I stare at the papers.
If I give her this, she's free. She can take the money, expand her company, secure her future, and never speak to me again. That was the deal, or at least, the new deal I'm forcing on her.
But if I don't give it to her... if I try to convince her to stay without it... am I just trapping her again?
You can't fix people, Brooks. You manage them.
That's what she said to me in the kitchen. She thinks I'm managing her. She thinks she's just another problem I'm solving until the deadline passes.
I have to prove her wrong.
I have to prove that I'm not choosing the outcome they expect. I'm choosing her.
I shove the papers back into the envelope. I grab my keys.
"Cancel my afternoon," I tell my assistant on the way out. "Cancel Monday morning. Cancel everything until further notice."
"But sir, the Labor Day party?—"
"I'll be there," I say. "But I'm going home early."
The drive to the Hamptons usually takes two and a half hours. Tonight, getting out of the city feels like a lifetime.
My mind is racing, rehearsing speeches.
Ivy, I was scared. Ivy, I didn't know how to choose you without burning everything else down.
It sounds desperate even in my own head. LikeCasablanca’sRick Blaine at the airport, saying the thing he should have said sooner.
Except I'm not sending her away.
I'm asking her to get on the plane with me.
Enough thinking. I need to get there.
I pull through the gates of Eastmoor at 4:00 PM. The estate is buzzing with activity. Caterers are setting up tents for Monday's party. Florists are carrying crates of white hydrangeas.
It's the Victory Lap. The stage is set for the "Happy Couple" to take their bow.
I park the car and jog toward the guest cottage.
The gravel crunches under my feet. My heart is pounding harder than it did in the boardroom.
I reach the cottage door and fling it open
"Ivy?" I call out, stepping inside.
The cottage is silent. The air is cool. It smells of lemon polish and cleaning products, not her.
The kitchenette is empty.
The bed is made. Perfectly made. Not a wrinkle in the duvet.
I frown. Did she leave? Did she run?
The living space is empty. Her suitcase sits open on the sofa, nearly full, neat stacks of denim and silk folded into tight, efficient squares.
The closet looks like a gaping mouth. Only two hangers remain. One holds the cream dress she's supposed to wear to the Labor Day party. The other holds a pair of jeans and a blouse. Everything else is in the bag.
