Page 19 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
Back at my desk, I stare at my keyboard for a full minute before typing a single word, unsure whether I’m working or just trying to quiet everything swirling in my chest. Even with the meeting behind us, the tension sits in my chest like a held breath.
The image keeps looping in my mind, his hand on my jaw, steady and sure, the press of his mouth against mine, and the way his eyes searched my face like I was something he wanted and feared at the same time. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t confused. It felt deliberate. Intimate. Charged with every word we hadn’t said out loud. And now I’m here, acting like everything’s fine. Like the walls between us haven’t already started to crumble.
I close my laptop. Just for a moment. I let my head fall into my hands and I let myself feel it. But only for a second. ThenI push back from my desk and head for the break room. The fluorescent lights hum louder in there, somehow harsher than usual. I pretend not to notice the two assistants who pause mid-conversation when I enter. I pour myself another coffee, dark roast, no cream, just heat, and take a long sip like it might burn away the ache beneath my ribs.
I scroll through emails on my phone as I stir in sugar I won’t taste. There’s a brand feedback loop that needs finessing, a media deck for next week’s campaign that’s somehow missing half its links, and a request from legal to review three lines of boilerplate that make my eyes blur. I respond to all of them. Efficient. Precise. Unfeeling.
I catch my reflection again in the break-room microwave door, my bun is already loosening, strands slipping down around my face. I smooth them back without thinking, fingers trembling slightly. I’m not unraveling. I’m adjusting.
Back at my desk, I queue up a new project outline and lose myself in logistics. Timelines. Delivery dates. Vendor updates. Anything that doesn’t feel like memory.
But later, when I pause to refill my water bottle, I glance toward the hallway, toward Jack’s office. His door is closed. His blinds drawn. He’s in there. I know it. As I turn back toward my desk, I almost run straight into Noah, one of our junior creatives. He’s holding a portfolio mock-up and looks startled to see me.
"Oh…sorry, Ivy," he says, stepping back.
"No harm done," I reply quickly, managing a small smile.
He hesitates. "You okay? You seem... kind of intense today."
I lift an eyebrow, keeping it light. "Is that your professional opinion, or just a caffeine-deprived observation?"
He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. "Bit of both, maybe. We all kind of felt it today. Like something’s… off."
I nod, more to acknowledge his honesty than to agree. "Long night. But thanks for checking."
He shifts the portfolio in his arms. "You want to weigh in on the new layout before the three o’clock? I tweaked the typography and spacing like you suggested."
"Sure," I say, motioning toward the empty chair beside my desk. "Let’s take a look."
For the next ten minutes, we go over every detail of the mock-up, font sizes, kerning, color saturation, the tension between minimalism and personality. I give feedback, he listens, and for a moment I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be: clear-eyed, capable, decisive. Then he packs up, grateful, and I walk him to the edge of the pod, exchanging a few final notes before turning back.
I hover beside my desk a moment longer than necessary, then finally lower into my chair. I wonder if Jack can tell I’m not okay, no matter how hard I try to fake it. If he’s thinking about last night too. About what it meant.
12
JACK
The moment Ivy’s door closes behind her, I push away from my desk, my chair rolling back with a quiet scrape against the office floor. Not out of panic, out of purpose. She walked out because she found out the truth about Derek. But I’m done letting her carry the weight of it alone.
I pace once, then grab my phone again and dial Andrew back.
“Tell me you’ve got something.”
His voice is grim. “I do. We accessed the Dropbox folder. He’s got dozens of photos, Jack. Some are innocent, vacations, dinners, charity events. But some were clearly never meant to be seen by anyone else. Intimate. Vulnerable.”
I close my eyes and press my fingers against them. The burn is immediate.
“Any proof he’s shared them?”
“None yet. But the folder has activity logs. Someone tried to open a private download link two days ago. No proof it went through. But he’s thinking about it.”
“Forward everything to the investigator. And start the cease-and-desist process. Quietly. If this leaks, I want the trail to end with me, not her.”
“Already in motion.”
I end the call and toss the phone on the counter.
The thought of Ivy’s privacy, her dignity, being used as a weapon makes my skin crawl.
