Ivy's POV
The rain hadn't stopped since morning.
It fell relentlessly, streaking the glass towers of the city and painting everything in shades of gray — as if the sky itself knew something I didn't. I tightened my grip on the small velvet box in my hand, my pulse thrumming in time with the soft patter of rain. The elevator mirrored my reflection: tired eyes, damp hair clinging to my cheeks, and that same hopeful smile I'd practiced on the way here.
Three years.
Three years of love, laughter, and late-night promises whispered against my skin. Three years since Ethan had walked into my life and made me believe in something other than exhaustion and caffeine.
And tonight was supposed to be special.
Our anniversary.
I'd left work early — for once. My colleagues had teased me for the nervous smile plastered on my face. "Go melt your boyfriend's heart, Dr. Carter," they'd said. I just laughed, clutching the little gift tighter. Inside the velvet box was a platinum bracelet, simple but meaningful, engraved with E & I — Always.
Always.
The word echoed now, sharp and mocking.
The elevator chimed softly as it reached his floor. The scent of his cologne seemed to hang faintly in the air even here, like a ghost of familiarity that welcomed me home. I stepped out, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
His apartment door was slightly ajar — odd, but I thought little of it. Maybe he'd forgotten to lock it again. Ethan was always careless like that.
I smiled faintly, brushing my thumb over the box.
"Happy anniversary, Ethan," I whispered to myself.
Then I pushed the door open.
The first thing that hit me wasn't sight. It was sound.
A low hum of laughter, breathy and intimate — followed by the unmistakable rhythm of movement.
My heartbeat stumbled.
No. It couldn't be.
Maybe it was a movie. Maybe he had friends over.
But even before my brain could come up with another excuse, something inside me — something buried deep — already knew.
The air grew heavier with every step I took down the hallway. The light spilling from the half-open bedroom door flickered against the walls, casting shadows that felt almost cruel.
Then I heard it again.
A sound I could never mistake — his voice.
Low. Rough. Whispering the kind of words he used to say to me.
I reached the door. My fingers brushed against the wood.
And then, through that tiny gap, I saw him.
Ethan.
My Ethan.
His shirt hung open, his body pressed against another woman's — her back arched, her laughter filling the room like poison.
My knees nearly gave out.
For a second, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I couldn't even think. It was as if the world had stopped spinning, as if everything I'd believed in had evaporated in the space between heartbeats.
The velvet box slipped from my hand.
It hit the floor with a soft, final thud — the sound far too loud in the quiet room.
The bracelet tumbled out, the word Always glinting under the dim light before rolling under the dresser.
Ethan froze.
His gaze lifted and locked with mine.
And just like that, everything fell apart.
"Ivy—" His voice broke through the silence, startled, desperate.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was tight, my lips trembling, but no sound came out.
The woman turned lazily, not even bothering to cover herself. "Who's she?" she asked with a smirk that made my stomach twist.
He scrambled for words. "It's not what it looks like—"
"Don't." The word escaped before I even realized I'd spoken. "Don't you dare."
The silence that followed was deafening.
My vision blurred, but I refused to cry. Not here. Not in front of them. I stepped back, the weight of every memory pressing down on me — the nights he'd held me close, the mornings he'd kissed my forehead before work, the promises he swore he'd never break.
It all meant nothing now.
"Ivy, please, let me explain," he said, moving toward me.
I laughed. A brittle, humorless sound. "Explain? What exactly do you plan to explain, Ethan? That it's not what it looks like? That it just… happened?"
He winced. "You don't understand—"
"You're right," I cut in, my voice shaking. "I don't understand how the man I loved could do this on our anniversary."
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
I shook my head, stepping back toward the door. "You know what? Save it. You don't owe me anything anymore."
And then I turned and left before he could say another word.
The hallway blurred around me, and when I stepped outside, the rain hit me like punishment — cold and stinging. I walked anyway. I didn't even feel the chill. My heart was already numb.
As I walked, the world faded into a dull hum of traffic and thunder. Every corner of this city held something that reminded me of him — the café we used to go to, the bookstore he'd surprise me at, the flower shop where he'd buy lilies because I said they smelled like peace.
