Page 12 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
"We're going to need to pause your chemotherapy treatments for now. Your T-cell count is lower than we'd like to see, whichmeans your immune system is compromised. We need to give your body time to recover before we can continue."
"What does that mean?" I asked, though I was afraid I already knew the answer.
"It means the treatment isn't working as well as we'd hoped," Dr. White said carefully. "We'll need to reassess your mother's treatment plan and possibly explore other options."
The room seemed to tilt around me. My mother's hand tightened around mine, and I could see the fear she was trying so hard to hide.
"How long?" my mother asked, her voice steadier than mine would have been.
"We'll monitor your levels over the next two weeks and see how you respond. If they improve, we can resume treatment. If not…" He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.
After he left, my mother and I sat in silence, both of us processing what we had just heard. The weight of secrets and lies and unspoken truths felt heavier than ever, and I wondered how much longer I could carry them all.
"Maybe it's time to stop running," my mother said quietly.
I looked at her, this woman who had always been my anchor, and realized she was right. But knowing what I needed to do and finding the courage to do it were two very different things.
6
DUNCAN
Istood in the parking garage at 7:15 on Friday morning, leaning against my car and watching the entrance for any sign of Ivy's arrival.
The concrete walls echoed with the sound of car doors slamming and heels clicking against the pavement as other early arrivals made their way to the elevators. I had been here for twenty minutes already, nursing a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold and trying to convince myself that ambushing my assistant in a parking garage was not the behavior of a desperate man.
Tuesday morning, I had picked up the phone to call the temp agency and request a replacement. Ivy had disappeared Monday afternoon without explanation, leaving only a hastily scrawled note about a family emergency. I had stared at that note for ten minutes, recognizing the neat handwriting that had once signed birthday cards and thank-you notes when she was younger.
But I never made the call. I set the phone down and told myself I would wait one more day, give her the benefit of the doubt. When she showed up Wednesday morning with darkcircles under her eyes and an apology that felt genuine, I knew I had made the right choice.
Working with her for two full days had been both torture and revelation. She was efficient, organized, and professional in a way that impressed even my most demanding clients. But watching her move through my office, seeing her bent over paperwork or fielding phone calls with that careful, measured voice had awakened something in me that I thought I had successfully buried.
The itch was back, stronger than ever, and no amount of cold showers or late-night runs could make it go away.
I had tried twice during the week to get her alone, to have the conversation we needed to have. Both times, she had deflected with logical explanations, redirecting our interaction back to work matters and maintaining the careful distance she had established since that first day in my office.
But I couldn't let it go. Not anymore. The sleepless nights and distracted days were proof that my feelings for Ivy Whitmore had not diminished with time or distance. If anything, having her close again had intensified them to a degree that was affecting my work and my sanity.
Today was my last attempt. If she pushed me away again, I would respect her wishes and find a way to work with her purely as an employee. I would not become the kind of man who used his position of power to pressure women into situations they didn't want. I had enough scandals in my past without adding harassment to the list.
The sound of a car engine drew my attention to the garage entrance. A dark blue minivan turned into the parking area, and I straightened with surprise. Ivy drove a Honda Civic the last time I had seen her behind the wheel. The minivan seemed impractical for a single woman in her early twenties.
She parked three spaces away from my BMW and sat in the driver's seat for a moment, her hands gripping the steering wheel. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she took several deep breaths before finally opening the door.
I waited until she had gathered her purse and laptop bag before approaching. She looked up as I fell into step beside her, her expression carefully neutral.
"Good morning, Ivy."
"Duncan." Her voice was polite but wary. "You're here early."
"I wanted to catch you before the day got started." I matched her pace as we walked toward the elevators. "I have a board meeting at nine, but I was hoping we could talk first."
"We can discuss whatever you need in the office," she said sternly, her eyes flicking up to meet mine, and it made my chest knot up. Another deflection.
"This isn't about work."
She stopped walking, forcing me to halt beside her. The parking garage was nearly empty now, most of the early arrivals already upstairs beginning their day. Our footsteps echoed in the concrete space as she turned to face me.
"Duncan, we've been through this. I told you?—"
