Page 4 of His Orders

He leans against the wall, watching me with that same expression he’s had since we were kids—equal parts protective and exasperated. "You come back after years of avoiding this place, spend an entire dinner barely talking, and now you're giving me the most convincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard. Yeah, totally believable.”

I shrug, forcing a careless smirk. “You know me. Always thriving.”

His jaw tightens. “Ivy.”

And just like that, I go for the deflection. “How’s Blair?”

Drew blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Blair,” I repeat, feigning casual interest. “Your wife? The one who didn’t come to dinner?”

His lips press into a thin line. “She’s fine.”

"Fine,” I echo, raising a brow. “And she didn’t want to come because…?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “Because she’d rather do literally anything else than sit through a meal with our parents while they pretend they’re not seconds away from tearing each other apart.”

I snort. “Smart woman.”

"Yeah, I know.”

For a second, we’re quiet, letting everything unsaid stretch between us. Drew knows about Daniel, about how unhappy I was in that relationship, although he doesn’t know the full extent of what happened to me or why I finally ran. I could tell him the truth—about how exhausted I feel just being here, about how I still catch myself waiting for the other shoe to drop, about how the ghosts in this house don’t even bother hiding anymore.

But I don’t.

Instead, I shift my bag on my shoulder and say, “I’ll talk to you later, Drew.”

Drew’s head snaps up. He watches me, his jaw working like he has something else to say, but in the end, he just shakes his head. “Fine.”

I pull the door open and step into the night, letting the cool air bite at my skin.

Drew doesn’t stop me. He knows better.

Another cab ride. Another quiet driver. Another reminder that this city still doesn’t feel like mine.

When we pull up in front of the Airbnb, I hesitate, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. It’s a small cottage-style guesthouse tucked between towering oaks, its windows glowing softly against the dark. A welcome sign leans slightly by the front door, the kind of homey touch that makes it feel lived-in.

The porch light wavers as I step out, the scent of rain lingering in the cool night air.

Stepping inside, I inhale with relief as a cozy warmth instantly greets me. A knitted throw is draped over a worn-in couch, and the faint scents of vanilla and cinnamon cling to the air, as if someone just finished baking hours ago. The hardwood floors creak under my steps, not with the eerie silence of an empty house but the gentle protest of something that’s been loved and used. The kitchen is small but functional, stocked with mismatched mugs and a handwritten note from the owner on the counter.

Make yourself at home.

I drop my bag by the door, kick off my boots, and take a slow lap through the space. The bookshelves are crammed with actual books, their spines cracked and softened by time. A half-melted candle sits on the coffee table, the wick charred from past nights of quiet comfort. Everything here is meant to be touched, used, lived in.

With a little sigh, I sink onto the couch, curling up against a pillow that smells like fresh linen. For five minutes, I just breathe. Then, as if possessed by a force beyond my control, I pull out my phone.

I need one night. One night with normal people in a normal place where I don’t have to think about the past or the people in it.

So I text Cassie.

Changed my mind about Harlow’s. Let’s go somewhere that doesn’t play soft jazz and charge twenty dollars for olives.

Her response is immediate.

Where have you been all my life? I’ll pick you up in an hour.

A smile tugs at my lips for the first time all night. After a hot shower, the tension in my shoulders eases, leaving me feeling lighter. As I rummage through my suitcase, my gaze catches on a dark-blue number. If I’m committing to this wholeliving in the momentthing, then naturally, the dress is a little too short.

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