Lies. All of it.
By the time I reached my apartment, my clothes were soaked, and my hands trembled so hard I could barely fit the key into the lock.
The moment the door shut behind me, I collapsed onto the couch, the tears finally spilling — hot, uncontrollable, endless.
For three years, I'd given him my loyalty, my trust, my love.
And in return, he'd given me this — a scene I'd never forget.
My gaze drifted to the photos on the shelf — Ethan and I on the beach, smiling under a sunset, our hands entwined. I'd once thought that picture meant forever. Now, it just felt like a cruel joke.
I reached for the frame, staring at it through the blur of tears. "You promised," I whispered, my voice cracking. "You promised me forever."
The phone buzzed beside me, lighting up with Ethan's name. Again. Again. And again.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
The buzzing stopped after a while, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, my chest hollow.
That's when another notification pinged.
A new message.
Not from Ethan.
From an unknown number.
"Dr. Ivy Carter, this is Blackwood Enterprises. You've been selected for an urgent medical contract. Your expertise in neural medicine qualifies you for a confidential assignment. Transportation will arrive tomorrow morning at 8 a.m."
I frowned, re-reading it.
Blackwood Enterprises?
Even in my haze of heartbreak, the name rang a bell. The mysterious corporation that funded private medical research and technology projects all over the world — their CEO, Adrian Blackwood, was a ghost in the public eye. Brilliant, elusive, and rumored to be both a genius and a monster.
I should've felt honored. Instead, I just felt tired.
Still, the words "urgent medical contract" stuck with me. It sounded like something big. Something serious. And maybe… something that could help me forget.
I placed the phone down and glanced once more at the empty velvet box lying on the coffee table.
"Maybe this is the universe's way of saying enough," I murmured.
I stood, wiped my tears, and stared out the rain-smeared window. The city lights shimmered in the distance — cold, distant, and untouchable.
I didn't know who Adrian Blackwood was.
I didn't know what this contract meant.
But I knew one thing: I was done being the girl who waited to be loved.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
Or so I thought.
_______
Sleep had been a joke.
By the time I dragged myself out of bed, the sun was already cutting through the blinds, bright and intrusive. My reflection in the mirror looked foreign — eyes swollen, lips pale, hair a messy halo of what used to be control.
"Perfect," I muttered, tying my hair into a low bun.
The hospital didn't care if I was heartbroken. My patients didn't care. So I did what I always did — put on the white coat, plastered on a professional smile, and locked the rest away.
The halls of Riverside hospital were busy as ever — the steady hum of machines, the scent of antiseptic, the soft shuffle of nurses.
"Morning, Dr. Carter!" a nurse greeted.
"Morning," I replied, voice steady.
Each patient became my anchor — vitals, charts, symptoms, diagnoses — all so beautifully predictable. Unlike love.
Derek passed by, giving me his usual grin. "You look like hell," he teased. "Late night?"
"You could say that," I muttered, flipping through a file.
He chuckled. "Coffee later?"
"Busy," I replied.
It was mechanical. Everything was.
My focus, my tone, my smile — perfectly clinical. Until my phone buzzed again.
A reminder.
7:55 a.m. — Transportation: Blackwood Enterprises.
I blinked, glancing at the time. 7:54.
"What the—"
Before I could finish, a ripple of murmurs spread through the lobby. I turned, and that's when I saw it — a sleek black car pulling up right outside the hospital doors. The windows were tinted, the engine purring softly.
The driver stepped out — tall, dressed in a dark suit and gloves — and held up a small placard.
Dr. Ivy Carter.
The entire hallway seemed to pause. Nurses exchanged glances. Derek raised an eyebrow.
I stood frozen, my heart hammering for reasons I couldn't explain.
The driver met my gaze through the glass and gave a small, polite nod before opening the back door.
And for the first time since last night, I felt something unfamiliar rise in my chest.
Not pain.
Not anger.
Curiosity.
And the faintest chill of fate brushing against my skin.
I took a breath, adjusted my coat, and stepped forward.
Because whatever waited inside that car…
Was about to change everything.