Page 109 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

She huffs and shakes her head. “That was the only truth I can offer. It’s your job to secure your freedom. I can’t do that for you.”

I turn back to the television, more disappointed than I was when she walked in. She just admitted that lying to me is best—her truth. No clue what to do with that, and she’ll never admit that’s what she meant.

Seething resumed.

“The peace offering wasn’t the cup of coffee,” she says, her voice small, like a little girl’s.

Not interested in anything less than a full admission of her despicable, outright lies, I unmute the baking show in answer to her stupid fucking peace offering.

“Someone is here to see you,” she announces above the racket.

I click the power button and twist in my bed, breath caught in my lungs. “Wells?”

Her eyes close, and she swallows. SonotWells.

She rises from her chair and clacks her heels the few yards to the door. “Come in, dear.”

Celeste struts in with a bright smile and her arms open wide. “Hey, bestie!”

Jumping out of bed, I thrust myself into her embrace, knowingshe’ll help me navigate this. Celeste will talk some sense into them. I have no words though. The first tears since the day they sedated me flow. I’ve been stifling the anguish, but Celeste is always safe. “God, I missed you, Lettie.”

Not letting go, she allows me to sob all over her dove-white cashmere sweater, the angelic-white palette highlighting her espresso hair and dark eyes. She’s stunning, as always, with her matching calf-length pencil skirt, high-heeled brown boots, and buttery-tan coat draped over her forearm. “I’ve been worried sick, Ivy,” she trills. “Going out of my mind. And I missed your birthday.”

Everyone did.

I lift my face from her shoulder, feeling so small in this moment. She’s three inches taller, and her boots provide another three or four. But it’s more. She’s whole, and I’m the picture of brokenness.

She glances between my mother and me. “So, I sweet-talked us a stroll around the grounds. Put your shoes and coat on, grab that coffee, and let’s get some air.”

My mother brought me clothes last week—items that were at my home with Wells, which has been screwing with my head, but I brush my bafflement over that tidbit aside and do as Celeste instructed. After I chug the latte for a caffeine buzz and discard the cup, we mosey out to a walled-off garden, a winding stamped-concrete pathway snaking through the bare trees and empty flower beds. Winter and death surrounding us.

“Do you have your phone?” I ask when we’re shrouded by vast, desolate tree branches.

She snickers. “I was told not to give it to you. Not that I ever do what I’m told, but talk to me first.”

“Fine. Can you show the doctors and my mother our texts so I can get out of here?”

Her fingers curl around my bicep, tight enough that it pinches through my coat. “What texts?”

I turn, incredulous, eyelids fluttering.Why is everyone soexhausting?“The ones where I told you about Wells, our out-of-this-world sex, and you told me you were busy being fucked into a coma.”

She chuckles under her breath briefly, but then frowns. “That does sound like something I’d say, and I did indeed get fucked into another state of consciousness, but I never heard from you. Your mother texted me a few days after I left, telling me about the accident.”

My jaw drops, but before I can respond, she wraps an arm around my shoulders and continues, “I would’ve come back, but your mom said I shouldn’t since you were in a coma.”

“No.” My feet won’t move. I’m a statue of pain and anger and disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

She drags me to a bench, covertly pulling out her phone and showing me our text thread, which is blank after the morning she flew out. But the thread with my mom isn’t. Updates. Pictures. Every month since September, with the last photo sent on December 3 followed by an update a week later that I was finally awake.

The color drains from my face in a rush that makes me feel lightheaded, even as the icy wind slaps at my cheeks and nose. My whole body is trembling. The sky and pathway and brick walls tilt and quake, like the day I lost Liam. This can’t be happening. It wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t.

Celeste twists toward me, her leather-gloved hands clutching mine. “Ivy, tell me everything. All signs seem to point toward a head injury, but I’m always in your corner. Ride or die, babe. Let’s untangle this together.”

I heave a deep breath, and my voice quivers as I recount the last three months, starting the moment she wheeled her suitcase toward airport security. I cover the inheritance issue, meeting Wells and Ty, moving in, and marrying Wells in New Orleans. Meeting Rena and getting roofied, falling in love and having earth-shattering sex, training and campfires and endearing moments with the guys. Finding out who I was and the role I was expected to fill, and our ancestry test being the catalyst to it all. Thanksgiving, meetingO’Reilly, and Liam—the kiss, the shooting, watching the life leave his eyes while he bled out in my arms. And finally, running, hearing Wells, waking up here, and fighting the doctor, nurse, and orderlies until they restrained and drugged me.

Her brows are pinched, jaw slack.

She’s speechless. Celeste is never speechless.

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