Page 34 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
The oncology floor was quiet, the hallways filled with that particular hospital smell—antiseptic mixed with something else I couldn't identify—that made my stomach tighten. I'd spent time in hospitals before, mostly for business associates or charity board obligations, but this felt different. More personal. More frightening.
I found the coffee station near the nurses' desk and bought two cups, then made my way toward the room number Ivy had mentioned during one of our brief conversations about her mother's treatments. The coffee was terrible, but it gave me something to do with my hands.
She was sitting alone in the waiting area at the end of the hall, her head leaning against the wall, eyes closed. The sight of her there—small and tired and carrying the weight of everything by herself—made my chest ache. She'd changed clothes since leaving the office, trading her work attire for jeans and a sweater that made her look more vulnerable.
"Ivy."
Her eyes opened, focusing on me with surprise that quickly shifted to something else—wariness, maybe, or concern. "Duncan? What are you doing here?" She flicked her eyes around in a nervous glance that made me tense. I hadn't even stopped to think about if Bill would be here or what that would mean.
I held out one of the coffee cups. "Thought you might need this."
She accepted it, her fingers brushing mine briefly. The contact sent warmth up my arm, a reminder of what hadhappened between us in my office earlier. "Thank you. But you shouldn't be here."
"Where's your father?"
"In the room with Mom. She's sleeping, but he doesn't want to leave her side." She gestured to the chairs across from her, at least eight feet away. "You should sit over there. If Dad comes out and sees us together…"
I understood. Bill finding me here would raise questions neither of us was prepared to answer. The distance between us felt both necessary and frustrating as I settled into the chair across from her. Close enough to see the worry lines around her eyes, far enough to maintain the illusion that we were strangers sharing a waiting room.
For several minutes, we drank our coffee in silence. The waiting area was empty except for us, the only sounds coming from the nurses' station and the distant hum of medical equipment. Ivy looked older than her twenty-four years, worn down by responsibilities that would have broken most people her age. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she kept checking her phone, though I'd never seen her have that particular nervous tick at work.
"Thank you," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "For listening earlier. For…" She paused, color creeping up her neck as she remembered what had transpired in my office. "For everything. I shouldn't have unloaded all my baggage on you."
"You didn't unload anything. You told me what was happening in your life. There's a difference."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You never seem to fall apart. I envy that. You're always so controlled, so together. I bet you've never sat in a hospital waiting room wondering if your world is about to collapse."
The comment hit deeper than she probably intended. I studied her face, seeing genuine curiosity there alongside the exhaustion. "You think I don't fall apart?"
"Do you?"
I considered the question, weighing how much truth I was willing to share. The coffee tasted bitter, but I took another sip to buy myself time. "I fell apart once—completely. And I swore I'd never let it happen again."
Her expression shifted, becoming more attentive. She set down her coffee cup and leaned forward slightly. "What happened?"
The words came slow and with much difficulty, dragged up from places I'd buried them deep. "Meranda Hawkins. She was my business partner for two years. We started the partnership as colleagues, but it became more than that. Not officially—we were careful to keep it professional on paper. But it felt real to me."
Ivy's full attention was on me now, her hazel eyes reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.
"I trusted her. Completely. She had access to client lists, financial projections, strategic plans. We worked late together, traveled to conferences, spent weekends reviewing deals. I thought we were building something together—not the business, but something personal."
The betrayal still stung, even years later. The memory of walking into the office that morning to find her desk cleared out, her security badge deactivated, and a resignation letter that had been copied to our biggest competitor.
"Then she used everything I'd shared with her to negotiate her own deal with Harrison & Associates. She took half our clients and left me scrambling to rebuild. The contracts she'd negotiated, the relationships she'd cultivated—all of it was preparation for her exit strategy."
"That's horrible."
"It wasn't the business loss that destroyed me. I've lost deals before, recovered from setbacks. It was realizing that while I'd been falling in love with her, she'd been calculating how to use that against me. Every intimate conversation, every moment I thought we'd shared—it was all part of her plan."
The humiliation had been worse than the financial damage. Lying awake at night, replaying conversations and wondering what had been real and what had been performance. Questioning every smile, every touch, every word of encouragement she'd offered.
"The worst part was that she was good at it. So good that I never saw it coming. I prided myself on reading people, on understanding motivations and strategies. But she played me perfectly."
"How did you find out?" Ivy squirmed in her seat as if she would've liked to sit closer to me, put a hand on my back. I'd have liked that.
"Nick Martinez called me the morning she left. He'd heard rumors about her new position and wanted to make sure I knew before the official announcement. By the time I got to the office, she was already gone. Security footage showed her there at five in the morning, copying files and cleaning out her desk."
Ivy winced. "Did you confront her?"
