Page 17 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
It rings twice before a low, measured voice answers. “Andrew Whitlow.”
“Andrew? It’s Jack.” My tone is clipped, but there’s no point softening it. He knows me too well. “I need you to make sure Ivy’s name is nowhere near any of Derek’s holdings. Not business, not personal. I want her completely untangled, clean.”
There’s a pause, the faint sound of keys tapping in the background. Andrew is the kind of man who never wastes words, one of the only people I trust with this sort of thing. Former corporate counsel, sharp as glass, loyal to no one but the truth and the paycheck. Still, he’s one of the few I know won’t look the other way when it comes to Derek.
“That’s going to take some digging,” he says at last, voice even, like I’ve just asked him to pull a file, not unravel a snake pit of financial knots. “But it can be done. Do you suspect he’s still tying her to something?”
“I don’t suspect.” My jaw locks as I pace the kitchen. “I know Derek. If there’s even a shadow of control he can keep, he’ll exploit it. He’s too arrogant to let her walk clean.”
More tapping, papers shifting. “Jack…” Andrew’s tone shifts slightly, like he’s bracing me. “There’s something you need to know. I ran a preliminary scan when the engagement ended. Just surface-level. Enough to see if her accounts were still tethered to his.”
I stop pacing, every muscle tightening. “And?”
“There’s a Dropbox folder. Hidden behind a dummy LLC, one of those shells Derek uses when he doesn’t want his fingerprints on something. His name isn’t attached directly, but the metadata traces back to him. And it’s linked to her. Screenshots. Photos. Even a couple of short videos. Jack, it’s invasive. Not the kind of thing someone keeps by accident.”
For a moment, the floor tilts beneath me. My grip on the counter turns white-knuckled. “What kind of photos?”
A pause. Longer this time. “Private ones. Some pulled from her phone, some scraped from her gallery login. A timestamp suggests he still had remote access after the breakup. Nothing recent, but recent enough.”
My chest burns. “So he’s still got leverage.”
“Yes,” Andrew says, low. “And the fact that it’s tucked behind a layered LLC tells me he knows it’s valuable. Blackmail-level valuable. He hasn’t used it yet, but if he’s cornered…”
“I don’t care what it takes,” I cut him off, voice sharp. “Get me access. Wipe it. Every copy. If you have to burn through his firewalls, do it. I want it gone.”
Silence hums on the line. Finally, Andrew exhales. “You realize what you’re asking. If I go in there, I’ll leave a trace. Derek will know someone breached him.”
“Let him know,” I snap. “Let him feel it. I’m not letting him hold her hostage another second.”
Another pause, then: “Understood. I’ll start the trace. I’ll call you back within the hour.”
The call clicks off. I stand there, phone still in my hand, chest heaving. The city hums on the other side of the glass, indifferent as ever, while fire builds under my skin. Derek thinks Ivy is still his to rattle. He’s wrong.
Not anymore.
11
IVY
Jack lingers in the doorway, shirt untucked like he hasn’t quite decided if he’s ready to leave. The light from the hall spills across his face, and for a moment I think he’s going to step back inside. Instead, he gives me that small, quiet nod of his, the kind that carries more weight than words.
“I’ll see you at the office,” he says softly.
I hug the blanket tighter around me, leaning against the frame of the couch. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Drive safe. Or… you know. Walk safe. Across the hall.”
The corner of his mouth curves, barely. “I’ll manage.” He hesitates, like he wants to add something else, then just reaches out, brushing his knuckles lightly against my cheek. It’s brief, but it still sets off a spark low in my chest.
“Jack…” I whisper, but the rest doesn’t come. I don’t even know what I was about to say. Stay. Don’t go. Don’t let this morning unravel into something I can’t carry.
He reads it anyway. His eyes soften, steady, patient. “Later.”
And then he’s gone, the door closing with a click that feels louder than it should.
I stand there for a beat too long, staring at the empty space where he’d been. Then I drag myself up, fold the blanket, and head toward the shower. The water’s hot, almost scalding, but it doesn’t burn away the feel of his hand around mine last night or the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my cheek. By the time I’m dressed, black blouse, oversized blazer, the armor I keep for mornings like this, I’ve already run out of energy to look like I have it together.
I sip coffee that tastes like cardboard, swipe on concealer, and twist my hair into a bun that looks more severe than polished. It’ll have to do.
***
