I open my eyes.
Ivy is asleep on top of me.
Her head is tucked under my chin, her dark hair splayed across my chest like ink. Her arm is thrown over my waist, her leg tangled with mine beneath the duvet. She is breathing deeply, softly, completely defenseless in a way I have never seen her.
The pillow wall is gone. The boundaries are gone.
My hand is resting on the small of her back, skin on skin. I must have held her all night.
I stare at the ceiling beams, waiting for the usual morning anxiety to hit, the mental checklist of emails, the Asian market numbers, the timeline. But it doesn't come. For the first time in ten years, my brain is quiet.
I shift slightly, and Ivy murmurs something unintelligible, nuzzling closer into my neck. Her lips brush my collarbone.
A jolt of heat goes straight to my groin, followed immediately by a rush of tenderness so strong it actually hurts.
I want to wake her up. I want to roll her over and kiss her until we both forget about breakfast. I want to spend the entire Sunday in this bed, exploring this new, terrifying territory we just claimed.
And that is exactly why I have to get up.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierces through the warmth.
What have I done?
I brought Ivy here to perform a specific function: simulate stability so I could close the biggest deal of my life. I was supposed to be the handler. She was supposed to be the asset.
But looking at her now, soft, vulnerable, and trusting, I realize there's nothing left between us to hold me back.
This isn't the edge of falling. I passed that edge somewhere between the gala and the firelight, and I didn't even feel the ground give way.
I haven't just blurred the lines; I've erased them. And if I let this become real... I am compromised.
Ivy hates my world. She thinks I'm a snob. She even called my fake wedding plans 'boring.' She is only here because I blackmailed her. If I let myself fall for her, if I let myself need her, what happens in September?
She leaves.
She secures the donation, takes her freedom, and goes back to her real life. And I am left alone with a victory that suddenly feels like a consolation prize.
Don't get attached to the asset.
I gently, carefully, extricate myself from Ivy's grip. It feels like peeling off my own skin. She frowns in her sleep, her handsearching for me across the sheets, but I slide out of bed before she can anchor me again.
The air in the cottage is cool. I shiver, grabbing my discarded dress shirt from the floor to cover myself. It's wrinkled and damp, a quiet reminder of last night.
I look back at the bed. Ivy looks small in the middle of the California King. She looks like something precious that I am about to break.
I need distance.
I walk into the bathroom and close the door silently. I turn on the shower, making it cold. Punishingly cold. I stand under the spray until my skin is numb and the panic in my chest has wrestled itself into a grim, steady rhythm.
I shave. I dress in a suit, navy blue, starched shirt, tie. It is Sunday in the Hamptons. No one wears a suit on Sunday unless they are going to a funeral or a board meeting.
It feels appropriate.
I walk back out into the main room. Ivy is stirring.
She stretches, a long, feline movement that pulls the sheet down, exposing the curve of her back. She rolls over, blinking against the morning light. Her eyes find me standing by the fireplace, fully dressed, checking my phone.
A slow, sleepy smile spreads across her face. It is devastating. It saysI know you.
