Page 64 of His Orders

Inside the cab, it’s quiet. Stifling. The kind of silence that lets pain settle in your ribs and bloom outward. The driver hums along to something on the radio, but it’s just white noise to me. My fingers are clenched in my lap, the knuckles pale, the skin raw from where Daniel gripped me, but I don’t feel that anymore. I feel only the echo of Ethan’s voice, hurt and justbarely trembling under the weight of the words I couldn’t bring myself to say until it was too late.

I watch a young couple hurry past a window display filled with toy trains and velvet stockings, her hand curled tightly in his, their laughter visible in the cold. I wonder what it must feel like to be light like that, unburdened, someone who hasn’t yet learned what it means to destroy something before it has the chance to grow. Snowflakes begin to drift down, slow and hesitant, melting the second they touch the glass. They blur the edges of the world and for a moment, I close my eyes and let the image of Ethan’s face come back to me, not from tonight, but from that morning in the cabin when he looked at me like I was something he never expected to want but couldn’t turn away from.

I blink quickly. It doesn’t help. The tears come anyway, silent and relentless, streaking hot across my cold cheeks. I turn toward the window and press my forehead to the glass, ashamed of how small I feel in the aftermath. I thought I was protecting him. I thought I was protecting the baby. But tonight, all I did was prove I don’t know how to trust, not even when I want to. Not even when it’s with the one person who saw through every broken edge and still chose to hold me.

The cab pulls up in front of the rental, and the driver says something—probably the fare—but I’m already handing him a bill and pushing the door open. The cold hits me immediately, biting through the wool of my coat, curling into my sleeves like punishment. I barely register the walk up to the door. My key trembles in the lock, my hand numb. The warmth inside is false, a heater kicking somewhere in the corner, the scent of cinnamon tea from this morning still clinging faintly to the air like thememory of a life I might have lived if I had been braver, if I had been better.

I don’t take my coat off. I just sink down onto the couch, curl into the shape of myself, and let the room dim around me. My phone buzzes from inside my bag, and I don’t look at it right away. I can’t. Not yet. But when it buzzes again, something about the insistence makes me reach for it, my fingers clumsy as I slide it free.

Blair.

I answer on the third ring. I don’t trust myself to speak first.

“Hey,” she says, gentle as a lullaby, “I heard from Cassie. She said you left the park upset. I just wanted to check in.”

That’s all it takes. The tears break open again, worse this time, sobs choking their way past the place I’ve tried to barricade inside. I try to speak, try to say something that will make sense, but all that comes out is a low sound, guttural and wrecked, and I feel myself folding inward.

“Ivy,” Blair says quickly, her voice sharper now with concern, “what happened? Where are you?”

“I’m home,” I manage, barely audible, the word torn in half by another sob. “I messed everything up, Blair. I hurt him. I didn’t mean to. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I lied and now he’s gone.”

“Breathe, baby girl,” she whispers. “Just breathe. I’m coming over.”

“No,” I croak, wiping at my face with the sleeve of my coat. “Please don’t tell Drew. Please. I can’t—he can’t know. Not yet.”

“I won’t,” she says without hesitation. “I promise. But I’m still coming.”

I don’t argue again. I can’t. The line goes quiet and I set the phone down, curling tighter into myself. I don’t know how long I sit like that, but when Blair arrives, the door opens softly and her footsteps are the only thing I hear until she crouches in front of me, her hand warm against my cheek.

“Sweetheart,” she says, voice barely more than breath, “you’re freezing.”

She helps me out of the coat and disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, she returns with a bowl of soup, steam curling upward in soft ribbons. She places it on the coffee table with a slice of buttered bread and a napkin, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. I just sit there, the scents of carrots and rosemary filling the room, and feel the guilt gather like storm clouds.

“I told him,” I whisper, voice hollow. “Ethan. I told him the baby’s his. He was so hurt, Blair. I didn’t want to hurt him. I thought I was keeping him safe. From Daniel. From everything.”

Blair sits beside me, her arm sliding around my shoulders, pulling me in.

“I believe you,” she says. “But Ivy, you don’t have to do all of this alone. You never did.”

I press my face into her shoulder, trying not to cry again, but the tears are there, waiting, pushing through like they know how much I need to be emptied.

“I thought if I told him, he’d walk away. Or worse—he’d stay out of obligation. I didn’t want him to feel trapped.”

“And now?”

“Now I think I might have ruined the only good thing that’s ever made me feel whole.”

Blair strokes my hair, slowly and carefully. “Then you fight for it. When you’re ready. When you’ve had time to heal. But tonight, just breathe. Eat something. Let someone take care of you for once.”

I glance at the soup, my appetite still missing. But I nod and try to down a few mouthfuls. An hour passes, and somewhere in between, I give up trying and she makes peace with it, content with offering me a beer instead. We don’t talk much after my tears slow. She just keeps her arm around me while the lights from the city filter through the windows, pooling on the floor like liquid gold, and the world outside drapes itself in quiet, festive stillness.

It should be beautiful. In another life, maybe it would have been. The window is frosted at the corners, the glow from the streetlamps painting snowflake-shaped shadows against the walls, and somewhere down the block, I hear a group of kids singing out of tune, their laughter rising above the melody like bells that can’t help but ring out joy even when the music falters.

But none of it touches me.

I feel hollowed out, carved clean through, like there is nothing left inside but regret and silence and the memory of Ethan’s eyes when I told him the truth. It wasn’t just the pain in them. It was the disbelief. Like he couldn’t reconcile the woman standing in front of him with the one he thought he knew. That look cleaved through every layer of protection I had, and it hasn’t stopped bleeding since.

Blair tucks the blanket tighter around my legs and rests her head against the back of the couch. She has been gentle with me all evening, but something about her silence now feels careful, like she’s holding something back.

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