Page 41 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“You’re sure?”
“You’re shaking, Ivy. Of course I’m sure.”
I nod, throat tight. “He’s going to read the note soon.”
“Good,” she says. “Let him.”
I take one last look down the hallway. One last breath for Jack. For everything I’m trying to protect. And when the elevator doors slide open, I don’t look back, because if I do, I might not leave.
22
JACK
Late evening light filters through the tall windows of my office, casting long, amber shadows across the floor and furniture. The city beyond blinks and stutters with movement, headlights streaking down Fifth like impatient thoughts I can’t catch. Inside, it’s all sterile emptiness, the kind that sets in when everyone else has gone home. Everyone but me.
I stand at the window in a black suit, sleeves rolled to my forearms, tie loosened, shirt slightly wrinkled from a day spent pacing. The ache in my temple pulses harder with every minute of silence. Leo’s voice hums through the speakerphone, calm and methodical, his unshaken cadence at odds with the coiled tension pressing into my spine.
“The article hasn’t dropped yet,” he says. “But I spoke to the guy who owes you a favor. He’s holding the story, for now. The editor’s weighing it against a better offer. If we get a counter-narrative out first, we might be able to steer the conversation.”
“Define steer,” I mutter, dragging my eyes away from the city.
Leo exhales. “Minimize the blow. Shift the focus. Frame it in a way that doesn’t bury you.”
I sink into the leather chair, elbow braced against the arm, rubbing a thumb across my brow. The tension has settled into my bones. I’ve dealt with PR disasters before, but this one doesn’t just sting, it cuts deeper than it should.
“Get the counter-story ready,” I say. “Push the charity work, the scholarship funds. Keep it real. Make them remember I’m not the villain they want.”
“And Ivy?” Leo asks.
I glance at my phone. No texts. No calls.
“I haven’t heard from her since this morning,” I admit, voice lower now. “She said she’d check in after picking up her things from Derek’s.”
Leo pauses. “That was hours ago. Want me to send someone?”
I rise again, every step fueled by restless urgency. “No. I’ll go myself.”
We end the call. I grab my keys and shrug into a navy overcoat. My driver is already waiting when I exit the building, and I slide into the back seat without a word.
“Drive,” I mutter.
As the car winds through Manhattan, I scroll through my phone again. Still nothing. Her silence is starting to echo in my head. I replay her parting words over coffee, the softness in her smile, the way she touched my wrist like it meant something but wouldn’t name it. At the time, it felt honest. Now, I can’t help wondering if it was already slipping away, if some part of her knew what was coming before either of us did.
We stop at a red light, and I glance out the window. That’s when I see it, the same dark sedan that’s been trailing us since Midtown. Two cars back. Tinted windows. No visible plates.
“Pull over ahead,” I say.
The driver hesitates briefly but obeys. We slow near a corner deli, and I step out, pretending to check my phone. My eyes flick to the store’s glass windows, using them as mirrors. The sedan coasts behind us, slows, then drives on.
I climb back in. “Change route. Take Park instead.”
He nods without comment. The rest of the ride is quiet, but the sense of unease doesn’t let up. If Derek has someone following me, then whatever’s happening is more calculated than I thought.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in the lobby of my own building. I nod to the doorman, who barely glances up. In the elevator, I key in my own access code and head straight to Graham’s floor. The hallway is unnervingly still. I knock once. Then again. Still nothing.
I press my ear to the door, listening for movement. Not a sound.
I call her. The line rings, echoing in my ear. No answer. No movement. Nothing to suggest she’s behind that door, or anywhere close.
