Chapter Four: Masks and Mirrors
1198 Words
By morning, Jaxon was back to normal. Or at least, what passed for normal with a Maddox.
He kissed her forehead like nothing had happened, asked if she wanted vanilla in her coffee, and made a show of checking his watch like a man running late for world domination.
Ivy watched him from the kitchen doorway, heart still lodged somewhere between her ribs and throat.
“You’re quiet,” he noted, fixing his cufflinks at the breakfast bar. “Still tired?”
She nodded. “Didn’t sleep much.”
He offered a smile. The same one from last night. The one that never reached his eyes. “Well, you might want to find some energy, darling. Big night ahead.”
Her stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”
He set down his espresso. “The Roseland Gala. I moved it up.”
Ivy blinked. “You what?”
He shrugged casually. “Maddox Foundation’s tenth anniversary. Couldn’t let it pass unnoticed. Press will be there. Clients. Half of New York’s elite.”
“Tonight?”
“That’s what I said.” He grabbed his phone. “Didn’t you get the calendar invite?”
She hadn’t even opened her calendar since the night of the last gala—the night Aiden touched her bare back and set her entire life on fire.
“I must’ve missed it,” she said quietly.
Jaxon walked over and brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Don’t worry. You’ll look stunning. I already had something picked out for you.”
Of course he had.
He always did.
And that was the problem.
The dress was a sleek champagne gold, strapless, molded to her figure like a second skin. It was beautiful. Almost cruelly so.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Again.
But this time, she didn’t see guilt. She saw glass—thin, reflective, easy to shatter.
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her earrings.
The room behind her was quiet until Nella, one of the estate’s stylists, stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You look flawless, Mrs. Maddox.”
The title stabbed.
She forced a smile. “Thank you.”
Just as she turned to leave, Jaxon’s voice rang out from the hall. “We need to leave in ten.”
She pasted the smile tighter. “Coming.”
The gala was held at The Atrium—a high-ceilinged glass ballroom in Midtown that screamed money. Chandeliers glittered like frost, and every guest wore their net worth.
Ivy stepped out of the black car into a wash of camera flashes and applause. She kept her posture tall, her smile practiced, her eyes dead ahead.
Jaxon stood beside her, hand possessively on her lower back. She wanted to flinch. But she didn’t.
Not this time.
Inside, the room was already buzzing. Waiters moved like shadows, refilling champagne flutes and offering tiny hors d'oeuvres.
Ivy’s heart rate spiked the moment she spotted the press area. And then again when she caught sight of familiar faces—donors, friends of the Maddox family, even a few senators.
She kept looking for him.
Even though she told herself not to.
Not here. Not now.
But it was like waiting for a thunderclap after lightning—you knew it was coming, even if you didn’t know when.
And then it happened.
Jaxon took the stage near the grand piano, tapping the mic like a man who owned the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight. It’s a special occasion—ten years of building not just a foundation, but a legacy. A Maddox legacy.”
Applause. Flashbulbs.
Ivy barely heard it.
Her stomach had already begun to churn.
Jaxon continued, smooth as always. “And tonight, I’d like to welcome someone very dear to this family. Someone who has recently returned to the fold and reminds us of the Maddox spirit—bold, brilliant, and unshakable.”
Her blood ran cold.
No.
No, he wouldn’t—
“Please help me welcome my brother, Aiden Maddox.”
The crowd turned.
Ivy turned, too.
And there he was.
Dark suit, unruly curls tamed but not defeated, a ghost of a smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He moved through the crowd like a storm dressed in silk. Calm on the outside, but Ivy could feel the static in the air.
His gaze found hers.
Held it.
The world tilted.
Ivy clutched her champagne glass so hard her knuckles went white.
Jaxon was still speaking—something about family and future partnerships—but she couldn’t hear a word.
All she could hear was the sound of her pulse.
Aiden walked up the steps and shook his brother’s hand. Posed for a photo. Turned to face the room.
And then, as if rehearsed, he looked directly at her.
One second. Two.
Then looked away.
But that was all it took.
Her chest tightened. Her breathing grew shallow.
She excused herself before her knees betrayed her.
In the empty hallway behind the ballroom, she pressed her back to the wall and tried to remember how to breathe.
He was here.
Jaxon brought him.
On purpose.
That wasn’t a coincidence. That was a move. A test.
She was caught in a chess game between brothers, and she didn’t know what piece she was anymore. Queen? Pawn? Something in between?
Footsteps echoed down the hall. She stiffened.
But it wasn’t Jaxon.
It was Aiden.
Of course it was.
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her. Studied her.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t have looked for me,” he replied, voice low.
“I didn’t.”
A lie. A poor one.
He took a step closer. “You haven’t answered my messages.”
“You shouldn’t be sending them.”
“I needed to know if you regret it.”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
“I know.”
But neither of them moved.
The air between them was heavy, full of the thing they weren’t saying.
Full of the thing they couldn’t undo.
“Ivy,” he said quietly, “you look…” He stopped himself. “Like you’re drowning.”
“I am.”
He didn’t offer rescue. Just stood there. A witness. A warning.
Then his hand brushed hers. Barely a touch.
But enough.
Enough to make her breath hitch. Enough to remind her body that it remembered.
She pulled away like it burned.
Footsteps again—this time fast, deliberate.
Jaxon’s voice. “Ivy?”
She turned, heart in her throat.
Aiden disappeared into the other hall like smoke.
She smoothed her dress. Forced a smile.
Jaxon appeared seconds later.
“There you are,” he said, eyes scanning her. “You missed the toast.”
“Just needed a minute.”
He nodded. “Understandable.” He offered his arm. “Let’s go back. The photographers want a few shots.”
She slipped her hand through his.
And walked back into the ballroom like a woman made of glass.
Cracked.
But not broken.
Not yet.
- Writer
