Page 3 of Tender Temptation

Bottomless, all-encompassing sorrow for what could have been.

I’m spiraling. Tormented. Caught in a vortex of longing and impossibility. My defenses are crumbling into oblivion.

My resolve to stay away forever is dissolving completely.

Because seeing her again confirms what I’ve always known.

There’s no moving on, not in this lifetime.

one

Ivy

Three Years Prior

I jackknife up witha gasp, heart racing, as blinding light floods my bedroom.

I never get used to this.

Each morning, ever since I returned home from Hedge Academy, Hilde, our house manager, slips in and sweeps open the curtains to make sure I’m awake. A strict instruction from my father. He expects me to be up early.

Even on Saturday morning. It’s barely 5:30 a.m.on my 18th birthday.

Hilde scoots out and shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t need to say anything more. I’m expected to be an obedient little girl who follows her daddy’s rules.

Which makes me cringe, though I tamp it down and play along.

On the way to my en suite bathroom, I take a moment to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the expansive view of Lake Washington. Below the meticulously manicured gardens, a stone path leads to the place where laughter once echoed from a bustling dock and fire pit. All of it has been removed, replaced with thorny shrubs blocking access to the waterfront.

The altered landscape is a constant reminder of what was lost there. Every joyful memory has been overshadowed by our family tragedy. My brother, Forrest, drowned in the lake five years ago today. My birthday is now the anniversary of his death.

Forrest was the golden child, destined to take over my father’s business. Our family and friends were celebrating my thirteenth birthday with a barbecue. Suddenly, laughter turned to eerie silence when he dove into the lake and didn’t come up. Not only did my brother’s future end, but all happiness in our family drowned with him.

Every birthday since, the air in this house thickens with unspoken grief, making me feel invisible. Neither my momnor dad will acknowledge it’s my birthday today. It’s as if my existence has been muted by the past.

Life as I knew it ended the day I entered my teens. Now, I’m expected to take over Bright Shipping before my dad retires. I’m not allowed to have typical teenage friendships. I’ve been under the strict and watchful eyes of nannies and tutors, even while away at boarding school. My father also strictly forbids me from dating. He says the distraction will derail my focus and compromise the rigorous path he’s laid out for my future.

I know the truth. He doesn’t want anyone to defile his precious daughter. God forbid I have fun.

I’m fucking lonely.

In therapy, I’m learning to navigate my grief and resentment by reclaiming parts of my life to learn what feels authentic to me. Including my birthday. This year, though I feel like I’m a million years old, I’m technically an adult. She tasked me to take some small, but significant steps toward asserting my independence.

I have a plan.

After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of joggers, a simple tank top, and tie my hair into a high, messy bun. On my way downstairs, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. This isn’t the sculpted and polished Ivy Bright my dad prefers. Myversion of Ivy is ready to grasp some semblance of weekend normalcy.

My version of Ivy is going to enjoyone dayfree from a legacy of tragedy and expectation.

Descending the back staircase to the breakfast room, I spot my dad, Stanley Bright, already seated at the head of our sleek, glass-top formal dining table with his back to the panoramic view. The spread before him is mouth-watering—organic fruits, artisan bread, imported cheeses. I’m used to the many silent displays of our family wealth.

“Good morning, Dad.” I try to keep my voice neutral as I approach the table. To pull this off, I need to be clever. And not mention my birthday.

My dad barely looks up from his tablet, where he’s no doubt been reviewing market analytics or shipping news. “Morning.” He surveys my outfit, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Interesting choice for breakfast attire.”

Typical. I choose to ignore the slight, pulling up a chair. “It’s comfortable.”

“Yes, well, remember the importance of maintaining a polished appearance.” He returns his attention to his breakfast, but not before adding, “Your position will demand a certain standard of professionalism, best get in the habit now.”

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