Page 20 of His Orders

It started this morning, quietly, almost politely. A whisper of a headache curling around my temples, a dull twist of my stomach that I blamed on bad dreams or maybe the cheap sushi I had last night. I ignored it, wrapped myself in a cardigan too soft for how annoyed I already felt, and shuffled into the kitchen to make one of my infamous stomach-healing teas—equal parts ginger, lemon, and a touch of turmeric that tastes like hot regret.

Then Drew called.

"Lunch with the parents today. You in?" His voice was way too chipper for a man who would also be sitting through that lovely performance.

"Do I have a choice?" I muttered, already regretting waking up.

"Not unless you want Mom to send a car."

Charming.

The only thing worse than divorce-fueled brunches at the Dawson family estate is pretending everything is fine while the wine glasses shake with repressed fury. I agreed anyway. Drew had that tone that said,please don’t make me go alone, and I couldn’t say no to that, even when I should have.

Then I called Cassie, because she’s a sanity checkpoint and possibly a witch, and I needed both. “I hate everything” was my response to her “hello”.

"You sound like someone who’s been possessed by bad energy and possibly expired dairy," she said.

"I’m fine," I lied, then corrected it with, "Just a little off. Nausea, headache. Probably stress. Or dehydration. Or this city slowly killing me."

"Well, drink water, wear something that says ‘emotionally unavailable’, and call me if you puke somewhere memorable."

I should have taken it more seriously, but I didn’t. I drank my tea, did a little stretching, and convinced myself that a walk to the store would clear my head. Grocery shopping had always been my go-to therapy when things felt untethered. Something about the order of it—fruits, then vegetables, then bread—made the world feel conquerable.

But in the shop, I hadn’t felt good. I decided it was because I had woken up thinking about Daniel and all the ways he had quietly dismantled my life. In Valleria, he wasn’t just another rich man. He was the one the others answered to. The Holt name was written into the foundation of the city. His family had made their fortune off wartime reconstruction and postwar acquisition. They bought entire neighborhoods before they were worth anything, then sold them back to the city with just enough polish to be called benefactors. It was the kind of wealth that didn’t need to announce itself because it had already been carved into the skyline. The kind that entered boardrooms already owed a favor. Every luxury development, every corner office with river views, every politician who had mysteriously voted in Holt’s favor three times in a row—he had been behind it. His reach wasn’t obvious, but it was absolute.

Daniel had learned young how power worked best when spoken in whispers. A quiet word with a landlord, a recommendation withheld, a reputation dissolved by omission. His enemies didn’t stumble. They vanished. A boutique owner who refused to lease her space had a health inspection filed against her the following week. A city official who pushed too hard to audit one of his properties found himself quietly reassigned. A journalist who asked the wrong questions received a consulting offer in Prague before her article could see the light of day.

I had seen it. I had lived inside it.

He had never needed to raise his voice or his hand. That would have been too clumsy. Too obvious. He would lower his voice and tilt his head, the picture of concern.Are you sure you want to say that, Ivy? Do you think they’ll take you seriously if you keep acting like this? Maybe take a breath. Maybe try again. Maybe don’t make such a scene.

Eventually, I stopped trusting my instincts. I started rewriting my memories as they happened. He had a way of making his version sound more reasonable than mine, even when I had the bruises to prove otherwise. He wore smiles in public, but behind closed doors he offered quiet corrections and careful control. Every time I tried to leave, he reminded me of what I owed. That my future, my image, my family’s reputation—everything I was—had already been tied to his.

I hadn’t run because I was brave. I ran because I was drowning and too exhausted to pretend I wasn’t.

I hadn’t told Ethan because he was the kind of man who would never back down. He would have stood between us without hesitation. And Daniel would have used that. Not with threats or violence. Not at first. Just a gentle call to the hospital board. A charitable donation quietly withdrawn. A string of professional reviews suddenly reexamined. Ethan would have lost everything before he even realized he was under attack.

I tried to shake the thought from my mind and focused instead on placing a bundle of herbs on the conveyor belt. The cashier offered me a sunny smile, already reaching for the scanner.

“Having a good day?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words caught in my throat. A wave of nausea rolled through me, no longer subtle or easy to ignore. The overhead lights shifted, blurring at the edges like halos in water. The world lost its shape.

Something felt wrong. My knees turned unreliable, soft in a way that defied gravity. My stomach twisted, this time with a brutal force. I reached for the counter. My hand slipped slightly on the polished edge. The cashier leaned forward, her brow furrowing.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

I wanted to answer. I really did. But my vision swam. The room tilted. Somewhere nearby, someone dropped a bottle. It shattered across the floor, sharp and distant.

And then everything went sideways.

When I come to, the light is too bright. It seeps through the skin of my eyelids, the way sun cuts through sheer curtains you forgot to close. I shift, instinctively turning away, but the pillow crinkles beneath my cheek, the sterile scent of antiseptic already crawling up my nose. I know that smell. I know the hum of fluorescent lights above me. I know the precise, clinical quiet that coats the air like varnish.

I’m in a hospital.

A cool cloth rests against my forehead, and for a moment, I stay still, pretending that if I don’t move, none of this will be real. But my throat is dry, cottony and raw, and the faint beeping beside me starts to sync with the panic building in my chest.

I crack one eye open, and the edge of the curtain comes into view, half-drawn, a pale divider between me and whatever comes next. I shift my legs beneath the blanket, trying to sit up, but my limbs feel waterlogged, my body too heavy, too slow. Every movement costs something.

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