Page 81 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I lean in and kiss him, slow and certain. Then his hand finds mine, and he laces our fingers together, tight and sure. The sunis still shining. The ocean is still whispering. But something is coming. I can feel it. And this time, I won’t run from it.
40
JACK
New York sounds different after the ocean. There’s no lullaby of waves here, just the high-pitched sound of brakes, the mechanical whine of delivery trucks, the quick staccato of footsteps on concrete three stories below.
I stand at the window with a mug of black coffee in one hand, the other braced against the cold pane. The skyline is fractured by early sun, buildings blurred by the heat coming off rooftops. My reflection hovers over it all, jaw still unshaved, shirt rumpled, eyes sharper than they should be on this little sleep.
Behind me, the apartment bears the evidence of return. Our luggage is half-unzipped at the base of the stairs, shoes tossed just past the entry, her silk robe looped over the back of a chair. One of her earrings sits abandoned on the marble counter like a relic from another life. There’s a lemon on the kitchen island, rolled from the fruit bowl, and a crumpled note I scribbled last night that just says:home. And she is.
She’s asleep in my bed, finally at ease. And I can’t stop staring at this screen. Santiago’s message is still open, its glow faint against the muted palette of the room. Ivy’s name isbolded at the top. Beneath it, a breadcrumb trail of data points: her former Wilson employee ID, archived bank statements, a flagged file from her scholarship application a decade ago. Things she hasn’t looked at in years. Things she never meant for anyone to see again. Personal records. Medical forms. A scanned photo from college, her smile soft and unaware. All of it now a weapon. Whoever sent this isn’t bluffing. They know exactly where to hit her. And they want her scared.
I glance over my shoulder. She’s curled in the duvet like a comma, peaceful and out of reach. Her breathing steady. Her fingers twitch in sleep, like she’s dreaming something soft. I could crawl back in. Slide in beside her and pretend we’re still there, in that warm, suspended world of beaches and string lights and the echo of her laugh bouncing off the waves. But we’re not there anymore. And I need to fix what’s coming before it swallows us whole.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and slip my phone into my pocket. Before I go, I scribble a quick note and leave it on the marble counter beside the coffeepot:Back soon. Picking you up at three for the warehouse.
She’ll see it when she wakes up. She’ll know I didn’t vanish. I’m trying.
***
Santiago’s office is tucked above a Chelsea gallery, discreet, soundproofed, anonymous. The kind of place designed for dangerous truths. I buzz once and the door opens automatically, a silent signal that he’s already watching.
Inside, it smells like espresso. The walls are all matte charcoal. There’s a single oil painting, something abstract and violent, hung behind his desk. Santiago is seated with one leg draped over the other, scrolling through files like he’s swiping through bad news he’s already cataloged. His tie is loose. Thesleeves of his black shirt are rolled to the elbows. He looks like a man preparing for war.
“You saw the files?” he asks without looking up.
“I did,” I say, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. “This is worse than surveillance. This is exposure.”
He swivels his monitor toward me. “It gets deeper.”
A new photo flashes on the screen. Ivy. Outside a Midtown building. She’s in profile, hair half up, a folder in one hand. The timestamp reads 8:43 a.m., two days before the gala. She’s looking behind her, half-turn, unposed. The image is grainy, zoomed in from across the street. There’s a man in the background, hood up, standing still.
My throat tightens.
“They had a tail on her,” I say, voice flat.
“Worse,” Santiago replies. “They had a list of where she’d be before she got there. These are internal movements, calendar-level access.”
“From where?”
“We’re still tracing it. But it came through someone with legitimate clearance. Someone who knew her routine. That’s not a guess, that’s a data leak.”
I stare at the image. Ivy, mid-step, caught in a life she thought she’d left behind. A life I told her was over.
“Derek?”
“Probably not directly. But someone who was still being paid. One of the ghosts, ex-PR, legal, security. Maybe a former assistant. Someone with a grudge. Someone hungry.”
“They’re trying to discredit her.”
“They’re trying to destroy her,” Santiago says evenly. “Make her untouchable in the public eye. Kill the foundation before it launches. Leak medical history. Forge documents. Paint her as unstable. And you? You’re the final headline.”
My jaw flexes. “They won’t succeed.”
Santiago sits back. “Not if we find out who’s feeding them. But the clock’s ticking.”
I nod once, cold clarity settling in. “I’ll handle it.”
