Page 91 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“I already have a conference room booked and a pretext. But listen, Derek’s people not just watching paper. We’ve got possible eyes on you and Ivy. Same faces showing up near the warehouse and your building.”
“Surveillance?”
“Could be intimidation. Could be staging for something bigger. If they were pros, I’d be worried about timing.”
My gaze slips down the hall. I can hear the faint sound of Ivy’s voice, soft, quick, probably talking to Sienna about paint or patience. “No one gets near her,” I say. “And Emma stays out of this completely.”
“I’ll tighten the perimeter,” he says. A brief rustle, then: “One more thing. Your father’s been making inquiries in Oxford. Before Claire’s death hit any official channel.”
“Through who?”
“Different sources. Too many to be coincidence. He’s not just reading the brief, he’s writing it.”
“How close is he trying to get?”
“As close as you let him.”
“Then not at all.”
A small exhale I can almost hear him smile through. “Good. I’ll text you times for Garvey and a parallel meet with Patel, the external consultant. We set the bait and see who bites first.”
“Keep Ivy out of the rooms,” I say. “And keep Emma’s name out of your mouth.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Click.
I forward the email to my attorney with a single line:Acknowledge receipt. All future communications to me directly.I CC my father. No greeting. No sign-off. He’ll read the message inside the message: the conduit is cut.
Down the hall, a tape measure flicks shut. I follow the sound. The smaller spare bedroom looks different already just because Ivy is in it. Morning light pours across the floor in a clean rectangle. Dust hangs like glitter and refuses to settle. Ivy kneels by the window, the tape measure pulled tight against the sill, her phone wedged between shoulder and cheek. She’s laughing at something Sienna says, and even the laugh has purpose, like she’s already built a landing and is testing whether it will hold.
She catches me in her peripheral and the laugh slips into a line I know well, soft, sure. She ends the call.
“How’s Santiago?” she asks.
“Setting a trap. Forty-eight hours. Maybe less.”
“And your father?” Not casual.
“Circling,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. Not surprise. Recognition. “He wants to be the first paragraph.”
“He wants to write the whole article,” I answer, and the room goes a degree cooler. “He isn’t going to.”
She nods once. “Then we make other paragraphs.”
***
We work side by side, foundation blueprints bleeding into bedroom layouts, cork-board versus magnet rail debates, small concessions that feel like practice for bigger ones. My phone pings with Santiago’s schedule for Garvey and Patel, plus a line about my father calling Dawson’s assistant twice. No message. Of course.
Later, I open Emma’s photos again, not for leverage, but looking for a door I can knock on without slamming the others shut. “I’m going to write her a letter,” I tell Ivy.
“Analog. Bold.”
“She’s had fifteen years of me not showing up. A letter can sit on her desk and wait.”
“I think that’s the only version that has a chance.”
I stare at the blank page, knowing the right words will matter more than perfect timing. And when I step into that spare room again, the morning light feels sharper. She won’t be an asset, a headline, or a line item. She’ll be my daughter. And I’ll be here.
