My stomach drops.
She isn't just tidy. She's staging an extraction. She has calculated exactly what she needs to survive the next forty-eight hours and packed away every other trace of herself.
A note sits on top of a stack of sweaters.
Brooks, I'm at the main house helping your mother with the seating chart for Monday. I'll be back later.
- Ivy
The words blur. Then refocus. The almost-empty closet stares back at me.
She's counting down the minutes. One foot already out the door.
The note crumples in my fist.
Not like this. She can't leave like this.
The manila envelope in my other hand suddenly feels heavier. The check. The waiver.
A plan forms.
Tonight. Give her the waiver tonight, well before the party or the deadline. Show her she's not a hostage anymore. Hand over the money and the release, and then—when she's legally free to walk away—ask her to stay.
Enough thinking.
The envelope lands on the table, dead center, impossible to miss.
Suit jacket off. Jeans and a T-shirt on. Wine bottle from the rack.
The patio chair scrapes against stone as I sit.
The sun begins to set, painting the sky in colors that remind me of the night on the yacht.
I drain the glass. Pour another. The gravel drive stays empty.
I wait.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IVY
I walk back to the cottage with the labored, dragging steps of someone walking to the gallows.
The sun is setting, painting the sky in violent streaks of purple and orange. The air is thick with humidity and the scent of roses that the gardeners have been fussing over all afternoon.
Monday is Labor Day. Monday is the party. Monday is the end.
For the last four weeks, I’ve executed the role of the “Happy Fiancée” flawlessly. Smiled until my jaw ached. Dodged questions about wedding dates. Slept on the far edge of a California King bed, listening to the man I’ve come to love breathe in his sleep, knowing he thinks what happened between us was nothing more than biology.
Betty has invited half her world for the holiday weekend. Including Penelope Vanderbilt, who has watched me from across rooms all week like she's waiting for something to break.
I reach the cottage door.
I expect it to be dark. I expect Brooks to still be in the city, celebrating his victory with scotch and steak and people who don't matter.
But the lights are on.
I freeze, my hand on the latch.
