Page 2 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“I wasn’t tired.”
He nods like he’s bracing. “Is this about the menu again?”
“No,” I say flatly.
“The florist?”
I shake my head. “It’s not about the wedding.”
He exhales. “Then what?”
I pause. “It’s how quiet it’s gotten. Between us.”
His eyes narrow. “You think I don’t love you?”
“I think we don’t know how to talk to each other anymore.”
He folds his arms. “We’ve built a life. You’re wearing the ring. We’re two weeks from the wedding.”
“I know,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He watches me closely. “You want to postpone it?”
I meet his eyes. “No. I want to feel like it matters.”
He doesn’t respond. Just walks past me, silent on the marble floor, disappearing down the hallway.
I move toward the front window. Outside, the city is humming. Bright. Alive. Chaotic. Everything this apartment isn’t.
Then I hear it, a soft, unmistakable sound by the front door. A rustle against tile, just loud enough to cut through the hush.
I open the door and find it there. A manila envelope. No postage. No logo. No return address. Just my name: IVY STONE, typed in all caps like a headline.
It looks out of place. Too raw for this curated life. I crouch down, heart thudding, but I don’t open it. I already know what’s inside. Maybe not the specifics. But enough to understand what it means.
I slip it into the hall closet, between winter scarves and gloves that don’t fit. Press the door closed and leave it there, wedged between a life I thought I wanted and the truth I might not be ready to face. Whatever’s inside can wait. Just for tonight.
I walk past the mirror and catch my reflection, bare legs, a borrowed shirt, tired eyes staring back at me. I don’t look like a bride. I look like someone trying to remember why she ever said yes. I flick off the hallway light and let the dark settle around me. For once, the stillness doesn’t scare me. It feels honest. Like the first true thing I’ve felt all night.
2
JACK
Derek is already on his second drink when I step into the booth. He doesn’t look up, just mutters to the bartender and swirls the amber liquid in his glass like it owes him answers. We’re tucked in the back of the club, where the lighting obscures and the music hums beneath conversation. He’s restless. His fingers tap the glass, one leg bouncing beneath the table, betraying the calm his tailored suit tries to project. As always, he’s immaculate, tie knotted to precision, shoes polished to a shine. He looks like confidence personified, but the cracks are showing.
“She’s not herself,” Derek mutters. “It’s like she’s waiting for an excuse to bolt.”
I lean back, arm stretched across the booth’s leather. He doesn’t notice me watching, but I study him anyway. Tension pulses in his jaw, and frustration clings to him like an aftershave applied too heavily. He’s right, she’s slipping through his fingers.
“She’s just stressed,” he says, too quickly. “The wedding. The press. Our mother.”
“She’s not the type to spiral over a seating chart.”
He shrugs, eyes flat. “She’ll get past it.”
“Have you asked her what she needs?”
He looks at me like I’ve suggested witchcraft.
