Page 35 of The Temporary Bride

“So, Ivy, you’ve known the Thornes for a long time, right?”

Her eyes light up with affection. “Oh, those guys. They’re like my older brothers, you know? Always looking out for me.”

“Must be nice,” I say, a hint of longing in my voice, despite my attempts to keep it casual.

Ivy nods. “It is. But it has its challenges, especially in the dating department. Imagine having an older brother and five honorary ones.”

I can’t help but smile. “Sounds like a handful. Any interesting stories?”

She leans in, conspiratorial. “Well, Beckett once nearly beat the shit out of my prom date. It was like a scene from a movie, but it definitely made dating a bit complicated.”

I raise an eyebrow, remembering the way Beckett watched Ivy when Tristan took me ring shopping. “Did he really?”

“Yep.” She sips at her mocha. “It was a whole drama at the time, but I guess now it’s a little funny.”

“Any stories about Tristan?” I inquire, trying to sound casual as I take a drink of my cold brew, but unable to keep the edge of curiosity out of my voice.

Ivy’s expression changes, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Oh, Tristan. He used to be such a troublemaker when he was a kid. Always pushing boundaries, getting into shit with his father. Oh—don’t tell him I told you that!”

“No worries,” I say. I can’t imagine divulging any part of this conversation to Tristan. I feel like I’m prying into his life, somehow.

“He had this way of talking himself out of trouble. He was a smooth talker, even back then. Must run in the family.”

“It must,” I echo absently. I’m intrigued, imagining a younger Tristan, full of mischief and charm. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen, one that feels at odds with the ruthless businessman I’ve come to know.

As Ivy continues sharing stories, I find myself caught between the image of the carefree troublemaker and the stern, commanding CEO. It’s a contrast that both confuses and intrigues me. I wonder about the tattoos that adorn his arms. Did his father forbid them? Are they evidence of former rebellion?

Ivy and I linger at the cafe, enjoying the casual atmosphere and the shared laughter. As we finish our lunch, I feel a rare sense of camaraderie that I haven’t experienced in a long time.

With our plates cleared, cups empty, and the conversation gradually shifting away from the Thornes, Ivy suggests a change of scenery. “How about a little window shopping? It might be a nice distraction from wedding stress.”

I nod, appreciating the suggestion. “Sure, why not?”

As we step out into the bustling street, the sun casting a warm glow, I feel an unexpected lightness. My worries about my impending wedding momentarily fade as Ivy leads the way to nearby boutiques and shops.

We meander through the vibrant displays, discussing everything from fashion trends to the latest movies. Ivy’s easygoing nature makes it easy to forget the looming responsibilities waiting for me back at the office and the intricate dance of business alliances tied to my upcoming marriage.

We pass by an art gallery, and Ivy pauses outside the windows, staring at the modern paintings on display. “Well, this looks fancy.”

She’s right. It is. I recognize this shop: Elysium Art Sales. This gallery belongs to an art trader who sells to most of the richest families in LA. I’ve bought artwork from him in the past myself.

“Let’s go inside,” I suggest.

The bell chimes as we enter, and the hushed atmosphere envelops us. The walls are adorned with a collection that transcends mere art, each piece telling a story of opulence and creativity.

As we move past the towering canvases, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Tristan.

TRISTAN: You can decorate however you want.

“Finally,” I mutter to myself, drawing a curious glance from Ivy.

I lower the phone, and at the same time, my eyes catch on a truly striking painting.

It’s an abstract masterpiece, commanding attention with its bold use of color and thick strokes. On a canvas that seems to breathe with life, dynamic swirls of crimson and cobalt dance together in a passionate embrace. A burst of golden accents adds a touch of celestial elegance, as if stars had been scattered across the work.

The painting’s tactile allure draws me in. I almost want to run my fingers across the ridges of oil paint on the canvas, to feel the rough edges of the work, but I stop myself, which is just as well—I can see the proprietor lingering in the corner of my eye, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want my hands all over the paintings.

Ivy, following my gaze, tilts her head. “You like it?”