Page 83 of His Orders

And for the first time in years, it feels like mine again.

33

IVY

The morning after the trial dawns pale and quiet, the kind of softness that feels borrowed from some other life. No headlines. No phone calls. Just the hush of a city not yet awake and the faint creak of floorboards as Ethan moves around the apartment like he’s trying not to wake me. The sheets are warm and tangled around my waist, and I stay still, eyes half-closed, not ready to let go of the feeling blooming low in my chest. Safety. That’s what it is. Fragile and unfamiliar, but real.

Sunlight spills across the duvet in slanted gold, catching on the glass of water he left on my nightstand and turning it into something that shimmers. I shift beneath the covers, stretch my fingers, and smile when I hear the clink of dishes in the kitchen. He’s humming. Not a full tune, not loud, but enough that I can hear it from here. Ethan doesn’t hum. Not unless something in him is loose and easy, and it makes something catch at the base of my throat. I close my eyes again, not to sleep, but to hold the moment before it changes.

When the bedroom door eases open a few minutes later, I don’t pretend anymore. I sit up slowly, brushing hair from myface, and what I see makes my heart ache in the sweetest way. Ethan. Barefoot, shirt soft with age, sleeves pushed back from forearms that carry a tray holding two plates, two mugs, and the unmistakable scents of cinnamon and butter. His hair is still wet from the shower. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looks like home.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says softly, setting the tray on the bed and bending to kiss my forehead. “French toast. Extra maple. And no questions until you’ve had at least two bites.”

I blink up at him, my chest already full to the point of bursting. “You made this?”

He shrugs as he sits beside me, balancing the tray between us. “It was either this or a victory parade.”

I pick up the fork with both hands and let the first bite melt on my tongue, buttery and warm, sweetened with something that isn’t just syrup. I hum without meaning to, and he laughs under his breath.

“God, that’s good,” I say, reaching for one of the mugs. It’s peppermint tea. He remembered.

We eat slowly, knees bumping, his thigh brushing mine as the city rises around us in low bursts of traffic and birdsong. He waits until the plates are nearly clean before saying anything else, and when he finally does, it’s gentle but sure.

“He’s not getting out, Ivy.”

I glance over, the steam from my mug curling between us. “They told you that already?”

Ethan nods. “Elena texted last night. They’re charging him with everything. The fraud, the trial violations, the harassment, the witness intimidation. All of it. He’s not getting a deal.”

I exhale through my nose, not with relief, but with the kind of release that comes after weeks of tension held beneath the skin. “And the other women?”

“They’re protected now. One of them asked to meet you, when you’re ready.”

I nod slowly, throat tight. “I’d like that.”

We sit for a while longer, letting the stillness settle over us. It isn’t silence, exactly. It’s the hum of something just beginning to root, the kind of quiet that feels earned. I think about saying it. That I love him. That I’m not going anywhere. That after everything, he’s the one I choose. I think about it so long that it begins to rise up in my chest like a tide.

But before I can speak, he does.

“There’s something else,” he says, and just like that, the moment shifts. He doesn’t look at me right away, just gathers the empty plates, sets them aside, and stares down at the tray like it might give him the words.

“What is it?” I ask, voice light, trying not to imagine the worst.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw working for a second before he answers. “Claire’s back in Valleria.”

I go still.

“And,” he continues, quieter now, “she texted me last night. Said she’d like to meet for coffee. Catch up.”

Claire’s name lands like something delicate but sharp, a glass needle to the skin. She’s the ex Cassie spoke about, the one who cheated on him before their wedding. She’s the one who led to his issues, and I went ahead and made them worse. An insidious anger plants itself in my chest as I wonder whether he still has feelings for her, whether he wants to see her because he’s… otherwise invested.

“And you said?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, even as a strange coldness begins to bloom beneath my ribs.

Ethan hesitates. “I said I’d think about it.”

I turn slightly, searching his face. “Do you want to go?”

His fingers flex on the edge of the tray. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks… maybe it’d be good. Closure. We never really got that.”

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