Page 22 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
The invitation came last night. Jack had shown up at my door close to midnight, exhausted but unshaken. He asked me to come with him, not for appearances but for truth. For clarity. For us. And I said yes.
***
The knock comes at exactly seven. When I open the door, Jack is standing there in a black tux tailored to brutal perfection, the satin lapels catching just enough light to make him look like he stepped out of a sharper, darker version of a dream.
His gaze starts at my eyes and slowly, reverently, drags down the length of me before returning to my face. He doesn't speak at first, he just looks. Then…
“You’re going to ruin me.”
“Promise?” I say, my voice just barely steady.
He offers his arm. “Let’s go burn the world down.”
The car ride is silent, but not empty. Jack sits beside me, his gaze flicking between the dark city skyline and the reflection of me in the window. His hand brushes against mine once, then again, and finally stays there, his thumb lightly grazing the side of my hand like he's memorizing the shape of me.
I feel the pull of his attention. The way his eyes linger a little too long when the streetlights flash across my bare shoulder, the dip of the dress, the length of leg the slit reveals. His breath stutters, a quiet hitch like he's trying to hold it back and failing, a sharp exhale that gives him away. There's hunger in it. Awe.
When I turn my head to look at him, his jaw clenches slightly. Like he’s trying not to say something or do something.
“You’re staring,” I say, softly.
He doesn’t deny it. “I’ve been trying not to since the second you opened that door.”
My cheeks flush, and I glance away, but he leans in, close enough for his voice to rumble low between us.
“You’re dangerous like this. And I like dangerous.”
By the time the car rolls to a stop in front of the limestone building, the tension has built to something taut and electric, pressing against my skin like a live wire. I don’t breathe until the door opens and the outside air rushes in, cool and sharp. And still, I feel the heat of his gaze on me as I step out into the night.
The moment I step out, the camera flashes begin. Jack steps beside me, and the look on his face as he watches me adjust the hem of my gown is nothing short of pride. Possession. Admiration.
He leans in. “Ready?”
I look up at him. “I was born ready.”
We walk in together, a slow, deliberate procession through marble and whispers. People turn. People stare. People talk. But Jack? He doesn’t look at them. He looks at me.
Inside, the ballroom gleams with polished excess. Golden light spills from crystal chandeliers, painting everything in soft opulence. Waiters in crisp black uniforms weave through the crowd with trays of champagne and caviar, and the hum of old money and calculated charm fills the air like perfume. White orchids drape from tall glass centerpieces, and a string quartet plays something soft, familiar, and just formal enough to keep everyone postured.
People turn to watch as we enter. I can feel the weight of their glances, the whispers that follow behind us like silk trains.
Jack walks beside me like we own the floor. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t falter. Every step is deliberate, confident, perfectly measured. He doesn’t just escort me. He presents me. Heintroduces me to board members and executives, each time with an ease that makes it clear: I’m not a plus-one. I’m not a placeholder.
“Ivy Stone,” he says with quiet authority, his hand never leaving my lower back. “You should know her work.”
Every time someone’s eyes linger too long, every time someone dares to glance at my legs or whisper about Derek, Jack shifts slightly closer. Subtle, but unmistakable. And when he smiles at me, it’s not performative. It’s personal.
We don’t see Derek until halfway through the night. He’s leaning against the bar, drink in hand, surrounded by smug entitlement. When he sees me, his smile fades, and his gaze sharpens. Jack feels it. His grip tightens around my waist. Derek doesn’t come over. But he watches. And Jack makes sure that if he’s watching, he sees everything.
Then there’s Jack’s mother. Standing tall near the dais, wrapped in cold silk and judgment. Her glance is brief. Her disapproval is palpable.
“They don’t define you,” Jack murmurs.
“I know,” I say, but the ache beneath my ribs still lingers.
He stays close. Through the toasts, the speeches, the photos, Jack never steps more than a breath away. When the foundation director clinks his glass and begins his remarks, Jack doesn’t turn to the stage immediately. He looks at me. Like I’m the only thing in this room that matters.
During dinner, he brushes his fingers along the back of my chair. Not possessive, just present. Grounding. When someone across the table tries to needle him about his sudden change in company, Jack doesn’t flinch.
