Page 33 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
The cab ride is short, winding through streets that blur past the window in a haze of flickering shadow and sunlight. I slide into the backseat and shut the door with a quiet click, the kind that feels final. The leather is warm beneath me, the scent faintly medicinal, like air freshener meant to mask something older.
I shift slightly, the seat creaking beneath me, and glance once at the driver in the rearview mirror, he doesn’t meet my eyes. Just keeps driving, eyes fixed forward like nothing behind him matters. I press my cheek against the glass, watching the city stretch and bend around the corners, but it’s my thoughts that refuse to be still, clattering louder than the traffic, louder than the engine buzzing beneath me.
I clutch Jack’s note in my hand, his handwriting looping and confident across the thick hotel stationery:I didn’t want to leave without a word. Last night meant more than I can say. I’ll tell you everything soon. I love you. – Jack.
It should settle something inside me and for a minute, it does. I rest my head against the seat, let my fingers relax around the paper, and close my eyes.
The taxi turns sharply, and I sway with it, catching my balance against the door. The city glides past, pedestrians crossing, dogs pulling on leashes, someone laughing into a phone on the corner. Ordinary things. But none of it feels real.
I open my eyes just as we hit a red light. My gaze lifts to the sky, a blur of slate and glass, and I wonder if Jack’s thinking about me right now. If he regrets not saying more. If he meant to tell me sooner.
But then I remember what I stopped him from saying. That moment in bed, when he started with, “I should tell you something…” and I silenced him with a kiss.
“I don’t care what it is,” I’d whispered. “Not right now.”
He’d nodded. Agreed. But now, I wonder. What was he going to say? And why did he let me stop him so easily?
The light turns green. The cab surges forward. I sit up a little straighter. The ride is almost over. The cab pulls up to the curb. I slide out, thank the driver, and walk quickly up the steps, my eyes scanning the sidewalk like I’m expecting someone to call me back. They don’t.
Inside, I toe off my shoes and head straight for the bathroom. The city noise fades as I close the door behind me. Steam curls around me as I step into the shower, hot water chasing the tension down my spine. I lean my forehead against the tile and let myself breathe.
By the time I’m dressed, in black trousers, a silk blouse, and my go-to heels, I’ve forced the anxiety into a small, contained box. My hair is pinned back, my lips lined with soft rose, my earrings in place. Small armor, but armor nonetheless.
Still, as I close the apartment door behind me, I feel the unease settle just beneath my skin.
***
At work, the elevator doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and I step out into the gleaming marble lobby of our officefloor. My heels click softly on the polished surface, but the noise barely registers over the thrum of nerves. I barely take three steps before a voice slices through the hallway, too familiar, too smooth.
“Ivy,” Derek says, his tone practiced, almost amused.
He’s leaning against the glass wall of the main conference room, a picture of polished ease in a charcoal suit. He smiles, too easily.
“You look well,” he says. “New perfume?”
I give him a flat look. “Just trying to move forward.”
He nods slowly. “Of course. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask, if you want to come by the apartment sometime this week to get the rest of your things. I won’t be there. Just let me know what works.”
“Wednesday?”
“Perfect,” he says, all silk and charm. “The place is yours.”
His smile lingers for a second too long. Polite. Rehearsed. Like he’s setting a trap and waiting for me to walk into it.
I walk away, trying to shake it off, but something prickles beneath my skin. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it’s just my nerves still catching up to everything that’s changed.
Still, that look on his face, that perfectly curated charm, makes me feel like I’m being maneuvered, not greeted. Like Derek’s playing a role and I’ve wandered into his spotlight without knowing my lines.
At my desk, I drop into my chair and stare at the screen without seeing it. I should focus. I should care about the meeting in an hour or the pitch that needs tightening. Instead, my fingers reach for my phone and fire off a quick text to Sienna:Going by Derek’s on Wednesday to pick up my stuff. Want to come with?
Her reply comes quickly:Obviously. You’re not walking into that lair alone.
I smile faintly, slipping the phone away. Then I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe.
There’s no point in spinning out. I need to pick up my things. That’s all this is. It’s not about trust or suspicion. Or Jack. It’s about closure. The kind you box up and carry out one armload at a time.
I glance across my desk, no photos, no tokens of sentimentality. I’ve always kept it clean. Professional. Detached. Still, I feel the weight of invisible things, memories I haven’t framed but can’t forget. Derek’s never been good at letting go, and deep down, I know, he’s not finished. Just as I reach for my mouse, my phone buzzes with a new message. Not Sienna this time.
