Chapter 58 The Box
Chapter 58 The Box
Ivy’s POV
It starts with a box. Just a fucking box.
Old. Dusty. Hidden so deep in the back of Alexander’s walk-in closet, it’s like it’s begging not to be found.
I’m not snooping, I swear to God, I’m not. I’m just looking for one of his old sweaters, the big navy cashmere one that smells like him. But when I move a pair of Italian boots, something clinks.
Wood on wood.
Curious, I reach down and tug the box free, coughing when a puff of dust explodes into my face. The thing looks ancient. Leather-bound, with tarnished brass edges and a lock that’s already broken.
I shouldn’t open it. But I do.
The second the lid creaks open, something icy slides down my spine. Like a warning. Like the ghost of a scream caught in the hinges.
Inside are letters. They're stacked neatly, like someone meant to preserve them.
Old. Yellowed with age. Curled at the edges. The ink faded, but still sharp enough to stab straight into me.
My hands tremble as I pick up the first one.
No return address. No greeting. Just words. Angry, messy, violent.
You killed her. You took her from us. We will never forgive you.
My stomach drops. A sick twist coils deep inside me, nausea bubbling in my throat.
What? Killed?
My fingers shake harder as I unfold another one. Then another.
Each one more vicious than the last. Each one soaked in grief and rage and horror.
I sit down hard on the floor, the letters crumpling in my lap.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think.I know who they’re talking about.
I’ve heard the whispers. The barely-there mentions he lets slip and then locks behind that iron jaw of his.
His first wife.
The woman who came before my mother.
Did he—?
No. No. He couldn’t have. Not Alexander. Not my Alexander.
I read the letters again. Obsessively. Like maybe if I stare at them long enough, the words will change. The story will twist into something less… damning.
But they don’t. They accuse. They condemn. They paint him like a monster wrapped in a silk tie and a thousand-dollar suit.
And God help me, my heart still defends him.
No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t.
But the doubt is in me now. Crawling under my skin, digging in like claws.
I clutch the letters to my chest and close my eyes, willing the world to stop spinning.
My Alexander. My protector. The man whose child I'm carrying
Did he kill her?
And if he did…
What the fuck does that make me?
I need to know, so I head to his office.
I don’t knock. I don’t breathe.
I just slam the office door open so hard it ricochets off the wall, and I storm in like I’m ready to set the whole goddamn place on fire.
Alexander lifts his head from his laptop, slow and unreadable, composed like always, because emotions are for the rest of us. Not for him. Never for him.
But then he sees what I’m holding.
The letters.
And that flawless mask he wears cracks. Not much. Just a shift. A muscle twitching along his jaw. A flash of something like guilt, rage, maybe fear, in those cold, calculated eyes.
"You found them," he says quietly.
No panic. No excuses. Just a flat observation, like he’s been waiting for this moment. Dreading it. Accepting it.
I throw the letters across his desk.
They explode like shrapnel, scattering across his polished mahogany like fucking confessions from a ghost.
"What the fuck, Alexander?"
My voice is sharp. Shaking. Unraveling.
"Did you kill her?"
I swallow, chest heaving.
"You killed your wife?"
The word wife tastes poisonous in my mouth.
I’m not even sure which one I mean.
His first? My mother?
Does it fucking matter?
He doesn’t answer at first.
Just sits there with his jaw clenched so tight I half-expect to hear the crack of bone.
“Ivy, listen—”
“No!” I scream. “No fucking listen!”
My vision swims with tears I won’t let fall, and my fingers dig into the edges of his desk just to keep myself upright.
“You said you loved me. You said I was safe with you.” My voice breaks. “How the fuck am I supposed to believe anything now?”
He rises slowly. Not like a man caught—no. Like a predator circling. Controlled. Deadly. Beautiful in the worst goddamn way.
And it pisses me off more.
“Don’t—” I back up. “Don’t you dare use that voice on me right now. The calm, calculating, big-bad-mafia-bastard voice.”
That gets a flicker of something in his eyes. Not amusement. Not remorse.
Something sharper.
“You lied to me,” I whisper.
He stops, hands at his sides, body rigid like a man on the edge of something violent.
“I didn’t kill her,” he says, voice rough but even.
“Bullshit.” I shake my head. “Why else would someone send you those letters? Why hide them?”
“Because the world is full of people who don’t understand consequences,” he snaps back. “Because no matter what I say, someone will always choose to believe the version of me that bleeds best on paper.”
I stare at him.
I want to scream again. I want to believe him. I want to not believe him.
And in the middle of all that? I still want him to touch me.
Still crave the warmth of his hands even when they’re the last place I should feel safe.
And that’s what destroys me the most.
“Tell me the truth, Alexander,” I whisper, hating how fragile I sound.
“Tell me the whole, fucked-up, soul-ripping truth. No more half-truths. No more riddles. No more ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older’.”
His lips twist into something bitter. Haunted. So goddamn broken it hurts to look at him.
“You want the truth, Baby Girl?” he rasps, stepping forward. His eyes are sharp. Empty. Burning.
“Fine. Here’s the fucking truth—”
To Be Continued...