I want to tell her to ignore it. I have a gut feeling that whatever Bill has to say, it's going to make everything worse.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ivy
Thorne's arm tightens briefly around my waist before letting go. We're still on the leather sofa where we landed after Sebastian's exit. My cardigan hastily pulled back on, and Thorne's shirt still unbuttoned. The nearly empty bottle of Blackstone Reserve on the bar cart is a reminder of how this evening unraveled. The cozy intimacy of the billiards room now feels exposed, with its floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting us back like an accusation.
“You should answer it,” he says.
Looking into his ocean-blue eyes, I see his worry. Past him, the rain is a steady percussion against the glass. The sound is no longer soothing, but ominous.
I don't want to let it ring until voicemail picks it up. I want to stay here, where falling for Thorne Blackstone is complicated. Where his dark confessions don't eclipse the way he makes me feel utterly seen.
But the phone keeps ringing, insistent, and I pull away from him. Pushing myself up from the sofa, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug as I cross to the pool table. Each step is weighted with dread, and by the time my fingers close around the phone, my heart is hammering.
My free hand smooths my hair, tucking strands behind my ear. Deep breath. Shoulders back. I swipe to accept.
"Bill, hi. Can I call you back in—"
"Ivy, we need to discuss something that's come to my attention." He doesn't wait for my answer. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying yourself in Kentucky.”
“Excuse me?” Why does every interaction with this man feel like I need a shower after?
There are photos of you on quite a few different social media platforms at a private party. Dancing…” He makes it sound like fucking. “With Thorne Blackstone.”
The night at Tipsy when we danced. I’d been worried about photographers, but quickly forgot them in the thrill of being in Thorne’s arms—and later in the back room naked with him.
The composure I just assembled? Gone. Shatters like dropped crystal.
Cold floods through me. I glance at Thorne. “What’s going on?” he mouths.
I’m tempted to leave the room. But this might involve him. I hold my index finger, silently asking him to give me a minute.
"Bill, my personal life is—"
"Personal?" He lets out a bark of laughter that has nothing to do with humor. "Come on, Ivy. You're smarter than that. You're working for his company while sleeping with him.”
The furrow between Thorne’s eyes deepens. He rises from the couch, coming closer.
“Dancing isn’t sleeping with someone.” We are, but admitting that would be giving him ammunition he’d use to hurt me.
“What the hell is going on?” Thorne hisses.
I quickly cover his mouth. “Please let me handle this,” I whisper.
“I’ve seen the photos. There’s more than dancing going on between you two.” Bill laughs, and it’s slimy. “I told you to do everything for your family. I didn’t mean todothe family. Or if you were going to, at least keep it off of social media.”
Thorne blows out a breath, and the hot air pushes against my palm. He looks two seconds away from taking my phone from me. I turn from him and say to Bill, “Again, Bill, a dance is a dance.”
He has never liked me. Never likes any of the female attorneys. But the other two partners aren’t bad men. I don’t understand where this is coming from.
"Ivy, relax. I'm not judging." The warmth in his voice is worse than anger. Worse than anything. Because he actually believes this. He thinks he's giving me fatherly advice. Mentorship. My skin crawls, revulsion mixing with rage until I'm shaking with it. "If anything, I'm impressed. You found a way through that glass ceiling you women are always complaining about. Date the right guy, and suddenly doors open. It's smart. Pragmatic."
This is humiliating. I move farther away from Thorne.
"You think I’d sleep with someone to advance my career? That I’d need to? Look at how many cases I’ve won.”
“Yet you still aren’t a partner...”
