Page 31 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I take a step toward the door, jaw tight. But before I reach it, I pause. For a brief second, I think I’ve survived this round, that the damage is measured, contained. I reach for the handle.
“Jack.”
I stop, spine straight. I don’t turn.
“There’s something else,” Richard says, voice lower, more measured now. “The girl. The one from London. She never asked for anything, never wanted a spotlight. But she had your child.”
My blood stills.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” he replies. “And we’ve taken care of it. Monthly payments. No headlines. The mother’s cooperative, but that kind of secret doesn’t stay buried forever.”
He lets the silence linger before delivering the knife.
“Ivy might find out, Jack. I can’t stop Derek from digging, but I can persuade him to keep this particular truth off the record. If you make the right choices.”
I stare at him, jaw locked. “You’re threatening me with my own past.”
“I’m protecting your future and the family name, but it’s your move.”
I say nothing. Because he already knows.
I walk out stiffly, heading down the marble corridor, nodding once to the assistant who pretends not to be listening. The elevator ride is cold and silent, mirrored walls reflecting a man I barely recognize. When I finally step into my own office, I hang my coat with care, loosen my tie, and rake a hand through my hair like I’m trying to rearrange the past. Then I sit. And I plan.
There’s one person I haven’t spoken to in years. Someone I’ve avoided for good reason. But if Derek pushes this story, I’ll need him.
My mind drifts back to London. I was young and reckless. I thought I was invincible. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and wanted nothing from me, until the night she cried and told me she was pregnant. I didn’t love her. I told her that. And she didn’t love me either, not really, but we made arrangements. My father took it from there. Payments. Discretion. Silence.
I didn’t run. But I didn’t claim the child, either. Not publicly. Not because I was ashamed of the kid, but because I knew what this family would do with it. The headlines. The spin. They’d turn something human into a weapon. That’s the difference between Derek and me. He’ll marry for power, for legacy, forleverage. I won’t. I never have. I’ve made mistakes, but I won’t lie to a woman’s face just to keep a crown I never asked for.
With Ivy, it’s different. What I feel isn’t strategic. It’s real. And that’s what terrifies me. Because in the public eye, Derek looks cleaner. Safer. He knows how to smile for cameras. I’ve always been the complication, the reckless one who never followed the script. The Wilson heir who made headlines for the wrong reasons, whose instincts leaned toward rebellion instead of tradition. In a family built on image, I’ve always been the mistake they kept behind closed doors. And if this child becomes public now, if Ivy finds out from anyone other than me, it will seem like I’ve deceived her from the start. Like I never intended to tell her the truth at all.
I know I have to come clean. The risk of silence outweighs the comfort of pretending. Tonight, I’ll tell Ivy everything. If this is going to fall apart, I want it to be on my terms, but just as I stand, I hesitate.
***
It’s nearly sunset when I see Ivy again. She meets me at a corner bar tucked between a flower shop and an antique bookstore. I walk the length of the block before I spot the place, located beneath an old green awning, its windows glowing with golden light. I pause outside, checking my reflection in the glass. I smooth my shirt collar, rake my fingers through my hair, then pull the door open.
She’s already seated when I arrive, wine glass in hand, black blouse buttoned to the collar, earrings like tiny pieces of armor. She doesn’t smile. Not at first. She studies my face for a beat before speaking.
“You look... distracted,” she says carefully, her voice softer than expected.
I hesitate, then give a half-shrug. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
She takes a slow sip, then sets the glass down carefully. “There was something you wanted to tell me last night.” Her tone is even, but her eyes carry something sharper, like she’s been turning it over all day.
My throat tightens. I wrap my hand around my glass, not drinking, just grounding myself in the cold weight of it. I break eye contact, just for a second and in that breath, I make the wrong choice.
“I thought it didn’t matter,” I say. “But now I need to know.”
The silence between us expands, thick with tension. I open my mouth. The truth trembles on the edge of it. For a second, I come close, so close, to saying everything but instead, I seal it shut with a lie I hate myself for.
“It wasn’t important,” I say, voice low. “Not compared to what we had in that room.”
Her eyes search mine. “Are you sure?”
I nod, maybe too quickly, trying to steady the ground beneath us before it splits open.
