Page 122 of The Devil of Downtown

Brody goes pale, completely bloodless.

“—it’s going to be worse,” I finish quietly.

He slumps back into the cushions like I’ve knocked the air out of him. His eyes are glossy, unfocused. “Ivy... please...please don’t tell him yet. Just...just give me a little time.”

I hesitate. My chest feels tight enough to crack.

I think of Dane on that dance floor, his hands steady on my waist, his breath warm against my cheek.

I think of how close we’ve become.

How real it feels.

How terrified he is of losing anyone else.

And here I am, sitting with the truth that could destroy him.

“How much time?” I ask.

Brody swallows, wincing. “Twelve hours. Just twelve. Let me get cleaned up, get my head straight, and I’ll go to the police myself. I swear, Ivy. I swear on my life.”

It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. It’s reckless.

But looking at him—bruised, shaking, hanging on by a thread—I can’t bring myself to say no.

I exhale slowly. “Okay,” I whisper. “Twelve hours. But if you don’t go... I will. And I’ll tell Dane everything.”

He nods, tears slipping down his temples. “Thank you. God, Ivy... thank you.”

I don’t feel like thanking him back.

I don’t feel like forgiving him.

I don’t feel like any version of myself I recognize.

I sit there in the dim light of Jennie’s apartment, my phone still buzzing with unread messages from Dane, and realize that no matter what happens next...

Nothing is going to be the same.

Chapter twenty-seven

Dane

I promised myself I would never do this—let my frustration with Ivy bleed onto Sloane.

But here I am, snapping at her for what feels like the hundredth time today.

Just one fucking text.

Two words.I’m fine.

That’s all I got from Ivy after she bolted out of the gala last night without warning, leaving me standing there like an idiot pretending I hadn’t felt something crack in my ribs as she walked away. I knew I shouldn’t have taken her. And, as usual, my instincts were right.

“Sloane, where in the Bexley draft contract—” I snap, letting the sentence hang long enough for her to feel the bite. She’s hovering over my desk with a stack of documents, her expression perfectly neutral, the way it always is when she’s silently judging me.

“Page forty-six, subsection three,” she replies, tone even. “The clause you requested was added this morning, Mr. Black.”

Of course it was; I know it was. I just need something to throw my irritation at, and today it is the only person in this office competent enough to take it.