Mr. Pickles is sitting in the hallway like he’s been waiting for me, his eyes bright and unblinking.
I stare at him, and he stares back.
“Don’t judge me,” I whisper.
He blinks once, slow and unimpressed, then stands and pads away.
I lean my forehead against the door, forcing my breathing to slow.
My pulse is still racing, but my mind is sharp.
That wasn’t my imagination.
It wasn’t the wind. And it wasn’t an accident.
Someone is out there.
And they know I’m here.
I straighten, smoothing my features into something calm before I move deeper into the house.
I won’t call Sebastian yet. Not until I have something concrete. Not until I know what game this is.
But as I walk toward the living room, I glance at the balcony.
The fake tree’s leaves shift slightly, as if something brushed against them.
And I realize, with a cold certainty that settles into my bones—whatever just shifted outside didn’t want to be seen.
It wanted to be felt.
37
IVY
The low, mechanical rumble of an engine cuts through the quiet like a reset button. I tense until my gaze lands on the driveway. Drew’s 2018 Volvo idles in the driveway before the engine dies.
I glance at the clock. It’s eleven fifteen.
I’m in the kitchen when Drew comes in, shrugging off his jacket like it weighs twice what it should. His tie is loose, his hair a mess, his expression worn thin in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Please tell me you have caffeine,” he says, his voice hoarse.
I gesture toward the counter. “Fresh pot. Not the poison you tried to drink this morning.”
He exhales like I’ve offered him salvation. “You’re officially my favorite person.”
He pours himself a mug and leans against the counter, eyes closing as he takes the first sip. “God. Divorce lawyers should come with a warning label.”
I smile softly. “That bad?”
“The worst,” he says. “And expensive. Which somehow makes it worse.”
We fall into easy conversation after that. Drew’s hatred for the city. The emotionless attorney. The endless paperwork. The strange grief of ending something you knew was broken long before it shattered.
I listen and nod, offering sympathy and quiet humor where it fits.
The house feels comfortable again. Familiar. Safe.
