A week ago, I would have preened at the compliment. I would have agreed that she was the perfect acquisition. But hearing my father reduce her to a line item on a balance sheet makes me want to throw my glass into the ocean.
"She's not just an asset, Dad," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. "She's... Ivy."
My father raises an eyebrow. "Careful, son. Remember why we marry in this family, power and position. Choose wisely. The right woman will get you where you need to go."
He pats my shoulder and wanders off to talk bonds with a senator.
I grip the railing. Emotion clouds my judgment.
He has no idea how Ivy really entered my life.
The contract is clear: eight weeks, a transaction, a clean break, but when I look down at the deck, I don't see a transaction. I see the woman who iced my head when I was in pain. I see the woman who charged into my library and called me an idiot to my face because I was spiraling. I see the partner who held my hand under the table while we destroyed a man's life.
I need a drink.
I head down the stairs to the main deck, dodging waiters with trays of oysters. The music is louder down here, the sun hotter.
I head for the bar, but I stop halfway.
Ivy is no longer talking to the art collector. She has been cornered near the stern by Carter Rhodes.
Carter is a hedge fund manager. He is thirty-five, has hair that is too blonde, teeth that are too white, and an ego that could sink the Titanic. We've run in the same circles for years. I have always found him tolerable in small doses, mostly because his fund buys my bad debt.
Today, he is not tolerable.
He is leaning against the railing, blocking Ivy's exit. He is standing too close. Much too close. He has a hand on the railingnext to her hip, caging her in. He's grinning down at her, saying something low that makes him laugh at his own wit.
Ivy is wearing her professional, 'I am de-escalating a drunk uncle' mask. Her body language is rigid. She's holding her drink with both hands in front of her chest, creating a barrier.
I watch.
Carter leans in closer. He reaches out and touches the brim of her hat, tilting it back so he can see her face better.
"Come on, Ivy," I hear him say over the bass of the music. "Brooks is boring. He's all spreadsheets and no soul. You look like you need a little... excitement."
Ivy steps back, bumping against the railing. "I'm plenty excited, Carter. Have you tried the ceviche? It's thrilling."
She tries to slide past him, but he shifts, blocking her again. His hand drops from her hat to her arm. His fingers trace the bare skin below the sleeve of her cover-up.
"Just one drink," Carter purrs. "Later. When the suit goes to bed. I've got a tender on the beach. We can go for a ride."
Something snaps inside my chest. It's audible. Like a suspension cable shearing under too much weight.
The world narrows down to a tunnel. At the end of it is Carter's hand on Ivy's skin.
I don't remember walking across the deck. One second I am by the bar; the next, I am standing behind Carter.
I put my hand on his shoulder. I don't squeeze. I don't shove. I let my hand rest there, solid and undeniable.
"Carter," I say. My voice is very quiet. Very level.
Carter jumps. He spins around, dropping his hand from Ivy's arm. His dazzling smile falters when he sees my face.
"Brooks, my man!" he exclaims, trying to recover. "Just getting to know the lovely fiancée. You're a lucky guy."
"I am," I agree. I don't smile. I step into the space he was occupying, placing myself between him and Ivy. I wrap my armaround her waist, pulling her hard against my side. Her body is tense, but she melts against me instantly, exhaling a breath.
"And you," I continue, looking down at Carter, "are crowding her."
