Page 21 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
She shifts her weight. Her hand grips the edge of the door, knuckles white. “And if it all backfires?”
“Then I’ll still be right here,” I say. “Standing beside you.”
Her lips part, like she wants to say no, but instead… she just stands there, breathing.
“I get it,” I say gently. “You’re thinking it’s easier not to stir things up. Not to step into the fire.”
“It’s not about easy, Jack,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about survival. He doesn’t like losing. He doesn’t forget it.”
“I’m not asking you to fight him,” I tell her. “I’m asking you to stand with me. I’ll take every hit. I’ll run interference. I just don’t want to walk in alone.”
Her expression shifts, uncertainty, then something like resolve. “I don’t want to be your liability.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You’re the reason I finally want to be seen.”
A long pause. Her chest rises, then falls. She finally nods.
“Okay,” she says. “Then I’ll be there.”
I nod once. “Thank you. It’ll mean a lot.”
Her voice softens. “To both of us.”
She lingers in the doorway for a second longer. And so do I. No kiss. No promises we’re not ready to speak aloud. Then she closes the door, and I stand there, hand still hovering in the space she left behind.
I walk back down the hallway slowly, dragging my fingers across the wall like I’m grounding myself in something real. That yes, it wasn’t loud. But it was enough. Because that gala… it’s not just optics.
It’s war. It’s a test of who I’m willing to be with her beside me and who I’ll have to destroy to protect her. The world Derek built is made of shadows. Control. Performance. I’ve spent my whole life orbiting it. Feeding it. Living in fear of stepping outside its reach. But Ivy? Ivy is the rupture. If she walks in beside me, head high, unflinching, they won’t be able to rewrite her or bury me. She becomes the truth they can’t spin. The woman no one saw coming.
I enter my apartment and shrug off the hoodie. Then I pour one last drink. The bourbon hits differently tonight. Less burn. More clarity.
I’ve spent years keeping my distance from her, telling myself it was noble. That it gave her peace. But I don’t want distance anymore. I want her beside me, fully, publicly, unapologetically.
Let Derek watch. Let my father scowl. Let the board whisper and the cameras flash. They’ve had their time. This is mine. And I’m not giving it back.
13
IVY
Sienna shows up with champagne, and three garment bags slung over one shoulder.
“Tonight isn’t about blending in,” she declares as she sweeps into my living room. “It’s about a reintroduction. You, on your terms. And the Wilson Gala is the perfect stage.”
She unzips the first bag: deep emerald velvet, sleek and soft. The second is a structured column of silver that glints under the light. Too cool. Too distant. Then she reveals the third, a black silk gown, sharp and fluid, with a slit that climbs scandalously high and gold piping so subtle it catches only when the light wants it to.
I reach out, run my fingers over the fabric. It feels like power.
“That one,” I say.
Sienna smirks. “Knew it.”
She helps me with my hair, twisting it into a loose, low chignon that frames my face with soft strands. My makeup is bolder than usual, winged liner, a deep wine lip, skin glowing with highlighter and nerves.
She circles me as I step into the dress, her eyes narrowed in approval. “You look like a woman who’s about to destroy the narrative. Dangerous in all the right ways.”
“Good,” I murmur, sliding my feet into gold stilettos.
I take one last look in the mirror. My posture is straight, my eyes steady. I don’t just look ready. I look armed.
