Something fierce and possessive tightens in my chest. I’ve spent my life thinking of people as assets or liabilities, as moving parts in a grand machine of my own making. I treated Ivy like a project to be managed, a fire to be contained. But as I watch her sleep, I realize she isn’t the fire; she’s the light. And I have been stumbling around in the dark for years.
Ivy stirs, a soft moan escaping her as she presses closer to me, her hand splaying across my stomach. Her skin is hot, alive, and so intensely real that it makes my throat ache.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she mumbles, her voice soft with sleep, her eyes still closed.
I reach down, my fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head up enough so those brilliant, sharp eyes meet mine. “I’m not thinking, Ivy. I’m observing.”
She cracks one eye open, a sleepy, wicked smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. It is the look that has undone me from the beginning. “Observing what? The structural integrity of the ceiling? Or the fact that you’re officially a man who was rescued by a girl in a second-hand leather jacket?”
“I’m observing the fact that I’m never letting you out of this bed,” I growl, rolling over until I am hovering above her, pinning her into the mattress with the press of my body.
The playfulness in her eyes fades, darkening into something deeper, something that makes my blood simmer. She reaches up, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me down into her space. “Is that a threat, Taylor? Because I think there's a clause that specifically forbids unauthorized overtime."
"The contract died when I gave you that waiver," I whisper, my lips brushing against the sensitive shell of her ear. "There are no clauses left. No rules. No management. We agreed to that last night."
“Yes, we did.”
I kiss the column of her throat, my teeth grazing her skin enough to make her gasp. “This isn’t about biology, Ivy. And it’s definitely not about ‘release.’ This is about me finally admitting that I’m a total disaster without you.”
I move slowly, deliberately, wanting to memorize every inch of her in the morning light. I want to map the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the way her breath hitches every time I touch that one spot on the inside of her thigh. I want to be the only thing she feels, the only thing she thinks about.
I enter her with a slow, filling slide, my eyes locked on hers as the world narrows down to the point where we meet. It is an explosion of color in a world that has always been monochrome. Every movement is a confession, every touch a promise I intend to keep. She meets me stroke for stroke, her body a living counterpoint to mine. There is no performance here. It's Ivy, raw, honest, and utterly devastating.
When the end comes, it isn’t a “release.” It is a shattering. The last of my defenses crumble, the icy walls I’ve built around my heart finally melt under the sheer, brilliant heat of her. I burymy face in her neck, a guttural sound of surrender escaping me as we both go over the edge together.
An hour later, the sun is higher in the sky, and the real world is starting to bang on the door in the form of my vibrating phone. I’ve ignored sixteen calls from my attorney and twenty-two emails from the board.
I sit on the edge of the bed, a towel wrapped around my waist, watching Ivy as she sits cross-legged in the center of the mattress, wrapped in one of my oversized white dress shirts. She is holding a mug of coffee like it is a holy relic, her eyes distant.
“We have to deal with it, don’t we?” she asks softly. “The loose ends. Penelope.”
“Penelope isn’t a problem anymore, Ivy.”
“Brooks, she has that photo,” Ivy says, her brow furrowing with worry. “The text from Savvy that basically confirms our relationship was fake. If she leaks it, the stability the board voted on becomes a joke. They’ll think you’re a fraud. They’ll pull their support before the ink even dries.”
“Let them try,” I say, standing up and walking over to my laptop. “I spent the night doing a little ‘fixing’ of my own while you were asleep.”
I turn the screen toward her. On it is a frozen frame of security footage. It is the library in the main house, the Taylor family sanctuary. The time stamp is from Friday evening, shortly before Ivy disappeared. In the frame, Penelope Vanderbilt is clearly visible. She isn’t just standing there; she is hunched over the desk, her hand deep inside Ivy’s handbag. She pulls out a phone, her face lit by the screen as she scrolls through it, a triumphant, ugly look on her face.
Ivy gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “You have her on camera? Stealing my phone?”
“Not stealing it,” I say, my voice cold as ice. “Accessing a locked device without consent, which is a felony in this state.And then using the information gained from that theft to extort a confession out of you, which is another. I’ve already sent a copy of this to Arthur, and another to the Vanderbilt family’s primary counsel. I told them that if a single word of that text message ever sees the light of day, or if Penelope so much as breathes in your direction again, I will not only file criminal charges, but I will systematically dismantle every brand she’s ever touched. I’ll buy her trademark just to turn it into a line of budget toilet paper.”
Ivy stares at the screen, a long, slow breath escaping her. “You ruined her.”
“No,” I correct her. “She ruined herself. I provided the documentation.”
I sit back down on the bed, taking Ivy’s hand in mine. “But there’s one more thing we have to handle. The story is public. Our ‘engagement’ is the lead on every financial site this morning. And my parents… they’re expecting us for breakfast in twenty minutes.”
Ivy tenses against me. "Brooks, your mother … she's not an idiot. Helicopter. Biker jacket. That was not subtle. She's going to know something is off."
“Good,” I say, reaching for my clothes. “Because I’m done with the camouflage. I’m done with the ‘fake’ version of us. When we walk into that dining room, we’re walking in as partners. Real ones.”
The dining roomat Eastmoor is a cathedral of “Old Money” restraint. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the Atlantic, the morning sun catching the silver tea service and the crisp white linens. On the center of the table is a massive arrangementof white hydrangeas, overflow from last night's party, that catches the morning light like clusters of pearls.
My father is buried behind a copy of theWall Street Journal, while my mother sits at the head of the table, her spine as straight as a ruler, her eyes fixed on a bowl of sliced grapefruit. The air hums with tension that usually precedes a corporate takeover.
As we walk in, my father doesn’t look up, but my mother’s gaze snaps to us immediately. She looks at me, then her eyes travel slowly, glacially, over Ivy.
