Page 4 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I should’ve spoken. I should’ve done something other than wait for her to notice the cracks in the picture-perfect future she was being sold. Instead, I watched her build a life with a man who never really saw her. I stood on the sidelines and called it loyalty. Now I stare at a window that no longer belongs to her.
The sidewalk beneath my feet feels harder than it should. I light a cigarette from a matchbook I don’t remember grabbing. The flame steadies. Smoke curls into the night like it knows the way.
I remember her laugh, the real one. Not the measured, public kind. The one that slipped out when Derek was out of the room and she saw something on her phone. It wasn’t polite or posed. It was rich and warm and completely unguarded. I carry that sound like a secret I’m not ready to give up.
If the world had been different, timing, power, permission, I would’ve claimed her. Not because she was a prize. Because she was the only thing I ever wanted badly enough to make me doubt myself. I didn’t hesitate because I lacked the will. I hesitated because I wasn’t allowed to move first. And I told myself silence was safer. That it was strength.
It wasn’t. It was a lie I wrapped in honor. She’s gone now. Not just for air. Not just for the night. She’s gone in the way that says she’s done pretending. And still, something in me exhales. Relief, slow and unexpected. She’s free. Finally untethered from the life that was built around her. Free from the legacy she never asked to inherit. Free from the image she was forced to wear.
Wherever she is, I hope it’s a place that’s hers. A life with no audience. No manipulation. No obligation. Just space to breathe. Space to begin again. And I think she’s close. I think she’s in this building. Her brother lives here. If she needed quiet, if she needed sanctuary, that’s where she’d go. A place without press. Without parents. Without performance. Somewhere close enough that I can still feel her like a ghost on my skin.
I let her get engaged to my brother. I stood still when I should’ve acted. I thought she’d see through the illusion. I thought the ring wouldn’t matter. I thought I had more time.
***
I step inside my apartment. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. Light spills across wide-planked hardwood floors, catching the exposed brick walls and the silence that lives between them.
The loft is masculine and spare, floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, a long leather sofa stretched across the other, anchored by a steel-and-glass coffee table littered with unopened mail and worn architecture books. Records line one wall in neat alphabetical order.
I shrug off my coat, toss it over the back of a barstool, and cross the room in slow steps. At the liquor cabinet, I pour two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and let the weight of the glass center me. The first sip burns, and I welcome the sting.
I walk to the window. Press my palm to the glass. Watch the city burn beneath it. She’s out there. Free from Derek. No longer silenced by a life she didn’t choose.
I imagine her walking down a quiet street, coat drawn tight, silver bracelet catching the light the same way it did that first day in the boardroom. She pauses at a gallery window, her sharp gaze catching every detail. The wind lifts her hair across her face as she exhales, finally, fully, like someone remembering how tobreathe. The image should settle something in me. Instead, it sets me on fire. Then, just as I lower the glass, I hear it.
A door closes somewhere nearby. The sound is barely audible, but distinct. Not distant. Not muffled. It’s immediate. Close enough to belong to this hallway. This floor. Maybe even the apartment next door.
I go still. My pulse kicks against my throat. The city roars behind the glass, but I don’t hear it. All I can hear is the sound of that door clicking shut. And for the first time tonight, I wonder if I’m about to stop burning, and start chasing.
3
IVY
The envelope lies open on the kitchen counter, its contents fanned out like evidence in a crime scene. I stand in front of it, my breath shallow and measured, as though stillness could somehow undo what I’ve just read. Photographs. Hotel receipts. Time-stamped text messages. Each item meticulously cataloged. Derek didn’t just cheat, he scheduled it. Like business lunches or gym sessions. Like I was a meeting he could reschedule when something more interesting came along.
There’s a selfie buried between the receipts. A woman smiles confidently in the mirror, a towel wrapped loosely around her chest. Hanging from her neck is my necklace, the one Derek gave me for my birthday. The one he said he’d had designed specifically for me. I remember the way he watched me open the velvet box, how he told me it was as unique as I was. He wasn’t lying. It was one of a kind. A limited-edition betrayal, now flaunted by a woman who didn’t even bother to hide her face.
I stare at the photo for a long moment, waiting for something inside me to crack. Nothing does. Not yet. I don’t cry, instead, I pull out the rest of the stack, methodically sorting throughit. One of the texts is from the night Derek claimed he was in Boston for a deposition. Another features a dinner reservation at our favorite restaurant, only his name is paired with someone else’s. The woman from the selfie again, this time wearing a different dress. One I now realize had been hanging in our shared closet for weeks.
My stomach twists. There is a particular kind of devastation that comes from realizing the betrayal wasn’t impulsive. It was organized. Patterned. A parallel relationship built on the bones of ours. Still, I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I don’t even pack everything, just the essentials, enough for a few nights away, until I figure out what comes next. I fold a cashmere sweater, roll a pair of jeans. I pack my laptop, my grandmother’s silver bracelet, and the external hard drive with the latest mockups for Ivy Stone Creative. I take only what matters now. No photographs of the life I’m leaving behind. No keepsakes from a relationship built on performance.
The silence in the apartment grows heavy, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. This space, once filled with laughter, plans, and the illusion of partnership, now feels hollow. A showroom version of love for a man who never fully showed up.
The smell of the wine we opened earlier still lingers in the air, sweet and cloying. I pour the last of it into a glass, take a slow sip, and then set it down next to the engagement ring on the table. The ring sparkles beneath the under-cabinet lighting, flawless, cold, and precise, a perfect illusion. A promise made for optics, not love. I slide it off my finger and place it beside the wine without hesitation, no note, no farewell, just the truth, sitting in plain sight.
I take the elevator down alone, small suitcase in hand. When I climb into the cab, the driver asks for my destination. I hesitate for a beat before giving him the address to a place I haven’tstayed in a while, my brother, Graham’s apartment on the Upper West Side. He still lives there, in the building we once loved for its sense of permanence.
The ride uptown is silent. The city rushes past in a blur of streetlights and shifting shadows. I lean my forehead against the cool window glass and try not to think. Not about Derek. Not about the woman in the photo. Not about the thousand signs I ignored to keep something intact that was already falling apart.
When we arrive, the building greets me like an old friend. Warm lighting glows through tall windows. The marble lobby looks untouched by time. I nod to the doorman and pull my suitcase inside, the sound of its wheels echoing softly across the floor. I step into the elevator, heart pounding. The number to Graham’s floor glows. I inhale deeply, bracing myself, not for him, but for the new version of myself I’ll have to carry through that door.
The hallway upstairs smells faintly floral. I tug my suitcase along the plush runner toward Graham’s door and send a quick text before unlocking it.
Ivy:I'm here. Hope it’s still okay I crash.
Graham:Of course, Red. My place is your place, always has been. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Try to sleep.
His message is short, classic Graham, but it calms something raw in me. I let myself in and flick on a single light. The apartment is spotless. Masculine but warm. Dark wood furniture. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with architecture books and sketches. A lived-in leather sofa that still remembers the shape of his long frame. I drop my bag by the door, shrug off my coat, and breathe in the comforting scent of cedar and graphite. Everything about this place feels safe, familiar.
