He stops when he sees me. For a split second, relief washes over his face, raw and unguarded.
"You're still here," he says, his voice rough.
"Per the contract," I say. My voice is cool, level, and entirely devoid of emotion. "I am obligated to reside at the Eastmoor Estate until Labor Day."
The relief on his face vanishes, replaced by a flinch. He closes the door and locks it.
"Ivy," he starts, taking a step toward me. "About this morning. I was... I didn't mean to come across so harsh. I was trying to?—"
"You were trying to re-establish boundaries," I interrupt, standing up. I smooth the skirt of my yellow dress. "And you were right. We lost focus. We let the parameters of the agreement slide. It won't happen again."
He stops. He looks at me, searching for the anger, the fire. He's looking for the woman who threw a phone on his desk.
He doesn't find her. I've packed her away.
"Ivy, stop," he says. "You don't have to do this."
"Do what? I'm agreeing with you, Brooks. Last night was a mistake. It was a biological impulse brought on by barometric pressure and proximity. It has been noted in the log, and we are moving forward."
I walk past him toward the bed. I don't look at him. I treat him like a piece of furniture I need to navigate around.
"I rebuilt the wall," I say over my shoulder.
"What?"
"The pillow wall. I rebuilt it. And I added the cushions from the sofa. It is now a structural fortification. Stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine."
The California King looks huge. The wall of pillows down the center is aggressive. It looks less like a sleeping arrangement and more like a divorce settlement.
I change then climb into bed on my side, turn off the lamp, and pull the duvet up to my chin.
Brooks stands in the dim light of the living area, his shadow stretching long across the room toward the bed. He watches me for a long time.
"I talked to Mark," he says quietly into the darkness.
"That's nice," I reply to the wall. "I hope you wished him congratulations on his nuptials."
"Ivy."
"Goodnight, Mr. Taylor."
He stands there for another minute. Then, I hear a sigh. He turns off the living room light. I hear the rustle of clothes being discarded, the dip of the mattress as he climbs in on his side.
He lies there in the dark. The heat radiates off him, trying to bridge the gap of feathers and down.
"Goodnight, Ivy," he whispers.
I don't answer. I just lie there, eyes wide open, teaching my heart how to beat a little slower, a little colder.
The daysthat follow are a masterclass in malicious compliance. We fall into a routine. It is efficient, polite, and excruciating.
By the time we step out of the car onto the grassy field of the Hamptons Polo Club, I have the role down cold.
"Smile," Brooks murmurs as the cameras turn toward us.
"Way ahead of you."
I flash a grin that is bright, dazzling, and doesn't reach my eyes. I take his arm. I lean into him. I tilt my head up adoringly as the photographers snap our picture.
