"Don't thank me yet. We still have three months to screw this up."
"Fair point."
As I climb the stairs, I can still feel the ghost of his hand under mine. The warmth of it. The vulnerability.
Maybe he can change. Maybe this truce will actually hold.
Or maybe we're both just exhausted enough to convince ourselves it's possible.
Either way, it's not much.
But tonight, it's enough.
Chapter Nine
Ivy
I blink awake, my mind already racing through my to-do list before I'm fully conscious. The red digits of the bedside clock glare at me: 6:02 a.m.
Madison's school counselor meeting. Calls about transferring her records to New York. The Henderson deposition I need to prep for. That environmental compliance report for Blackstone I promised I'd review. And Mom's estate paperwork. I still can't believe she left me anything. Madison, sure. But me? After yearsof strained phone calls and surface-level conversations? The amount she left to me is substantial enough to make me wonder if she was trying to say something she never could while alive.
But I’m not sure I can tackle anything on my list. My body is heavy, sluggish. I've been at Thorne's for a week now, and I haven't done my morning swim once. Back at my apartment, I'd hit the pool every day before work, clearing my head with laps before diving into case files. But I've been too busy settling Madison in, juggling work calls, trying to figure out this temporary life we're living.
Or maybe I just haven't wanted to risk awkwardness with Thorne.
We have a truce. A week since that tense conversation where we agreed to be civil for Madison's sake. Though I'm pretty sure Thorne interprets "civil" as "avoid Ivy and Madison at all costs." I've barely seen him except in passing, and even then, he finds reasons to be somewhere else.
Lightning flashes outside, followed by a low rumble of thunder. I should get up, make coffee, tackle a deposition or two before Madison wakes. But the thought of sitting in the library staring at legal documents makes my brain hurt.
I need to move. To do something physical before my mind completely spirals.
The outdoor pool is definitely not an option with this storm. But didn't Lillianna mention there's an indoor pool on the lower level?
With a sigh, I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood is cool beneath my bare feet as I walk to the bathroom. Swimming sounds perfect. I need the mindless laps to clear my head before diving into work.
In the closet—and calling it a closet feels like an insult to what is essentially a boutique-sized room complete with an island for shoes and a velvet sitting area—I pull open the drawer whereI'd unpacked my workout clothes. No swimsuit. I check the hangers, pushing through the pathetically small section of my clothes that barely makes a dent in the endless rod space. Still nothing. Shit. Did I forget to pack it?
I'm about to give up when I spot black fabric wedged in the back of another drawer, tangled between some bodysuits. I yank it out. My old swimsuit from law school. The one I wore during bar exam prep when I was living on coffee and stress, too focused on studying to remember to eat. Apparently, stress-packing and stress-studying have the same effect on my brain.
It's going to be too small.
I tug it over my hips. Yeah, definitely too small. It rides up my ass and even my modest b-cups damn near fall out, but whatever, it’s just the birds and me during my laps. I grab a plush robe embroidered with the Blackstone crest and head out.
After peaking in Madison’s room and seeing her burrowed under her covers, I make my way downstairs. The mansion is silent except for the occasional creak of old wood settling. I've learned which floorboards to avoid, which corners tend to moan in protest at my early morning wanderings.
Thorne gets up early too. I've seen him heading to the lowest level around this time, where I see another version of him. Not the cold businessman in his custom suits or that softer version in cotton sleepwear from our late-night truce talk, but the man in sleek athletic gear that hugs every toned muscle. Gray joggers that sit low on his hips, compression shirts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Either way, given the size of this house, I'm sure I won't run into him on the lower level.
I find the winding staircase tucked away behind an ornate door I’d previously assumed was a closet. It curves downward, lit by recessed lighting that casts dramatic shadows on the dark walnut paneling. The air grows cooler with each step, and the plush carpet gives way to smooth stone underfoot. The stairwellopens into a lower corridor lined with what must be original artwork. What is it like to have the kind of wealth where you can purchase expensive art to line the walls that people rarely see?
I follow the sound of water echoing against stone until I reach a set of heavy double doors with brass handles gleaming in the low light. On the other side is splashing. Someone else is awake at this ungodly hour.
I hesitate, my hand on the door. It could be Lillianna. She’s mentioned her love of swimming, and it is closer to dawn. Maybe she’s an earlier raiser.
I push open the heavy double doors and stop short.
The indoor pool is breathtaking. It's a walkout basement. The far wall is entirely glass, looking out into the stormy darkness, rain streaking down the panes. A rectangular expanse of azure water is surrounded by natural stone decking, steam rising gently from the surface. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling—yes, a vaulted ceiling in the basement—their light dancing across the water. A gas fireplace flickers in a stone surround at the far end, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow.
But none of that matters when I see him.
