The ringtone startled Ivy awake.
She blinked against the pale morning light filtering through the gauzy curtains, reaching blindly for her phone on the nightstand. Her voice was still hoarse with sleep when she answered.
"Hello?"
"Ivy," her father's familiar voice greeted her, steady and bright. "Just checking in. I heard from Marcus. You nailed it."
A smile stretched slowly across her lips. "Thanks, Dad."
"You'll be on the evening flight home. Eliza just sent the itinerary to your email. It's all arranged—chauffeur to Heathrow, and a car waiting back in New York."
Her heart dipped, just slightly.
So soon?
"Right. I'll get ready," she said, shifting under the covers.
There was a pause. "You all right, kiddo?"
She hesitated. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Of course. Rest up. And Ivy?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you. Really proud."
The call ended, and Ivy lay there for a moment, her phone still pressed to her ear. The warmth of her father's praise lingered—but behind it, something more restless stirred.
She sat up slowly, staring at the sunlight dancing on the floor. It should have been simple. She came, she impressed, she closed the deal. Mission complete.
But then… there was Marcus.
That text.
I love you, Ivy.
He hadn't taken it back. He hadn't played it off. And she hadn't ignored it.
Truth was, something had shifted inside her long before the text. Something she hadn't named.
She had always been focused. Driven. Shielded by purpose. Her father's world had been her universe—his business, his image, his legacy. There had never been time or space for boyfriends, for casual romances, for daydreams. No man had ever earned her attention long enough for curiosity, let alone affection.
But Marcus… he wasn't just anyone.
He was older, yes. So much older. Her father's closest friend. Someone who had always existed just on the periphery of her life, quietly composed, always dignified. But she saw him now. Not just as her father's associate. Not just as a successful man. But as him—as someone who saw her too.
When he looked at her, it wasn't through the lens of youth or legacy or duty. It was deeper. And in his eyes last night, for the first time, she felt something she had never let herself feel:
Wanted.
Not for what she could do. Not for the name she carried.
But for who she was.
And maybe, she thought as she slid from the bed and padded into the bathroom, maybe she wasn't afraid to feel it back.
She turned on the shower. Hot water steamed around her, washing away the tension but not the thoughts. Could she be that woman—to feel something so impossible, so wrong in the eyes of others, yet so alive in her own chest?
She hadn't said anything to Marcus. Not yet. But she hadn't run, either.
As the water poured over her, she closed her eyes and exhaled. She was still the girl her father raised—smart, careful, strong. But she was also a woman. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let herself want something real.
A knock at the door jolted her.
She paused. Water still rushing behind her.
Another knock.
"Ivy?" Marcus's voice called, low and measured.
Her breath caught.
She turned off the shower slowly, reaching for a towel. "Just a second!"
Wrapping herself quickly, she padded out, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders. She opened the door slightly, water droplets glistening on her collarbone.
Marcus stood there, eyes instantly flicking up from the floor to meet hers. His expression froze—caught somewhere between concern and restraint.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said carefully. "I just… wanted to say goodbye before the flight. And check on you."
She swallowed, tightening the towel around her.
"I was going to come by after dressing," she said softly, her cheeks pink.
"I shouldn't have just come to your room," he added, his voice faltering for once.
They stood in silence for a beat too long.
And then he did something unexpected.
He looked down, sighed, and stepped back.
"Ivy," he said, his voice quieter now, "I know what I texted last night. And I know what it means. I shouldn't have said it, not like that. You have every right to be confused. Or angry. Or—"
"I'm not," she said.
He looked up.
She opened the door a bit wider.
"I'm not angry."
He stared at her, searching for something in her eyes.
Her voice was quieter now. "I don't have answers. But I'm not scared of the questions."
Marcus inhaled sharply, jaw tightening, as though resisting the instinct to step forward.
She tilted her head slightly. "We'll be on the same flight, right?"
He nodded once. "Yes."
"Then I'll see you there," she said.
The door closed gently.
Ivy dressed with quiet precision. A soft cashmere sweater over wide-leg slacks, a long trench draped over her arm. Her makeup was minimal, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She looked every bit the young executive—the daughter of a giant, the promise of a legacy.
Her suitcase rolled softly across the hotel hallway, the elevator humming down to the lobby. A black car waited to escort her to the private terminal. Marcus was already there when she arrived—seated in the exclusive lounge, a steaming cup of espresso in hand, his silver watch catching the early light.
He stood as she entered, his eyes holding hers a moment too long.
"Ivy," he said, quietly.
She nodded once. "Marcus."
They boarded the jet without ceremony. The flight attendants knew them both by name. Ivy settled into the seat opposite his, the cabin humming softly as the engines began to warm. No one else would be flying with them. Her father's arrangement, as always, was tailored to privacy and comfort.
Silence stretched between them at first, a hum of unspoken thoughts coiling in the air.
Then Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice barely above the purr of the aircraft.
"I meant what I said."
Ivy tilted her head.
He continued, slowly. "I know what this looks like. I know I should walk away. You're Graham's daughter. I've known you since you were little. But Ivy…" he paused, choosing each word like it might combust, "the truth is, I haven't felt this kind of pull in years. And I don't think it's just some passing moment."
She inhaled, eyes steady. "You're twice my age, Marcus."
"I know."
"You were supposed to be like family."
"I know that too," he said, voice tightening. "But I'm not going to lie to you. I look at you, and I don't see a child anymore. I see a woman—strong, brilliant, aware of herself. And if you'll let me… I want to be in your world. Not just beside it."
Her pulse quickened.
He reached across the low table between them, his fingers brushing hers—tentative but firm. "Be my baby girl. Let's keep this between us. I won't embarrass you. I won't make a fool of what we are. I just want to be good to you."
She swallowed hard, heart thudding.
He leaned closer. "I won't break your heart, Ivy. I promise."
Her hand remained under his, but her eyes didn't falter. "You've been part of my life for years, Marcus. But I never saw you like this. Maybe because I never allowed myself to. I was so focused on my father's world… I never thought about what it meant to want someone."
He waited, breath shallow.
"I'm not saying I know what this is," she whispered, "but I'm not scared to find out."
His fingers curled slightly around hers, the grip both protective and reverent.
She added, voice quiet, "Maybe it's time I know what it feels like. To be seen by a man. Touched by one. Especially one as powerful… as my father."