Page 250 of Love Me in the Dark
There’s a collective shift of unease at the table.
But Asher is the only one to question me, as always. Proving once again why he’s just as rich as I am, and only working with me because he enjoys it. “That model was?—”
“Too advanced for the market then. It’s not now.” I close the second screen and rest my forearms on the table, finally giving them my full attention.
Sort of.
“Realign the launch window. Give me early access to user test streams. And find me someone who can actually write clean backend code—without needing their hand held.”
I let the sentence hang there.
Neither of us speaks Ivy’s name.
But I think it.
Because she would never waste time asking for help. She’d figure it out, tear it apart, rebuild it better—and then apologize for being too efficient.
I can almost see it happening.
I want to see her do it with everything.
My business.
My systems.
Me.
One of the execs clears his throat. “Will you be reviewing the contract renewals this quarter?”
“No,” I say, standing. “You are.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already gone, my phone in my hand as I shoot a text to Paul. Asher moves silently on my heels.
Roman: I’m taking the car out alone. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Paul: Yes, sir.
“Watch them.” I tell Asher needlessly. “I don’t trust any of them. Not when she was able to uncover the stupidity without even trying. With Ruby’s bullshit trying to fuck with the business deal there, and now this… I don’t want any surprises.”
“Done.” Asher leaves me in the parking garage, returning to the offices to work even longer into the night. But I’m not stupid. I know he’s got his own games to play tonight.
I’ve got better things to spend my time on.
Like her.
I don’t use the GPS. I don’t need to.
I memorized Ivy’s address the first time I opened her profile.
I didn’t even mean to. Just saw it and didn’t forget. That’s how my brain works when something matters. How I knew thatshematters.
The city changes as I drive. High-rises fall away, replaced by cracked brick, sagging gutters, rusted fences. Neon turns to flickering streetlamps. Every block is a little darker than the one before it.
It’s not the kind of place you live in, thrive in, or build a family in. It’s the kind you survive.
I slow when I hit her street. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you listen harder, waiting for the wrong kind of noise.
There’s a corner bodega with the lights off and bars on the windows. A pile of trash bags that’s been sitting too long. A woman curled under a tattered blanket near a broken bus stop.
