Page 113 of The Devil of Downtown

Five minutes.

I swear my heart forgets how to function for a full second. It’s reckless and stupid and exactly what I want.

I tiptoe to the front door when he texts that he’s outside. The hallway light casts him in a soft glow—navy jacket, open collar, hair slightly mussed like he ran a hand through it on the ride over. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s worked since sunrise.

He steps inside without a word, closing the door with a soft click. His eyes crinkle when they meet mine, a quiet smile curving his mouth, and it takes everything in me not to grab him right there in the hallway.

We move quietly—almost comically so—as I lead him to my room.

Once the door is shut behind us, he cups my face in his hands and presses a lingering kiss on my lips.

“You came,” I whisper, aware of how breathless I sound.

He steps closer, fingertips brushing the side of my jaw in a feather-light caress. “Try and stop me.”

The heat in his eyes steals whatever clever response I might’ve had.

He peels off his jacket, then his shirt, muscles shifting in the glow of my bedside lamp. He unbuckles his belt and steps out of his pants, leaving only dark boxers that cling like temptation.

“You’re getting way too comfortable for someone who saidfive minutes,” I tease.

He gives me that devastating smile that’s impossible to resist. “Shall we sleep, Ivy? I always sleep better with you.” He rubs the pad of his thumb softly on my chin. “I’ll leave before anyone wakes.”

I just nod, taking his hand as he climbs into bed, pulling me against his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, firm and protective, and the moment my cheek presses against his shoulder, a quiet part of me soothes—some tight, restless knot unraveling.

His breath evens long before mine does, warm against my forehead, steady and grounding. I trace patterns on his ribs with the tip of my finger, committing the moment to memory.

At some point, sleep finally catches up.

When my eyes blink open a few hours later, the room is faintly gray with early dawn. The bed is cooled on his side, the pillow indented, the sheets still smelling of his cologne.

He’s gone.

And taken my stupid heart with him.

This time, I fear for good.

Chapter twenty-five

Dane

Every year, I tell myself I won’t come.

And every damn year, I do.

Not for my father.

Not forhisspectacle.

But for Charlotte, who shouldn’t have to stand on a stage alone, honoring the dead my father exploits.

And for Julian, who endures this circus with whiskey and sarcasm as armor.

The Black Foundation Memorial Gala plays out in front of us, my father’s favorite kind of grief: profitable, photogenic, champagne, lights, and entirely about him. A yearly tribute to Amelia, my mother... and Helena, the fiancée he never cared for until her death, became a PR opportunity.

I step out of the car first and offer my hand to Ivy.

She emerges like a goddess in figure-hugging red velvet that sweeps down to the floor from a tight bodice that I plan to enjoy later. Her dark hair is twisted in an elegant chignon, thediamond earrings I gifted her catching the light, and her lips painted blood red to match the dress. Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it. But the sight of her here at this event is stirring up too many things I shouldn’t feel all at once.