Page 66 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
When I finally reach the edge of Central Park, I move without thinking, past the gates, across the path, until I find a bench and lower myself down like I’ve been walking in a dream.
Red coat. Hugging. Folder. Cozy.
It shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because I’ve been here before. I know what betrayal feels like when it’s delivered with just enough softness to be mistaken for care.
I remember Derek’s smile the night he lied. The way he kissed my temple and told me he’d be home late from a meeting. I remember how I nodded, believing him, and how that belief shattered when the envelope arrived with every truth he hadn’t spoken. Photos. Messages. Names I didn’t recognize, and faces I’d never forget.
And I remember Jack, standing there while I came undone. Too calm. Too knowing. Like he had already seen that moment coming. And now I wonder, how much does he still know that I don’t?
My boots scuff against the curb, and I realize I’ve walked farther than I thought. The trees of Central Park rise quietly in front of me, dark against the dusk. The air is damp and sharp, tinged with the scent of leaves and the city beginning to sleep. Still, I keep walking.
Because the longer I move, the more the memories flood in. The girl with the long braid who used to leave his building just after sunrise. The actress from last fall’s campaign, the one who thanked Jack in an interview with a smile that held too much meaning. That French model from Milan. Vivian. God. Vivian.
I remember the way she looked at me across the table. Not jealous. Not threatened. Just amused. Like she already knew I would be temporary. Like she knew Jack always ends up alone.
I sink onto a bench near the edge of the walking path. My elbows rest on my knees, and for a long moment, I let myself feel it. All of it. The ache. The suspicion. The creeping familiarity of disappointment.
Am I doing it again? Falling for a man who gives just enough to make you believe it’s safe, until it isn’t? Am I confusing desire with stability? Intensity with intimacy? Or worse, am I mistaking danger for devotion?
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look right away. I already know it’s more than I’m ready to see. When I finally pull it from my pocket, I don’t open Jack’s messages. Instead, I scroll through my contacts until I reach a name I saved weeks ago but never thought I’d use.
Julian Marks. He’s the foundation’s legal advisor, measured, neutral, and careful. Jack trusts him. But I trust Julian’s need for precision more.
I type the message with steady fingers:Can you find out who Jack met with tonight? I need it to stay between us. Please be discreet.
I press send and watch the message deliver. Then I rise from the bench, slowly, my body stiff from the cold and the weight of too many unanswered questions. The park is quiet around me. The wind brushes past like a whisper, and somewhere in the distance, a siren fades into silence.
I don’t know what Julian will find. But I do know one thing. Whatever comes next, whether it’s confirmation or betrayal, I will face it. I won’t be blindsided again. I won’t sit and wait for the truth to crash into me. This time, I’m going to find it first. And when I do, when I finally have all the pieces, I’ll decide what stays, what ends, and who walks away. On my terms.
My phone buzzes once more. And this time, I let it ring.
34
JACK
The morning starts like any other, with purpose, with clarity, with the idea of her. I wake before my alarm, the faint pre-dawn light pressing at the edges of the curtains. Manhattan is still half-asleep, the hum of the city not yet at full volume. For a moment, I just lie there, letting the softness settle in my chest. Ivy is next door in Graham’s apartment, where she’s been staying since everything went sideways. She’s close, but not close enough. This morning, I wish she were waking up beside me.
I send her a text:Warehouse at 9. Pilar’s team is sending revised blueprints. Coffee’s on me if you beat me there.
I consider adding something more, something personal, but delete the second sentence before it sends. She’s not the kind of woman who needs chasing. She’s the kind of woman you make space for, and pray she keeps choosing to stay.
I get dressed slowly, picking a navy wool coat and a charcoal sweater she once said made me look "less terrifying." The comment had been half-teasing, half-truth, tossed out over takeout and architectural drafts.
By the time I step into the elevator, my phone still hasn’t buzzed. She’s probably still asleep. Or showering. Or sketching something in that battered notebook of hers, the one with the fraying edges and ink-stained corners. I tell myself not to read into it, but the silence pricks at me anyway.
At the warehouse, the air is sharp with cold and possibility. Pilar’s team is already setting up renderings on the old drafting table we moved near the rear staircase. I walk the space slowly, my boots echoing off the concrete. It still smells like sawdust and old steel, but today there’s something new, a faint trace of her perfume lingering near the mezzanine steps. Warm, clean, a little citrus. She was here yesterday, laughing about skylight placement and arguing for reclaimed oak over polished concrete. She made the space feel alive.
Pilar approaches with the updated sketches. Her hands are confident, her voice calm as she walks me through load-bearing adjustments and sustainable lighting options. I nod, listening, but only halfway. I keep glancing toward the door, waiting for it to open. For her to walk through. For her boots to tap across the floor and her voice to settle everything around us.
She doesn’t come. At ten-thirty, I text again:Still on for today? I’m holding your oat latte hostage.
No reply. I pace the length of the warehouse once, then again. Pilar watches me closely, but doesn’t comment. She’s smart enough to know when a client’s distracted. I thank her for the updates, promise to review everything tonight, and send her team off early. The warehouse empties out in minutes, leaving me alone with silence and a sense of something I can’t name.
On the way back, I stop at the corner coffee shop and buy her usual, oat milk latte, no foam. The barista knows the order now, smiles like we’re regulars. I leave with the cup in my hand, unsure what I’ll do with it. Next, I walk to the art supply store on 3rd where she once spent twenty minutes debating between twoidentical shades of charcoal. I circle the block twice, pretending I’m browsing. She’s not there.
When I finally get back to the building, I ride the elevator to our floor with one hand in my pocket, gripping the ring box I haven’t let go of all morning. I haven’t opened it since the night I picked it up, but just having it with me has become a ritual. A reminder of what’s coming. Of what I’m building toward.
I pause outside Graham’s apartment. Her door. I knock once. No answer. I knock again. Nothing. No footsteps. No music. No movement at all. Graham is likely at the office, and Ivy… she could be anywhere. With anyone. A thought I don’t want to entertain wedges itself into my chest. I shake it off. I turn back toward my own apartment, half-hoping to find a note slipped under the door. There’s nothing.
