Page 36 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
"Jack," she says, folding her arms.
"Ivy."
Her voice is cool, her guard up.
“Did you know Gina Miller came to my office today?” she asks.
Everything in me freezes.
“She dropped off an envelope. Said you’re not the man I think you are.”
She doesn’t look angry. Just tired. Hurt.
“What did you do?” she asks quietly.
For a second, I think about lying. About protecting her from the ugliest parts of my past. But the truth is already leaking out.
“I made mistakes,” I say.
“That’s not news,” she replies, her voice sharper than I’ve ever heard it.
“But I never lied about what I feel for you. That was always real.”
She holds my gaze for a long, aching beat.
“Then tell me everything. Right now.”
I part my lips, ready to speak, ready to tell her everything I've buried for too long. My phone buzzes sharply in my pocket.
Leo.
His name lights up the screen like a warning. I press the side button to silence it, pulse pounding. Ivy watches me, her eyes steady, expectant, unmoved by the interruption. She doesn't ask who it is. She doesn't need to. She's waiting for truth, for trust, for the version of me I’ve never fully shown anyone.
I swallow hard. “Not here.”
“Then where?” she asks.
I step closer. Lower my voice. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere private.”
She hesitates, then nods, but I can feel the shift already. We’re not on even ground anymore. She still wants the truth. I just hope I’m not too late to give it to her.
We walk the short distance to a nearby café tucked between two stone buildings. It’s dimly lit inside, all exposed brick and low music, the kind of place where no one bothers to listen in. She orders tea. I get black coffee, even though my stomach’s too tight to drink it.
When we sit, she pulls the envelope out of her bag. It’s thick, unsealed. She slides it across the table without a word.
“Open it,” she says.
My throat goes dry. I do.
Inside: photos. Me, years ago, with a woman I haven’t seen in nearly a decade. A photo of her leaving my father’s building. A birth certificate, redacted, poorly formatted, and inconsistent with state records. It’s obviously a forgery. My father’s way of tightening the screws. A lie wrapped in bureaucracy.
Ivy doesn’t speak.
“She was a mistake,” I say finally, voice low. “A long time ago. We weren’t in love. We weren’t even dating. It happened fast. One night.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Is there a child?”
“Yes,” I say, though the word sticks in my throat. “At least... I think there is. But lately, I’ve started to question even that.”
