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“Office off Winthrop and Eighth. Upstairs. No signage. You’ll find it.”

I grab my jacket and keys, already moving toward the door. “Text me the access code.”

“It’s unlocked,” he says. “I’m not expecting company. Just hurry.”

I end the call and shove the phone in my pocket, the adrenaline already working its way through my veins like a secondheartbeat. I do not know what I’m walking into, but I know one thing for certain.

If Holt is as dangerous as I think he is, he just made the worst mistake of his life because now he is my problem too.

19

IVY

Slivers of morning light drip through the kitchen window like honey, slow and golden, warming the porcelain of my tea mug until it’s almost too warm to touch. I sit curled in the corner of the breakfast nook, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, fingers cupped around the rim as steam rises to meet my lips. The tea is soft, chamomile with a hint of rose, and though it’s not the bold flavor I usually crave, it settles in my chest like comfort. I sip slowly, rocking slightly in the seat, one palm resting on the small swell of my belly.

It’s still barely visible, just a softness, like the edge of a secret I’m still learning how to hold. But inside, something feels certain, like instinct whispering through my bones. A girl. I don’t know how I know, only that I do. I see her sometimes when I close my eyes, in flashes of soft cotton dresses and wild curls, in laughter that echoes across sunlit porches and small fingers wrapped tightly around mine.

I think about what it will mean to raise her. To teach her how to be strong in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with girls who speak their minds. I want to show her softnesstoo, not just steel. I want her to have a room with yellow walls and floating shelves, a window that catches morning sun, a place where she can grow into her own skin without fear. I picture rocking her in the evenings, humming songs I’ve half-forgotten from my childhood, holding her close while the world outside fades to quiet.

The thought makes my throat tighten, so I take another sip, focus on the warmth.

The court hearing is scheduled for noon, and I dress with care, not because I want to impress anyone but because today feels like the end of something that has dragged on far too long. The final stage of my parents’ divorce has taken months, a slow unspooling of bitterness and old wounds that neither of them could leave buried. A cab takes me to the court, and about an hour later, I find myself on the hard bench with my hands clasped tightly in my lap, listening as the lawyers speak. My mother cries again, soft and tired, while my father avoids her gaze entirely.

When the gavel comes down, it’s not relief I feel. It’s emptiness. Like watching a house burn that you stopped living in a long time ago. As I stand to leave, Mom nods briefly at me, her eyes shining with tears. I react instinctively and pull her in for a hug, but she shirks away at the last minute, her face pale. Sadness claws at my gut, but I bury it down. We don’t do affection in the Dawson household. Father leaves without speaking to any of us, so at least I’m spared the misery of small talk with him.

Drew is waiting for me outside, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, expression tight around the edges. He doesn’t say much, just slips an arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the car. We drive in silence until he pulls into a familiar lot and turns toward me with a small, sheepish smile.

“Figured we could use ice cream,” he says.

I nod, a little too quickly.

We find a quiet spot at the edge of the park, just beyond the row of food trucks that line the green. Blair and Cassie meet us there, their laughter easy as they spot us. Cassie bounds over and immediately wraps me in a hug.

“Look at you,” she beams. “Pregnancy glow is real.”

I try to smile. The warmth of the sun filters through the trees, and for a while, it almost feels like a perfect afternoon. We sit on a worn blanket Blair spreads over the grass, our cups of melting ice cream balanced in laps as children shriek somewhere nearby, chasing bubbles.

Cassie starts flipping through baby name apps on her phone while Blair asks if I’ve started thinking about nursery colors. I tell them soft greens, maybe pale blue, and Cassie jokes that I’m already nesting.

Then Drew’s voice cuts in, quiet but direct.

“So… is the father at least going to be involved?”

The spoon stills in my hand. My throat goes dry, and for a long second, I forget how to breathe.

I open my mouth, but no words come.

Cassie looks at me, wide-eyed. Blair glares at Drew.

“Seriously?” she snaps. “Can we not do this today?”

Drew raises his hands. “I’m just asking. She’s not alone in this.”

But I am. And the truth of it makes my eyes sting.

I blink fast, pretend I’m too focused on the vanilla melting in my cup to speak. Blair reaches over and gently brushes a strand of hair from my face, the softness in her touch making it worse somehow.

“Ivy,” she says, low and careful, “you don’t have to answer that right now.”