CHAPTER 4
1101 Words
IVY
Lila twisted the last strand of my hair into a perfectly messy bun, letting a few curls fall artfully around my face. I dusted a bit of powder under my eyes, added gloss, and left it at that. Lila, of course, went full glam by her standards — wavy curls, perfect eyeliner, soft glow on her cheeks.
I stared at myself in the mirror and felt a sudden, sharp ache in my chest.
Mom.
Mom should've been here — fussing, laughing, fixing my hair then ruining it just because she thought “natural is prettier.” Moments like this always pulled the grief out of me like a thorn I hadn’t noticed was still lodged under my skin.
Lila’s hand quietly settled on my shoulder.
No words. She never used words for this. She knew silence sometimes held more comfort.
Dad called earlier, telling us to wait for him in the living room. He had already gotten ready in his penthouse and said he’d meet us downstairs. I tried not to think about the fact we were going to a mafia-business dinner under suffocating levels of security after getting grounded for—well—stripping.
The elevator pinged.
I braced myself for Dad’s usual lecture, the booming disappointment, the dramatics… but instead, he stepped out, eyed us, and pulled both me and Lila into a long, tight hug.
My rigid shoulders instantly softened.
No yelling.
No scolding.
Just a tired sigh and a gentle, “You two look beautiful. Please… tonight, don’t draw attention to yourselves.”
We nodded. That sadness was back in his eyes — loneliness, exhaustion, maybe fear. Dad carried entire worlds on his shoulders. Sometimes I wished he didn’t have to.
We talked lightly on the drive — little things: his flight, Lila’s insane shopping list, my latest obsession with herbal tea. A rare, peaceful fifteen minutes.
When we arrived, Dad stepped out first, straightening his suit like he was putting on armor. Then he opened the door for both of us.
Lila and I giggled.
Dad gave us a glare.
We instantly froze, cleared our throats, and fell into step behind him with the stiffest poker faces in existence.
A man in a dark suit appeared and guided us into the private wing of the restaurant, all white marble, soft golden lights, and quiet music. The place looked like old money tried to impress new money.
---
Gabriel De Santis
Outside the restaurant entrance, three heavy SUV’s rolled to a stop. I recognized the Blackwood crest instantly.
Christian Blackwood.
A man with enough influence to destabilize half the East Coast if he woke up in a bad mood.
But my attention didn’t stay on him.
My eyes moved to the women stepping out behind him.
The first was tall and slender, with dark red hair — probably the friend. The second…
Olive skin.
A familiar silhouette.
A face I had only seen behind a mask and under club lights, but—
My chest tightened.
Blood surged south.
Not now. Not her. Not here.
I forced myself to turn away before I embarrassed myself like a teenager and cleared my throat as the South African delegates filed in. Raffaele gave me a knowing look — bastard.
Christian approached, hand extended.
“Gabriel.”
“Christian.” I shook it firmly.
He looked good for his age — early fifties, but sharper than most men in their thirties. A predator in a tailored suit.
He took the seat of honor first, and I waited, out of respect.
My eyes slid to his companions.
And there she was — Ivy.
Up close… she was lethal.
The messy bun.
The backless black dress.
Those eyes — warm brown, sharp, intelligent.
Her lips glossed.
Her expression calm, but clearly holding back laughter from something only she and her friend knew.
God help me.
I could do terrible, wicked things to her if given the chance.
Christian introduced them.
“My daughter, Ivy. And her friend, Lila.”
They nodded elegantly. No fear, no hesitation. Bold. Classy. Untouchable.
Familiarity danced in the back of my mind — that masked dancer, the way her braids had spilled onto the stage floor—no. Couldn’t be. Two worlds shouldn’t collide this way.
We had barely settled when a clumsy waitress stumbled forward and dumped an entire tray of drinks onto Ivy.
My jaw clenched.
The waitress froze, pale, terrified.
Christian’s brows lifted.
Lila gasped.
Ivy blinked.
I shot the waitress a lethal glare. She visibly shook, her lip trembling.
Pathetic.
I was two seconds away from firing her into oblivion.
But then—
“Are you okay?” a soft, velvety voice asked.
Ivy.
To the waitress.
She cared more about the girl than the ruined dress.
That did something to me I wasn’t ready to admit.
---
Ivy
I glanced at the wet fabric sticking to my chest and thighs, but honestly, I barely cared. The tension in that room was suffocating — thick enough to slice with a steak knife.
“Come with us,” I told the trembling girl.
She led me and Lila to the bathroom, and the moment the door shut behind us, she broke.
Sobs tore out of her — raw, terrified, desperate. Her shoulders shook violently.
“Please,” she cried, falling to her knees. “Please ask Mr. Santis not to fire me. Please—I can’t—I can’t lose this job—”
Lila and I exchanged the same look: the we’re about to do something impulsive and probably stupid again look.
I crouched down beside the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Lyra,” she whispered.
“Lyra,” I said gently, “why are you working here?”
The story spilled out between panicked breaths — a sick mother, two siblings depending on her, bills piling up, and this job barely holding everything together. She hadn’t slept for two days.
My heart twisted painfully.
I looked at Lila.
Lila looked at me.
No words needed.
We both offered her money — 5,000 each. Not enough to save her life. But enough to buy her time.
“It’s okay,” I told her softly. “We’ll take care of the mess with Mr. Santis. You won’t lose your job.”
Her body sagged with relief.
She grabbed my hands and sobbed into them, whispering thank-yous over and over until Lila gently helped her up.
For a moment, the three of us stood there, two privileged girls and one drowning waitress… and I wished the world wasn’t built the way it was
- Writer
