Page 28 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“You planned nothing. You reacted. Like always.”
“I protected her.”
“You manipulated her.”
There’s a beat of silence. The kind that begs for blood.
“You were never going to win this,” Derek says. “Even if she falls for you, she’ll never forgive the lie.”
I let the words sit. I let them sting. Then I look him dead in the eye. “You’re right. But I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to her. You? You don’t even regret losing her.”
He scoffs. “I regret underestimating how far you’d go.”
Without another word, I turn and walk away. My pulse hammers in my ears, but my decision is clear. Tonight, I’ll tellIvy everything. I want to be the one who tells her, who faces whatever comes next without letting Derek write the ending for us. Or at least, that’s what I think, until I reach the elevator and stop myself from pressing the button. A new idea takes root, swift and unwelcome.
I pull out my phone and type a message I never imagined I’d send.
Jack:Need to talk. Tonight. No assistants. Just you and me.
I hit send. The reply comes almost instantly.
Richard Wilson's reply comes through like a knife:If this is about Ivy, you know what it will cost.
I stare at the screen, jaw tight.
I type out my response and hit send:Name it. Just keep Derek out of it.
I know my father well. And I know Derek still wants to be his heir, desperate for approval, always trying to be the golden son. If anyone can silence him, it’s the man he still wants to please. I tuck my phone away and step into the elevator. The game has changed. And I’m not playing defense anymore.
17
IVY
Sunlight streams in through the sheer hotel curtains, soft and golden, warming the white duvet wrapped loosely around my bare body. For a second, I don’t move. I lie there in the tangled in sheets that still smell faintly like Jack, clean soap, cedar, and something deeper. The kind of scent that clings.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The ache between my thighs is delicious and real, and every part of me still hums with memory. Jack wasn’t careful last night. He was hungry. Focused. Like he’d been waiting years to touch me. And maybe, in some twisted way, he had been.
I glance at the empty side of the bed, already missing the weight of him. There’s a folded note on the nightstand. I read it. My smile grows before I can stop it. I fold the note carefully and press it to my chest for a moment. It feels like a turning point, like maybe I’m allowed to believe in something again.
Last night, when we were lying there, tangled in each other, Jack looked like he was about to say something. Something serious. I remember the shift in his eyes, the way his fingersbrushed my shoulder like a question but I stopped him. Told him none of it mattered, not right then. That the only thing I wanted was to stay in that moment. He hesitated. Then nodded. Said okay.
Now, with the weight of his absence and that note still warm against my skin, I can’t help but wonder what it was he held back. What truth he tucked behind his teeth. And why it suddenly feels so terrifying not to know.
Maybe it was something about us. About him. Maybe it was a secret meant to come with warning signs, and I silenced it before it could be spoken. At the time, I thought I was preserving the quiet between us. Protecting something rare. But after that anonymous message, after seeing the photo, I wonder if I was shielding myself from a truth I didn’t want to face.
The moment doesn’t last. My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, still half-drunk on warmth and memory. The screen lights up with a notification:You were tagged in a post.
I tap into the app. It’s a gossip account. A deep-dive thread. The first image is harmless: Jack and me stepping out of the limo together. The second is worse, a blurry photo of us on the balcony. I’m facing him, head tilted slightly, lips parted. His hand rests low on my back. It’s not explicit, but it doesn’t have to be. The framing suggests everything. The implication is clear. My stomach twists.
There’s commentary, of course. A caption that says:The Wilson brothers really know how to share.
My throat tightens. A scroll further down reveals a breakdown of Jack’s dating history. His exes. The rumors. The spin. One headline flashes by in bold:Jack Wilson’s fiery breakup with gallery owner ends in NDA.I don’t even know if that’s real. I don’t want to. I drop the phone onto the sheets, then it buzzes again.
Unknown number:He’s not who you think.
No name. No punctuation. Just a line of digital venom that sinks deep into my skin. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath. It’s noise. I know it’s noise. But I also know what noise can do when it hits the right frequency.
Jack was single. I was engaged. Logically, none of this should matter. But it does. Because the image it paints isn’t just about his past, it’s about how much of it I never saw. And if I didn’t know that part of him, what else don’t I know?
