I wake up alone. The pillow wall is intact, standing tall and proud like a monument to my own cowardice. The sheets on Brooks's side of the bed are cold.
I check the time. 8:30 AM. He's been gone for hours.
I drag myself out of bed, feeling the phantom sensation of his hand on my jawline, the ghost of his breath against my lips. It clings to me like the humidity outside, sticky and impossible to shake off.
It was the wine, I tell myself as I brush my teeth.It was the rain. It was the fact that he looked at me like I was a person instead of a problem.
I dress in "casual fiancée chic", white jeans, a striped boatneck top, and enough dry shampoo to tame the mane of a yeti, and head to the main house.
The walk over is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and the distant sound of a lawnmower. Halfway to the house, a staff member I've never seen before, a young woman who looks terrified of dropping it, presses a heavy silver tray into my hands.
"Mr. Taylor is in the library," she squeaks, and then vanishes before I can ask if she's being held against her will.
I look down at the tray. A silver pot of coffee. Two china cups. And a basket of scones that smell like vanilla and heaven.
Great. Now I'm a waitress.
I navigate the halls to the library. Eastmoor has a library that looks like it was designed by someone who thoughtBeauty and the Beastwas a documentary. It has floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves, rolling ladders that I desperately want to ride, and leather armchairs that smell like old money and cigars.
Brooks is sitting at the massive desk in the center of the room. He is wearing a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a headset. He is surrounded by monitors he must have had shipped in overnight.
He looks terrible.
The bruising on his temple has faded, but the dark circles under his eyes have deepened. He is pale, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps beneath the skin. He is typing furiously with one hand while gripping a stress ball with the other.
He looks up as I enter. His eyes are cold. Flat.
The one who almost kissed me by the fire last night is gone. In his place is the Venture Capitalist. The Closer.
"I'm busy," he says. No hello. No good morning.
I stop in the doorway, balancing the heavy tray. "Good morning to you too. I brought sustenance."
"I'm not hungry."
"It's a scone, Brooks. It's basically a biscuit with delusions of grandeur. Eat it."
I walk over and set the tray on the corner of the desk, careful not to disturb the ecosystem of spreadsheets.
"I said I'm busy," he snaps, ripping the headset off and tossing it onto the desk. "I don't have time for playing house today, Ivy. Go annoy my mother. Go rearrange the hydrangeas. Just... go."
I freeze. The dismissal stings, sharp and sudden.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says, running a hand through his hair. He looks at me, and his expression is pure exhaustion mixed with frustration. "The Tokyo deal is wobbling. Tabitha canceled the profile because we're 'too volatile. The board is breathing down my neck. We have a saboteur. Someone is actively leaking our valuation models to the competition. I need to identify them before this deal falls apart. I cannot do this if you are hovering."
"I wasn't hovering," I say, my voice cooling. "I was bringing you coffee because you look like you slept in a dryer."
"I don't need coffee," he says. "I need a miracle. And since you're a professional bridesmaid, not a forensic accountant, you can't help me. So please. Leave."
I stare at him. I see the panic beneath the anger. He's drowning. He's fighting a war on five fronts, and he's losing.
But he's also being a jerk.
"Fine," I say tightly. "Starve. See if I care."
I turn on my heel and march out of the library, the click of my loafers on the parquet floor echoing like gunshots.
