Page 68 of His Orders

When she finally opens the door, she looks like a ghost of herself. Her eyes are red, cheeks blotched, sweater stretched over the soft curve of her belly. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot like she gave up halfway through trying to make it look presentable. And she looks at me like she wants to fold into the floor. And even so, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on, damn her for it.

“Ethan,” she whispers.

I don’t give her time to say more. “Pack your things.”

She blinks, like she’s not sure she heard me right. “What?”

“You’re coming with me. Now.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “I don’t understand. Where?—”

“I said pack,” I interrupt, stepping forward, my eyes locked on hers. “I’m not asking. Daniel won’t stop, Ivy. You think you can manage this alone, but you can’t. He’s already too close. And I’m not letting you fight him without me.”

Her lips part, the protest already on her tongue, but I raise my hand slightly, not to silence her but to steady her.

“Enough,” I say, voice low. “We’ve done it your way. You’ve lied, pushed me out, tried to protect me. But none of it worked. So now we do it my way.”

I step inside before she can argue, brushing past her, taking in the cluttered space, the unopened mail on the table, the half-folded baby clothes on the couch. She hasn’t been living here. She’s been surviving. Barely.

She turns slowly, arms wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I can’t just leave.”

“You can,” I say. “And you will. Get a bag. Only what you need for tonight. We’ll get the rest later.”

She still isn’t moving, and I walk to her, stop just short of touching her. “I’m not giving you an out. You’re coming with me, Ivy. I don’t care what happened before. I don’t care that you lied. That’s between us. But Daniel Holt is not walking around this city with a target on your back and a reason to make you disappear. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Something breaks in her then. Not visibly, but I feel it. The resistance goes out of her shoulders. Her throat moves as she swallows hard. Then she nods. “All right.”

26

IVY

Isit in silence as the city falls behind us, the skyline dimming into a wash of distant lights through the car window. The road stretches ahead like a ribbon unfurling toward something I can’t quite name, and though Ethan drives in silence, his presence saturates the space between us. It’s in the clench of his jaw as the headlights catch the side of his face, in the stiffness of his grip on the wheel, in the way his eyes never stray from the road but his attention never really leaves me, either. We don’t speak for the entire drive, and I’m not sure if the silence is a punishment or a mercy.

Maybe both.

The farther we get from the city, the more I feel the walls closing in, not because of the distance from what I know but because I can feel myself shifting inside. Moving in with Ethan, letting him take control of the situation, feels like slipping into something I swore I’d never wear again. A life dictated by someone else’s decisions. A home I don’t own. A safety I didn’t earn. I tell myself it’s temporary, that this is just until Daniel is handled, but the truth is more complicated, more dangerous than that.

Because it’s not Daniel I’m afraid of right now. It’s Ethan.

It’s what he makes me feel.

I watch his hands, the veins visible under his skin, the way he shifts gears smoothly, the subtle crack in his knuckles that wasn’t there before. From the fight. From protecting me. The guilt catches in my throat again. I’ve hurt him, more than I meant to, more than I thought I could. And still, he came for me. Still, he drove straight into the fire without hesitation. That terrifies me in a way Daniel never could. Because Ethan doesn’t want to control me. He wants to love me. And I don’t know what to do with that kind of mercy.

By the time we pull into the private garage beneath his building, my stomach is tight with nerves. The concrete walls gleam in the light as the security gate rattles shut behind us. I let him take my bag from the trunk, my hand gripping the seatbelt too tightly as I force myself to step out. The air here smells clean, almost antiseptic, like even the dust has been filtered out. It feels foreign. Too quiet.

The elevator ride is short. We don’t speak. His hand brushes mine once when we reach for the same floor button, but he pulls back before I can decide whether I want to flinch or lean in. When the doors open, I’m greeted by a long stretch of soft lighting and gleaming floors. The penthouse is beautiful in a way that hurts to look at—glass walls that hold back the glittering skyline, furniture that looks untouched, expensive, deliberate. It’s the kind of space you keep your voice low in, the kind of home that doesn’t feel like one.

He drops my bag in the entryway and walks ahead without a word. I follow, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s memory.

“You can take the spare room,” he says finally, voice low and clipped. He leads me down a hall lined with black-and-white photography, doors all slightly ajar, shadows pooling in corners where the light doesn’t quite reach. He stops at the last door on the left, opening it with one hand and gesturing inside.

The room is minimalist but warm—soft lighting, neutral tones, a large bed with crisp linens, a single chair by the window. It smells faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. Clean. Unlived in. I step inside slowly, letting my fingers brush the edge of the dresser as I pass it, grounding myself with touch.

Ethan doesn’t come in right away. He lingers in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he’s unsure whether stepping across the threshold will pull us back into the argument we haven’t finished yet.

“Let me help you unpack,” he says finally.

I turn to look at him. His expression is unreadable. Not angry, not cold. Just contained. He’s holding something back. Probably everything.

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