Page 13 of His Orders

This was just a night. A perfect, earth-shattering, unforgettable night.

And in the morning, I’ll pretend that’s all it was.

4

IVY

Sleep won’t come. The distinct stillness inside the Airbnb makes every small sound seem louder. The heater clicks as it cycles off. Trees shift outside, their rustling barely audible. The old wood beneath me creaks under time and gravity. I curl deeper into the blankets, letting the warmth wrap around me, but it does nothing to quiet the restlessness creeping under my skin. My body feels too awake, my pulse unsteady, my thoughts circling the same useless patterns. I try to will myself into relaxation, but the harder I chase it, the further it drifts out of reach.

I flip onto my side and reach for the book I pulled from the shelf earlier, an old favorite with a worn spine and yellowed pages. The words are familiar, but tonight, they blur together, slipping through my mind without sticking. My focus drifts, the weight of exhaustion pressing against me but never quite tipping over into sleep. I close the book with a quiet sigh and let it rest on my stomach, fingers drumming against the cover.

My hand finds my phone before I can stop myself.

I tell myself I’ll check the time, maybe scroll through meaningless headlines until my eyes grow heavy, but muscle memory betrays me. A few taps, a quick swipe, and suddenly, I’m staring at old photos—at him.

Daniel Holt, grinning at the camera, his arm slung casually around my shoulders, the city skyline glittering behind us like a backdrop to a life I once believed in. My stomach tightens, fingers hesitating over the screen. I’ve gone down this road a hundred times, and a hundred times the answer has been the same—scrolling after twelve is never a good idea. The wisest thing would be to toss the phone aside, turn off the light, and either go to bed after ice-cream or just go to bed.

Instead, I scroll deeper, watching our history play out in frozen moments—weekends in the Hamptons, charity galas where we smiled for the cameras, fancy restaurants where he leaned in close, whispering things that made me feel like I was the center of his world.

And I had been, for a while.

I was so young, so eager to be loved by a man who looked at me like I was something rare. He made me feel chosen, as if I were the only woman in the room, the one who mattered most.

Until I wasn’t.

I can still hear the way his voice would shift, the subtle change in his tone when I did something that displeased him. It was never obvious at first, never a raised voice or a slammed door. It was quieter, insidious, disguised as concern, as affection.

"Are you sure you want to wear that? It’s a little… bold for a dinner with my colleagues."

"I just think you misunderstood what I meant, Ivy. You get worked up so easily."

"God, you’re being dramatic again. Can’t we just have a normal night?"

I remember how easily he turned my doubts against me, how he planted seeds of uncertainty and let them take root. Was I overreacting? Had I misread the situation? He never had to yell. He didn’t need to. I had started correcting myself before he even had to say a word.

I let the memories unravel, one after another, until I’m gripping the phone too tightly, my jaw clenched, my breaths uneven. Those unbearable nights when he’d come home stone drunk, when he’d use words and his hands as weapons to show me what power he had over me, and oh, the disgusting gentleness the morning after when my face and soul would be bruised and broken. How did I not see it sooner? How did I let myself become someone who apologized for things I didn’t do? How did I let a man shrink me down until I barely recognized myself?

I swipe past the photos, as if I can erase them, but they don’t need to be on a screen to exist. They’re embedded in me, a part of my past that I can never quite scrub away.

Leaving had been the only way out. The only way to breathe again.

The realization had come like a gut punch one night when I stood in front of a mirror and saw a stranger staring back at me—a woman who second-guessed every word before speaking, who smiled through gritted teeth, who had learned to measure her worth through the rise and fall of Daniel Holt’s approval.

I remember the cold clarity of that moment. The way my heart hammered as I packed a bag, as I walked out without saying goodbye.

I never thought I’d come back. I swore I wouldn’t.

But here I am.

And for what?

To be a supportive sister while my parents implode their marriage in slow motion? To offer comfort when I barely know how to hold myself together? To prove—to whom, exactly?—that I can stand in this city again without letting it suffocate me?

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence, yanking me from my thoughts. I blink down at the screen, my pulse spiking before I register the name.

Mom.

I hesitate, then sigh and answer. “Hey.”

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