My phone buzzes. Another email from Ivy—no, Attorney West. More environmental reports.
I think about her in that boardroom. The way she’d flinched when I called Madison’s stunt hostage negotiation. The way she’d looked at me when I said I was staying, like I’d just signed both our death warrants.
Three months.
Christ.
I open the car door and step out into the sun and heat. Whatever I’ve just gotten myself into, there’s no backing out now.
The question is whether I'm staying to fix the environmental crisis, prove myself to Sebastian, or because the memory of Ivy gasping my name is the only thing I've wanted to think about since she walked through that door and I realized the universe has a vicious sense of humor.
Probably all three.
Definitely fucked.
Chapter Six
Ivy
My car’s engine ticks as I sit in the massive brick-paved driveway.
"You're making a mistake," Dad had said less than twenty-four hours ago when I’d flown back to Brooklyn. I spent two days loading my sensible, used Mercedes with three months’ worth of living. "The Blackstones destroy everything they touch."
I'd promised to be careful.
But driving up Thorne’s mile-long brick-paved driveway to his freaking palace masquerading as a house, I wonder if cautious is possible with a Blackstone. Especially this Blackstone.
I'd known of Thorne before all this. You don't grow up in bourbon country without knowing the Blackstone name. But I'd made the mistake of actually researching him after too much wine the other night. Doomscrolling through his social media had confirmed what everyone already knows: Thorne Blackstone collects vices the way other men collect watches. Women, gambling, bourbon. He doesn’t just indulge, he curates excess like an art form.
"Your mother thought Louis was different too," Dad had said while I packed my work clothes. "She thought he'd leave his wife. Thought he'd make her legitimate. Look how that turned out."
"I'm not Mom."
"No? You're running to Kentucky to live with a Blackstone. You're defending that girl instead of cutting ties. You're—"
“That girl is my sister! And she has no one.”
The fight ended with him apologizing and pulling me into a rare hug, saying, “I can't lose you too,” he'd whispered. "Not to that family."
I'd promised he wouldn't.
Parking my car, I open the window and take a slow breath. I’ve forgotten how rich the air smells here. Sweeter. Thicker. Real, instead of New York's exhaust and ambition.
Part of me missed this. The pace, the green, the fact that people say hello to strangers.
But the library I passed while driving through downtown is where I spent most of my weekends and afternoons while Dad was at work and Mom was sneaking around with Louis. The family restaurant I passed after exiting the highway is where Mom told me she was leaving Dad. There are too many reminders that she chose this over us.
I'm not sure if I'm home or in enemy territory.
Maybe both.
“Holy shit,” Madison breathes from the passenger seat.
“Language,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. I should say more, but she’s right. Of course Thorne Blackstone can’t live in a house like a normal mortal. No, it has to be something from a damn romantasy. Red brick and white columns rising two stories high, a sprawling plantation-style mansion that looks like it was lifted from a different century. His place doesn’t merely scream wealth, it whispers legacy. Generations of it.
Doesn’t have room, my ass.
