Page 136 of The Devil of Downtown

“Sloane—”

She faces me then, eyes red-rimmed, fury and grief warring openly across her face.

“You could have protected her,” she says, the accusation clean and merciless. “Did you ever stop to think about that?”

The words lodge in my chest, heavy and inescapable.

“She’s a victim in this, too,” Sloane goes on, her voice shaking now as the restraint finally begins to crack. “That man took advantage of her kindness for far too long. He leaned on it. Used it. Hid behind it.”

Each sentence lands like a measured blow; I don’t even try to deflect.

“The only mistake Ivy made,” she says, tears spilling freely now, “was giving him a chance to hand himself in. Not because it hurt you—but because it gave him the opportunity to hurt her.”

The doors slide shut between us, leaving me to face the truth.

I didn’t protect her.

The woman I love more than I ever thought possible.

Julian catches up to me, his voice thick with irritation and disbelief.

“Dane, what the hell is going on?” he demands. “You don’t just walk out of a meeting like that. Do you have any idea what’s at stake in there?”

I don’t even slow down.

“I don’t give a fuck about the meeting,” I snap, the words ripping out of me before I can stop them. “I don’t give a fuck about the money, the deal—any of it.”

I yank my tie loose as if it’s strangling me, fingers fumbling at the knot while my chest tightens to the point it feels hard to breathe. The corridor blurs as I shove open the door to my office and stalk inside.

The second I cross the threshold, the pressure inside me finally breaks.

I sweep my arm across the desk in one brutal motion, sending everything crashing to the floor. The sound is violent, obscene in the quiet room, but it doesn’t even come close to matching what’s tearing through me.

I brace both hands against the corner of the desk, then drag them up into my hair, fingers digging into my scalp as I stagger toward the window. Manhattan stretches out below, indifferent and endless, the city moving on like my world hasn’t just been split clean in two.

Julian follows me in, shutting the door behind him, his voice dropping when he sees me like this. “Dane. Talk to me. What is going on?”

I don’t turn around.

“Ivy,” I say, my voice barely holding together.

“What about Ivy?” he asks like he’s afraid to hear the answer.

My legs give out, and I drop into the chair behind the desk, the fight draining out of me all at once. I stare at nothing, my hands slack at my sides.

“Brody’s dead,” I say, voice hoarse. “He crashed his car into a tree.”

Julian stills.

“Ivy was in the car,” I continue, the words scraping their way out of my chest. “Sloane doesn’t know what happened to her. She doesn’t know whether she’s alive. She doesn’t know if she’s dead.”

My throat closes violently.

“This can’t be happening again, Julian,” I choke out, lifting my head to look at him. “Not again. I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I can’t do this again.”

Julian doesn’t argue. He moves to the sideboard, pours a whiskey with steady hands, and sets the glass in front of me like he knows I won’t even register it otherwise.

Then he’s already pulling out his phone, calling his PA.