Page 87 of His Orders

And it has never been anyone but her.

I sit straighter. My coffee is cold now, untouched. Claire notices the shift in my expression, pauses mid-sentence.

“You’ve met someone,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“Yes.”

She nods slowly, lips pressing together. “And it’s serious.”

“It is.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of other people’s conversations rising around us. Claire draws in a breath, not angry, not upset, just a little quieter than before.

“She’s lucky,” she says. “And whoever she is, I hope she knows what she has.”

I rise, picking up my coat. “She does. And I know what I have too.”

Claire stands as well, stepping around the table. She offers her hand, and I shake it without hesitation. Her grip is soft, her smile faint. No tears. No scenes. Just this quiet, final moment between people who once tried and failed.

“Take care of yourself, Ethan.”

“You too, Claire.”

The wind pushes against my coat as I reach the car and unlock it with hands that won’t stop shaking. The key fumbles once before I finally slide it into the ignition, and the engine growls to life beneath me like it shares my desperation. I grip the wheel, lean back into the seat, and take a single breath meant to steady me. It doesn’t work. My entire body is alive with a restless energy I can’t contain, a storm of thoughts and memories that circle only one name.

Her voice is the only sound in my head now. Not Claire’s laugh, not her apology, not the gentle scrape of her spoon against a porcelain cup while she told me about Madrid, about the villashe’s been staying in, about how she’s “found herself” again. I listened. I smiled. I was polite. But I wasn’t there.

Because every second, every word, every flick of her fingers across the table, I saw Ivy. I saw her eyes when she watches old movies and mouths the dialogue like she’s memorized every line. I saw the curve of her hand over the roundness of her belly, her thumb brushing over the place where our daughter made herself known for the first time—because deep down, I know the baby is a girl, a girl I will love and cherish and raise to be a fighter with the woman I love. I saw her mouth tilt with that crooked smirk she uses only when she’s pretending not to be nervous, and I saw the fear in her eyes the night she finally told me the truth.

I loved Claire once. That is a truth I can admit without bitterness. But what we had was built on the idea of a future that never came to pass. Ivy is not an idea. She is everything real. She is warmth and chaos and strength and love in its rawest, most extraordinary form.

The light turns green, and I take the left, tires gripping the road like they understand there’s no time to waste. I don’t know what I’ll say yet, but I know I can’t wait another day to say it. The fear of losing her has lived in my chest for too long, buried beneath pride and anger and the ache of too many unspoken things. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I don’t want to pretend I can live without her. I want to come home to her voice, to her laughter, to the quiet weight of her in my arms when the world falls away.

But first, I need to make a stop.

35

IVY

Itell myself I’m not sitting on the couch with my hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea, staring at the door like it might open any second. I tell myself I am just tired. That my body is heavy from the pregnancy, that my eyes are slow from too little sleep, that my mind is worn thin from too many thoughts and too few answers.

But the truth is simpler. I’m waiting for him.

For the sound of his key in the lock, the familiar rhythm of his footsteps in the hall, the way he fills a room without trying, just by existing in it. I try to pretend I’m not, that I’ve found something compelling in the show flickering on the television, that I am perfectly content curled into this couch with my blanket and my half-eaten apple. But every few seconds, I glance at the clock, and each time I do, my heart tumbles a little faster. I tell myself he has every right to be late. That the meeting with Claire was probably nothing. That I trust him.

But trust, I’ve learned, is a strange thing. It doesn’t always live in your chest where it should. Sometimes, it sinks into your stomach and curls there like a knot you cannot untie.

A gust of wind shivers against the windows, making the glass tremble faintly. Outside, the city glows in fractured color, car lights reflecting off the slick streets, casting long, rippling shadows across the floor. I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders and lean my cheek against the pillow. My body is warm, but my skin feels cold, as if some part of me already knows the answer to the question I have been too afraid to ask.

Is he coming back?

The thought echoes, and I press my fingers hard against my temple, as if I can drive it away by force. I think of his hands. The way they steadied me when I was shaking. The way he cupped my face when the world was falling apart. I think of the way he kissed me after the trial. As if I were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And I wonder if I imagined it. If I imagined all of it.

Then I hear it.

The sound of keys. The soft, metallic jangle followed by the familiar click. The door creaks open, and a rush of wind spills in, swirling around my ankles like a whisper.

My heart lodges in my throat.

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