Ivy's POV
The alarm rattled against my nightstand, sharp enough to chase away the last thread of sleep. I blinked at the ceiling, the pale paint cracked in thin lines like veins—reminders of age, of imperfection. Not so different from me, I supposed.
I pushed the covers back and padded across the small space I called home. My apartment wasn't much—just a bedroom, a kitchen that barely fit a table, and a bathroom whose faucet still groaned in protest whenever I turned it on. But it was mine. I had learned long ago that having something to call your own, no matter how small, was enough to keep you grounded.
The kettle whistled as I dressed a slice of bread with nothing more than butter. Coffee followed, dark and bitter, poured into the chipped porcelain cup that had belonged to my mother. It was the only thing of hers I had left, and every morning I held it like a prayer.
My reflection in the glass of the window caught my eye. I was no longer the girl draped in silks and diamonds, standing in marbled halls that echoed with music. My hair, dark and glossy, was pulled into a simple knot. My skin, pale from long hours in fluorescent hospital lights, carried no trace of the golden summers I once spent in the gardens of my childhood home. And my eyes—steady, green, unflinching—looked back at me like the ivy I was named for. Clinging. Enduring. Growing, even through cracks in stone.
You're probably wondering why I live here, in a cramped apartment where the walls echo with my neighbor's late-night arguments, when I wear a white coat and a name badge that reads Dr. Ivy Carter. Why not a bigger space, better furniture, something closer to the life I once knew?
The truth is simple: every dollar I make vanishes before I can even think of keeping it. Student loans bite first, merciless as wolves. And what remains… that goes to my father's treatment.
I pressed the rim of the cup to my lips, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue. My father and his choices had taken so much from me, but duty was duty. Blood ties don't let go, no matter how frayed they become.
The clock reminded me I was already late. I rinsed the cup, slipped on my shoes, and slung my bag over my shoulder. Outside, the city air was cool, carrying the scent of rain from the night before. As I joined the flow of people heading to work, I breathed in, steadying myself.
Another day. Another chance to keep moving forward.
The city greeted me with its usual chorus of honking cars, hurried footsteps, and the occasional street vendor calling out their morning deals. I tugged my coat tighter around me and made my way down the familiar steps into the subway.
The platform was already crowded—men in suits tapping impatiently at their phones, mothers keeping tired eyes on children tugging at their skirts, students clutching backpacks and yawning into their sleeves. I slipped into the crowd quietly, just another face among the masses.
That was one thing I had grown to appreciate about the subway—it didn't care who you were. It didn't matter if you came from old money or if your father had gambled it all away. Down here, we were all just people trying to get somewhere.
The train screeched into the station, doors sliding open with a rush of stale air. I stepped inside and found a corner spot, clutching the metal pole as the carriage lurched forward. Across from me, a little girl sat with her mother, swinging her legs, a stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in her arms. She caught me looking and gave me a small smile, the kind children gave so freely before the world taught them caution.
I smiled back.
Moments like that—quiet, fleeting—reminded me why I did what I did. Why I kept pushing despite the weight on my shoulders. People needed someone to care. And if I could be that person, even in the smallest way, maybe it made everything else worth it.
The announcement blared, pulling me from my thoughts. My stop was next.
The train rattled along, rocking gently as the city blurred past the windows. I tightened my grip on the pole, watching the faces around me. Some looked tired, some distracted, some lit with the glow of early morning ambition. Mine must have looked calm. Too calm.
But inside, I wasn't.
My gaze dropped to the thin silver band still circling my finger. I hadn't taken it off yet. Habit, maybe. Or stubbornness. Or denial. It had only been two days since I walked into that café and saw him—Ethan—laughing too easily, leaning too close, kissing lips that weren't mine.
The memory still sat heavy in my chest, sour and raw. I should have confronted him, maybe screamed, demanded answers. But I hadn't. I'd simply turned around and walked out, silent. Because what was there to say? A betrayal is a betrayal, whether it comes wrapped in excuses or silence.
I slipped my hand into my pocket, hiding the ring from sight, and pressed my lips together. Ethan had been… comfortable. Predictable. Safe, I thought. I had mistaken convenience for love, and now I was paying the price.
The train slowed, jolting me back into the present. My stop.
I stepped off onto the platform, weaving through the morning rush, my heels tapping briskly against the tiles. The walk to the hospital wasn't long—just a few blocks—but enough for the city's sounds to swell around me: vendors shouting, car horns blaring, the hum of people who all had somewhere to be.
