Page 23 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“I go where the substance is,” he says, and his hand grazes mine under the table.
People notice. I can feel it. But I don’t shrink. And neither does he. Not even once. We’re not just walking through a gala.We’re making a statement. He brushes a piece of hair off my shoulder with a touch so deliberate it feels like punctuation. When a board member leans in to greet him, Jack doesn’t shift his stance, he keeps one hand firmly at the small of my back, eyes scanning the room not for approval, but for witnesses.
When I excuse myself to speak to someone from the museum, I catch him watching me from across the room, a soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Not because he’s proud of the optics. Because he’s proud ofme.
Every look he gives me says what his words don’t: I’m with her. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
When I excuse myself, I don’t go to the powder room. I slip out onto the balcony, a stretch of limestone framed by iron railings and ivy-wrapped columns, lit just enough to feel intentional.
The air is cool against my skin. For a moment, I just breathe. Inside, it’s all chaos, clinking glasses, curated smiles, sharpened social games. Out here, it’s quiet. But even silence has weight. I press my palms to the railing and let my shoulders relax, even as my mind spins. I saw Derek tonight, for the first time since I walked away. And the moment our eyes met, it hit me like a punch in the chest. The way he looked at me, like I was a miscalculation he never got the satisfaction of correcting. A wound he couldn’t cauterize.
His gaze wasn’t just bitter. It was territorial. Dismissive. A silent accusation that I dared to survive without him. That I dared to become something outside the script he wrote. I wasn’t supposed to leave. I wasn’t supposed to rise. And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be standing next to Jack, radiant, seen, steady in my heels and unshaken in my skin.
The way Jack looked at me tonight, like I wasn’t just someone he wanted, but someone he chose. Like I matteredmore than the whispers, more than the press, more than the history that hung between all of us and I let him.
I let myself be seen. And yet, the longer I stand here, the more that visibility starts to sting. As if some part of me knows this isn't where I'm supposed to be. Not yet. Not like this. Not with Derek in the crowd, not with Jack’s mother looking through me like I’m an interruption.
The gown suddenly feels tighter across my ribs. The city lights blur a little at the edges, and I blink hard, grounding myself in the railing’s cold metal. It should feel like a victory. But it feels like standing in the center of a room that still doesn’t want to claim me. I shouldn’t be here. But I am.
A few minutes pass before I hear the soft creak of a door behind me.
Jack. He steps out quietly, hands tucked into his pockets, jacket now unbuttoned, eyes locked on me like he’s checking to see if I’m okay without asking.
“You disappeared,” he says gently.
“Just needed a breath.”
He nods. Then joins me, standing close but not crowding.
“I hate that he was here,” I admit quietly. “That he looked at me like I was... nothing.”
Jack turns, his voice low and certain. “He looked at you and saw what he lost. And what he’ll never get back.”
I don’t speak. I just let the city fill the silence between us. For once, it’s enough.
14
JACK
The Wilson Foundation Gala is one of those nights that tries too hard. Too many cameras. Too much crystal. Too many people pretending not to watch each other while calculating the exact social return on every compliment. I’ve played this game most of my life. But tonight, the rules feel different. Because tonight, I’m not walking in alone.
I arrive at Ivy’s door on time. My tie’s already tight, jaw tighter, hands flexing at my sides like they’re bracing for something I can’t name. When she opens the door, I forget every practiced line in my head. She’s breathtaking, draped in black silk that looks like it was stitched onto her body by a designer who understood temptation too well. The slit up her leg is unapologetic. Her hair is swept up, neck exposed, collarbone kissed with gold. For a moment, I just look at her.
Her eyes meet mine. Like she sees right through the silence.
“You just made every other woman in this city forgettable,” I say before I can stop myself.
She smiles, barely. “Careful. You’re making it hard not to fall for you right here in the hallway.”
She takes my arm. We ride in silence, but it’s not comfortable. Our hands stay locked together between us, and still, I want closer. By the time we reach the gala, the tension in my chest feels like a storm I haven’t earned the right to release. When she steps out of the car, heads turn. Cameras flash. And I don’t care who’s watching. She’s mine tonight.
Her dress is black silk, sharp and fluid all at once, hugging the line of her waist and flaring just slightly at the hem. There’s a slit up one leg, not too high, but high enough to command attention. Gold detailing at the collarbone draws the eye, daring anyone to look longer than they should. Her hair is swept into an intricate updo that reveals the graceful line of her neck, a choice as deliberate as it is disarming. Her expression holds steady, serene on the surface, but with a charge that simmers just beneath. Every tilt of her chin, every measured blink, broadcasts control. She’s aloof in a way that feels almost dangerous, feminine and untouchable, like a goddess sculpted from obsidian and silk.
As she moves beside me, my mind betrays me. I imagine pulling that dress up in the dark, one slow inch at a time, her breath hitching as my hands slide over the curves hidden beneath silk. I wonder if her skin would be warm against my tongue, if she’d arch into me or whisper my name in that barely-there voice she uses when she’s holding back too much. I picture her thighs tightening around my cock, her lipstick smudged, her composure cracked, just for me. She’s all control in public, but I can’t stop thinking about what she’d be like when that control slips, when she lets go completely. The way she tilts her head, it’s not just elegance. It’s a dare. She's dangerous tonight, not because she demands attention, but because she commands it without trying. She doesn’t dress like someone who wants to disappear. She dresses like someone who wants to be remembered, and tonight, no one is going to forget her.
We walk in together, and every step we take feels like it drags a thousand stares behind us. I offer my arm. She takes it without hesitation. Her posture is flawless, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted just enough to say: I belong here, and I dare you to question it. Her presence doesn’t just occupy space. It bends it around her. A force field of poise and mystery.
I watch her in profile as we pass beneath the chandelier light, and I wonder how anyone ever thought she’d blend into the background. She’s not just beautiful, she’s electric, and I’m charged by every second she’s beside me.
