Page 30 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
She reaches for my hand, her fingers cool and steady. Her nails are short, unpainted. A silver ring gleams on her middle finger, the one she’s worn since I was a child. I remember staring at it during gallery visits and red-eye flights, holding that hand through places I didn’t understand. She’s always been fearless. Today, I just need her to be sure.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” she says. “You’re not allowed to disappear into that fear.”
Her words anchor me more than she knows. I glance at the sketchpad beside her. She’s drawn a woman, back turned, wind in her hair, standing at the edge of a pier. It looks like me.
She follows my gaze. “Sometimes the hardest thing is trusting a feeling that hasn’t hurt you yet.”
I exhale, slow and shaky. “I don’t know if I love him.”
Her smile is gentle, quiet, and fierce. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be brave enough to find out.”
Her words settle between us, quiet but unflinching. Outside, a bus rumbles past, a cyclist swerves through traffic, and someone on the corner is arguing with a parking meter. Life goes on in its chaotic, indifferent rhythm, but in here, everything feels suspended.
I glance back down at my croissant, untouched and flaking apart at the edges. That’s how I feel, whole on the outside, crumbling beneath the surface. Part of me still wants to disappear into a hotel bed and pretend the world doesn’t know. But the larger part, the one that's tired of waiting to be chosen, wants answers even if it stings.
I glance toward the window, where the city stretches wide and indifferent. Somewhere, Jack is probably bracing for fallout. Maybe he’s staring at the same screen wondering if I’m going to run.
He told me he loved me. That he wasn’t walking away. And I believed him. But love isn’t just a promise, it’s what you do after the world starts asking questions. After it gets hard. After someone whispers that you shouldn’t trust it. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I do know one thing. It’s time to talk to him, tonight.
18
JACK
My father’s office hasn’t changed since I was eighteen. Same leather chairs, same framed polo photos, same air of old money and quiet command. The walls still smell faintly of cigars, even though no one’s lit one in years. Everything here exists in service of power, curated, controlled, immutable.
I run a hand over my jaw, smoothing the tension there as I walk in. My shoes sink slightly into the thick Persian rug, muffling my steps. I pause by the window, watching the late afternoon light bleed over the skyline, before I finally turn to face him.
Richard Wilson sits behind his desk like a monarch on his throne, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.
“I need Derek off my back,” I say.
His eyes gleam. “So you’re finally here to make a deal.”
I don’t answer. Not yet. Instead, I walk the slow path to the chair across from him, lowering myself into the seat like I’m stepping into a ring.
“He’s digging into Ivy, into me. He found out about the envelope. He hasn’t moved yet, but he will. If you want this family name intact, you need to get him in line.”
My father leans back, considering. “You always thought you could navigate this family on your own terms. You were wrong. Power has terms, Jack. Legacy has cost.”
“What do you want?” I ask tightly.
He taps a pen against his desk, a deliberate metronome of control. “Marry her.”
I blink. “What?”
“The press is already watching. You want to silence Derek? Cement your position? Then put a ring on her finger. Own the narrative.”
“You think I can treat her like a pawn?”
His smile is thin. “I think you already did when you sent her that envelope.”
I stand, brushing invisible dust from my jacket sleeves, fists clenched at my sides. “I sent it because she deserved the truth, not because I wanted to win.”
“Intent doesn’t matter. Perception does.”
I stare him down. “I’ll marry her if she wants me. Not because you say it’ll fix the optics.”
He gives a low chuckle. “You always were sentimental.”
