I leave early, tossing a casual “See you later,” over my shoulder as I head to the garage.
It’s odd how I keep looking for her. When I entered the garage, I expected her to pop out of a darkened corner. When I backed out of the driveway, I expected her to step out from behind the shrubs.
Nothing.
I drive by her house, but there is no sign of her.
After stopping and getting a coffee and a donut, I go to the office, half expecting her to appear and lecture me about eating a donut for breakfast.
“Empty calories,”she’d say, wagging her finger at me.“You need protein.”
But that doesn’t happen.
My steps feel heavy as I enter my office and shut the door behind me.
By ten-thirty, I’ve rewritten the same sentence four times.
Normally, this kind of work centers me. I’m paid to see what others miss—to identify risks before they metastasize, to tell people the truths they don’t want to hear. CEOs, board members, men with more money than sense. They trust me because I don’t get emotional. I don’t attach. I assess and move on.
Today, none of it holds.
I stare at the glass wall of my office, the city stretching beyond it in sharp lines and motion, and all I can think about is last night. The way Ivy sat beside me at the table like she belonged there—the warmth of her presence close enough to feel without touching. The sound of her laughter blending with Drew’s, soft and unguarded.
It was comfortable.
That’s the word that keeps circling.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I don’t do comfortable. Comfortable leads to habits. Habits lead to dependence. Dependence leads to loss of control.
This—whatever this is with Ivy—has already gone too far.
I need distance. Boundaries.
Not the obvious kind. Locking her out wouldn’t work. It hasn’t ever worked. I’m fairly certain she found the spare key I hid outside months ago. Given her talent for emerging from shrubbery and shadows, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d located it the first week.
It has to be subtle. Predictable changes. Shifts in routine. Less availability.
I’m halfway through bullet-pointing my own emotional detachment when it occurs to me that I’m treating my feelings like a security breach.
A knock taps against the glass, saving me from myself. “Ready?” Marcus asks, already checking his watch.
Marcus Hale. Mid-forties. Clean-cut and pragmatic. One of the few people whose opinions I respect without reservation.
“Yeah,” I say, closing the file. “Let’s grab lunch.”
We step into the elevator, the hum of descent filling the silence.
“Café sound good?” Marcus asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Lead the way.”
I haven’t been there in a while. But the food is always good.
The walk clears my head a little. The cold air, movement, and noise are refreshing. I almost convince myself the knot in my chest is fading.
Then Marcus reaches for the café door and opens it, gesturing for me to enter. The bell chimes as I step inside.
