Page 42 of Fractured Loyalties
ROMAN
I stayed awayfrom Ivy for twenty-four hours.
After that, I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand Edward taking her to school or Irena picking her up, all happy mom smiles.
Disgusting.
She has no idea the threat they pose when theypretendto give a shit about her. It’s better when they don’t do that. Trust me.
Just like it’s best if my fatherdoesn’tknow that I’m carefully trailing Ivy and Irena all through the city on their apparentshopping spree.
I slip inside the boutique I watched them enter about ten minutes ago, and find Irena instantly, walking in a trail of retail associates who look absolutely terrified of her.
That tracks, but…
It’s Ivy I’m following, and she is like a fish out of fucking water right now. She’s trying to vanish into the carpet, and hunched in a way that makes her look half her size. She’s dressed like a prison librarian in a navy skirt, nondescript sweater, and zero jewelry.
She has no idea how to stand in a place like this or how to weaponize her presence. I watch the discomfort, and the way it ripples under her skin.
It’s delicious.
One of the assistants hands her a pile of dresses. She looks at them as if they’re medical waste, but Irena steers her to the fitting rooms with a smile that’s more threat than warmth.
I wonder if Ivy reads her mother like I do.
Still, I follow, keeping two displays between us. The walls are mirrors. The entire place is designed to catch you in a thousand different reflections, none of them flattering. I see a glimpse of myself in my black slacks and white shirt, looking like shit as usual. My eyes look feral, even under the showroom lights.
Honestly… it suits me.
I slip into the men’s section, pretending to check out a display of jackets. From here, I have a clear line of sight to the fitting rooms. A single bored assistant watches the hallway, and she’s glued to her phone. A plan is already forming in my mind, assembling itself with the inevitability of a firing squad. I’ve done this dance before.
And I’ll do any fucking dance for Ivy.
Speaking of, the sound of Ivy’s voice drifts out, her tone uncertain. Irena is snapping orders, directing staff, spinning up drama over a minor hemline error.
I take a deep breath and wait, overseeing them all.
Like always, Irena’s attention is as fleeting as her patience. She spots a new arrival, a woman in a red Versace. The two lock eyes, and I’m pretty sure Irena recognizes the woman. Within seconds, she’s halfway across the boutique, the staff still trailing behind her like a school of lesser fish.
Aha. Here we go.
The bored assistant is now unsupervised, and her Instagram feed is clearly more important than anything that’s happening inthe dressing rooms. I time my approach, waiting for her to look down, and then slip past the velvet rope with surgical precision.
The hallway of rooms is empty. I can hear Ivy fumbling inside the back cubicle, hangers clattering. I stop outside the door, press my palm to the smooth wood, and close my eyes.
Fast, Roman. You have to be fast.
My pulse pounds so loudly it nearly drowns out the boutique playlist, some shitty remix of The Stones. There’s no question in my mind.
I’m going to do this, and I’m going to love every fucking second of it.
I check over my shoulder. I knock once, sharp but quietly.
Ivy’s voice is a ghost. “Um… give me… give me just a second!”
I wait for the silence, then slip the lock with a credit card. It’s too easy. The door opens, and I slide inside, shutting it with a click behind me.
She’s halfway out of a dress, bare shoulders, bra askew. She freezes when she sees me in the mirror, her eyes growing wide.
