Cold cash

Chapter Eighteen

Bleaker Street smelled like cabbage and disappointment.

I'd forgotten that. Or maybe I'd chosen to forget. Standing outside my old apartment building, key in hand, the familiar stench of boiled vegetables and stale cigarettes wrapped around me like a blanket I'd outgrown.

Pickles meowed in his carrier.

"I know," I said. "I don't want to be here either."

The lock was sticky. It had always been sticky. I jiggled it the way I'd jiggled it a thousand times before, and the door groaned open.

Nothing had changed.

The same cracked linoleum. The same water stain on the ceiling. The same radiator that clanked all night and gave just enough heat to keep you from freezing.

I set down Pickles's carrier. Opened the door. He stepped out, sniffed the air, and looked at me like I'd betrayed him.

"Temporary," I told him. "Just until I figure things out."

He walked over to the radiator and sat down. Judging me.

---

I unpacked in silence.

The ring—the real one, the one Adrian had given me on the balcony—was tucked into my sock drawer. I couldn't wear it. Couldn't look at it. Couldn't think about the way his hands had shaken when he slid it onto my finger.

I'd left the penthouse before he woke up.

No note. No explanation. Just me, Pickles, and a cab that smelled like air freshener and regret.

Coward, I thought. You're a coward.

But staying would have been harder. Staying meant watching him try to fix everything. Staying meant pretending the last six weeks hadn't changed me. Staying meant admitting that I'd fallen in love with a man who'd paid for the privilege of my company.

I couldn't do it.

So I left.

---

My phone buzzed at noon.

Adrian: Where are you?

I stared at the screen. Typed nothing. Deleted nothing. Just stared.

Adrian: Ivy. Please.

Adrian: At least tell me you're safe.

I typed back: I'm safe.

Adrian: Where?

Adrian: Bleaker Street.

Adrian: I'm coming.

I typed: Don't.

He didn't respond.

---

He showed up at seven.

I knew it was him before I looked through the peephole. The way he knocked—three quick raps, a pause, then two more. Like he was trying not to scare me.

"Ivy. Open the door."

"No."

"I can see your light on."

"Then stop looking."

He sighed. I heard it through the wood. Heavy. Exhausted.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

"Pickles is."

I looked down at the cat. He was sitting by the door, tail flicking, ears perked. Traitor.

"Ivy. Please."

That word. Again. Always that word.

I opened the door.

---

Adrian Wolfe did not belong on Bleaker Street.

He was wearing a dark coat and a softer expression than I deserved. In one hand, a bag of takeout. In the other, a small paper bag I didn't recognize.

"You came," I said.

"You left."

"I had to."

"No, you didn't." He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The apartment seemed to shrink around him—too small for his height, his presence, the weight of everything we weren't saying. "You ran."

"I don't run."

"You ran from me."

I closed the door. Leaned against it. "You paid for me, Adrian. That doesn't go away just because we feel something."

"I never paid for you."

"The contract—"

"Was a mistake. I've admitted that. I've apologized for that. But I didn't pay for you, Ivy. I paid for a version of you I didn't even know yet. And then I fell in love with the real one."

Pickles wound between his legs. Adrian reached down and scratched his ears without looking.

"I don't know how to do this," I said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Trust that you're not going to leave. That this isn't going to fall apart. That I'm not going to wake up one day and find out it was all some kind of... transaction."

Adrian set down the bags. Crossed the room in three steps. Stopped inches from me.

"I'm not leaving," he said. "You left. And I followed. Because that's what people do when they love someone. They follow."

"Even when it's stupid?"

"Especially when it's stupid."

---

We ate on the floor.

Takeout containers spread across the linoleum. Pickles trying to steal a piece of chicken. Adrian sitting cross-legged in his expensive coat, looking ridiculous and perfect and so human it hurt.

"I talked to your mother," he said.

"When?"

"Today. After you didn't answer my calls."

"What did she say?"

"She said you're scared. And stubborn. And terrible at asking for help." He looked at me. "She also said if I hurt you, she'd find a way."

"She's very creative."

"I noticed."

We ate in silence for a while. The radiator clanked. Somewhere upstairs, someone was arguing about money.

"I'm not going back to the penthouse," I said.

"I know."

"Not yet."

"I know."

"I need time."

Adrian set down his fork. Reached over. Took my hand.

"Then take time. I'll wait."

"How long?"

"How long do you need?"

I looked at him. At the man who'd measured my finger while I slept. Who'd found my cat. Who'd stood in front of cameras and told the truth even when it made him look bad.

"I don't know," I said.

He nodded. Squeezed my hand.

"Then I'll wait until you do."

---

He left at midnight.

But before he went, he set the small paper bag on the counter.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Something to remind you."

I opened it. Inside was a worn paperback—the romance novel his mother had left behind. The one from his shelf.

"You're giving me your book?"

"I'm giving you a piece of my past." He paused at the door. "So you know I'm serious about the future."

He left.

Pickles meowed.

And I sat on the floor of my too-small apartment, reading a dog-eared romance novel, trying to figure out how a man like Adrian Wolfe had become the only thing that felt like home.