By the time the gleaming white building came into view, my shoulders loosened a little. The hospital wasn't perfect—it came with long hours, endless paperwork, and cases that broke your heart—but it was steady. It gave me purpose.
I pushed through the glass doors, the familiar scent of antiseptic and coffee washing over me. A nurse hurried past with a clipboard, calling out greetings, and a fellow doctor raised a hand in a quick wave as he passed. I smiled faintly, slipping into the rhythm of the place. Here, no one cared about failed love or broken families. Here, I wasn't just Ivy Carter with debts and scars.
Here, I was Doctor Carter.
And that, I reminded myself, was enough.
I stepped into the lobby, the polished floors gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and headed straight for the elevators. My shoes clicked softly as I crossed the hall, my mind already ticking through the schedule for the day.
The silver doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped inside. Just as they began to close, a hand shot out, stopping them.
"Hold it!"
The doors bounced back, and Derek slipped in with his usual easy grin. His hair was tousled in that deliberate way, his tie slightly loosened like he wanted to give the impression of casual charm.
"Well, if it isn't Dr. Carter," he said, leaning against the wall beside me. "Early as always. What do you do, sleep here?"
I forced a polite smile. "Morning, Derek."
He chuckled, eyes skimming over me a little too long before he added, "You know, if you ever need company on these early mornings, I'm just a call away. Coffee, breakfast… whatever you like."
I kept my gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the door. Derek wasn't a bad man. He was competent, respected by patients, even funny in his own way. But there was a persistence in him that unsettled me—like he couldn't quite hear the word no.
"Thanks," I murmured, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder, "but I prefer the peace and quiet."
"Peace and quiet?" He smirked. "Come on, Ivy. You're too young to already be living like an old lady. A little fun wouldn't hurt."
The elevator dinged, saving me from answering. The doors slid open, and I stepped out first, relief washing over me as the hallway swallowed his voice.
Work. Patients. That was what mattered.
Not Derek.
Not Ethan.
And certainly not the man my father used to be.
I pushed open the door to my office and slipped inside, closing it softly behind me. The quiet was a welcome contrast to the bustle of the corridors outside. I set my bag down on the chair and leaned against the desk for a moment, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
The phone on my desk buzzed, breaking the silence. I frowned, reaching for it. The screen lit up with a name I recognized all too well—Mrs. Hall, my father's caretaker.
A knot formed in my stomach as I answered. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Dr. Carter," Mrs. Hall's voice came, polite but hesitant. "I hate to trouble you, but I wanted to let you know… I won't be able to come in tomorrow. My niece is getting married, and I promised I'd attend."
For a moment, I closed my eyes. My temples throbbed with the dull ache of an oncoming headache.
"I understand," I said softly, though the words tasted heavy on my tongue. "Of course, you should go. Your family comes first."
"Thank you," she replied gratefully. "I'll be back the day after. I'll leave a list of everything for you, if that helps."
"Yes. That would help."
We said our goodbyes, and I set the phone down, staring at it like it had just handed me an extra weight to carry. Which, in a way, it had.
It wasn't Mrs. Hall's fault. She deserved her day, her celebration. But it meant that tomorrow, after an entire shift here at the hospital, I'd have to head straight to my father's side. Managing his medication, meals, and endless moods.
I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion already creeping into my bones. Some days it felt like no matter how much I gave—to my patients, to my father, to everyone around me—there was never anything left for myself.
And yet, what choice did I have?
I sank into my chair, letting the quiet hum of the hospital settle around me. My eyes drifted shut for a moment, just long enough to imagine what it would feel like to breathe without the constant weight pressing down on me. Student loans. My father. Ethan. Derek. Responsibilities stacked so high I sometimes wondered if they'd bury me alive.
The vibration of my phone against the desk startled me. I opened my eyes, frowning. Mrs. Hall wouldn't be calling again so soon.
But it wasn't her.
A new message glowed on my screen from an unknown number.
I hesitated, thumb hovering above the glass before I finally tapped it open.
"You can't hide forever, Ivy. I know where you are."
My stomach dropped, the words searing into me like ice. My hands trembled as I set the phone back down, staring at the message as though it might disappear if I blinked hard enough.
But it didn't.
And suddenly, the air in my office felt too tight, too heavy—like the walls themselves knew something I didn't.