Page 64 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
She nods. “You too.”
And just like that, the door clicks shut. I linger outside longer than I should, staring at the closed door like it might open again. It doesn’t.
Back in my penthouse feels colder than it should. I walk through the darkened space, past the empty wine glasses we didn’t use last night, past the worn sweater she left draped over the arm of the couch. I pause there, fingers grazing the fabric. It still smells like her.
I should be used to this. The shape of my life before Ivy took up space in it. But tonight, it feels different, emptier, somehow. Not because she isn’t here, but because of how much of her lingers in everything. A stray bobby pin on the bathroom counter. Her favorite tea shoved between my coffee tins. The soft echo of her laughter in a room that hasn’t quite let go of her presence.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the city lights blinking outside my window. They flicker like static, restless and constant. I wonder if she’s awake too, just down the hall. I wonder if she’s second-guessing this like I sometimes do, not the relationship, but the timing. The weight. The pressure of trying to build something whole out of the ruins of everything we walked away from. What if she doesn’t say yes? I want her here, but I also want her to choose to be here. Not out of obligation. But because she sees a future in this space too, and wants it as much as I do.
I pull out my phone, instinctively scrolling. A push notification from a business outlet flashes across the screen, an opinion piece dissecting the fall of the Wilson Foundation. I swipe it away without reading it.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I know who I need.
“Rhys,” I say when he picks up. “You up?”
“It’s midnight, Jack. Either something’s on fire or you’ve finally decided to do something about Ivy.”
I exhale a laugh, sinking onto the couch. “I think I’m going to propose.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then: “It’s about damn time.”
“I want it to be perfect,” I say. “But I also want it to be... hers. Not some spectacle. Something honest.”
“Then don’t make it a stunt. Make it something she feels, not something she sees coming.”
“You think she’s ready?”
“You already know she is,” he says. “The real question is: are you going to do it before someone else throws a party in your honor and forces your hand?”
I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t want to wait until the gala.”
“Then don’t. Do it in the new space. Do it when she’s looking at blueprints or arguing about light fixtures. That’s when she’s most herself.”
I close my eyes, picturing her again, standing in that raw space with sunlight in her hair, eyes full of vision.
“Thanks, Rhys.”
“Then don’t screw it up, Wilson. You might only get one chance to do this right.”
I end the call and sit in the silence for a while. Then I open my laptop and start searching. Not for a ring, I already have one. For the words. For the moment. For the promise that doesn’t come with cameras or boardroom applause.
She doesn’t need grand gestures. She needs truth. She needs a man who sees her clearly and doesn’t flinch when she takes the lead. I already know how I’ll ask. But what comes after, that matters too. So while the proposal will be just the two of us, raw and real in the space we’re building together, I’m also planning something else. A celebration. Not a spectacle. Just a moment that feels like us, surrounded by the people who matter.A rooftop venue downtown, all glass and skyline, candlelight and quiet elegance. I’ve already reserved the space.
I’ve even scheduled a meeting with a planner, someone discreet, highly recommended by one of Rhys’s clients. I probably should’ve told Ivy... but I want this part to be a surprise. Just one thing she didn’t see coming. Because this time, I’m not holding back.
***
In the morning, I’m back at the warehouse before sunrise. I unlock the side entrance and step inside, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by the vast emptiness. The concrete floor is cold beneath my shoes. The air smells faintly of sawdust and old steel, the kind of scent that settles into your bones. I don’t turn on the lights. I just stand there, letting the dark wrap around me as the first sliver of daylight slips through the windows. This space doesn’t feel like a project anymore. It feels like a heartbeat. Like something waiting to become.
I walk to the spot where Ivy stood yesterday, her hand on her hip, her voice steady as she redefined what this place would be. I imagine her there now, eyes bright, brows knit in focus, passion radiating from her in a way that’s more powerful than any headline or press release. That’s when it hits me. This isn’t just where I want to propose. It’s where I want to begin.
Not in some penthouse suite or glittering ballroom. Here, on this worn concrete, where she’s fought to rebuild herself and dared to imagine a different life. Where her strength lives in the blueprints and her name is stitched into every beam we’ll raise.
I take out the small velvet box from my coat pocket, not to open it, just to feel the weight of it in my palm. It’s not just a ring. A future I’m no longer afraid to want out loud.
33
IVY
