Page 58 of His Orders

I tap the message open, reread it, then tuck the phone into my back pocket as I walk to the window. The city outside is waking slowly, streetlights still humming faintly as the first rush of early commuters starts to ripple through the avenues below. But I’m not thinking about the hospital or the rounds I should be prepping for or even the patients I’ll see today.

I’m thinking about Ivy. About the girl who made me feel like the world could soften again. About the woman who walked into my life, cracked it open, and made me want to stay.

And I’m thinking about Daniel Holt, the man who’s about to learn what happens when he threatens the wrong person.

The sunlight creeps higher through the buildings, catching the edge of the window frame as my phone vibrates again. I expect it to be Mason, maybe more files, another breadcrumb to follow. But instead, it’s a photo. No message. Just the image.

I tap it open.

The photo is grainy, probably taken from a good distance through a lens meant for discretion, but I’d know her anywhere. Ivy. Sitting alone at a café table, bundled in that soft gray coat she always wraps around herself like armor, one hand resting on a paper cup, the other cradling the small curve of her belly. Her face is turned slightly, looking down, not smiling. If anything, she looks worried and withdrawn. Instinct tells me she isn’t there to just have a coffee or meet a friend.

But it’s not her that steals the air from my lungs.

It’s the man in the background.

Across the street, half-shielded by the awning of a bakery, stands Daniel Holt.

Black coat. Phone in hand. Watching her.

I don’t know how long the photo covers. It could have been seconds. Could have been half an hour. But the implication is clear.

He is watching her. In broad daylight. Within reach.

I’m already grabbing my keys before I realize I’m moving. The coffee I poured sits untouched on the counter, growing cold, forgotten. I text Mason one word—where—but he beats me to it with a follow-up.

He sends the café name, a timestamp, a location pin. It’s from this morning. Less than ten minutes ago.

I shove my phone in my jacket and slam the door behind me, the stairwell echoing with the sound of my boots as I take the steps two at a time. The garage is still quiet when I pull the car out, but the engine roars awake with urgency I don’t try to contain. I speed through the early morning haze, lights blurring past, the traffic just beginning to thicken as the city stirs to life.

I call her as I turn onto the main avenue. My thumb hovers over her name, and I press it without hesitation. The line rings once, and then it goes to voicemail.

A string of curses leaves my mouth as I hang up and try again, but it’s the same result. My knuckles tighten around the wheel as I grip it harder, the city stretching out before me like a gauntlet I have to race through. She is not answering. Which means something is wrong. Or something has already happened.

I pick up speed, driving as fast as I can. There’s only one thing on repeat in my brain. If Holt gets to her, then there are no more rules.

.

21

IVY

The bakery door jingles when I push it open, a soft chime that cuts through the quiet hum of morning conversation and the low croon of a Nat King Cole Christmas song spinning from speakers overhead. The air smells like cinnamon and butter and something almost holy—vanilla-glazed nostalgia folded into warm pastry and laced with sugar. It should be comforting. It used to be, once.

Outside, the morning is pale and crisp, the sky washed a faint silver, as though the city hasn’t fully woken yet. Snow flurries drift lazily past the window, catching in the evergreen garland wound around the lamp posts and storefronts. Children press their noses to the glass of the candy shop across the street. A man in a red scarf lifts his paper cup in thanks to a street musician as he passes. It is the kind of day that wants to feel magical.

But magic is far from me today.

I slide into the booth that used to be mine, back when this café was still a place where love happened. Back when Daniel reached across the table and brushed crumbs from my lips like he wassomeone I could trust. The seat is still cracked in the corner where I once spilled hot cider on myself, still slightly tilted forward on one leg. I trace my fingers over the edge of the table, feeling its familiar wobble, and wonder how many other women he’s brought here since.

I don’t order anything. I don’t need to. He told me exactly what to do.

"Pick up a croissant," the message had said. Just that. No context. No greeting. No threats. Just the old shorthand of a man who still believes he gets to tell me what I want.

I flagged the waitress with a tight smile and ordered it without meeting her eyes. Now, it sits on a plate in front of me, golden and delicate, the ends flaking into the paper napkin beneath. I don’t touch it. I can’t.

My phone buzzes against the table. I don’t need to read it to know who it’s from.

But I do.

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