Chapter 207 Almost
Ivy’s POV:
Matteo doesn’t bring up the attack.
That’s the first thing that tells me this isn’t over.
We’re back at the estate, back in motion, back in the version of normal that exists only because powerful people decide it should. Security has adjusted again, quietly. I notice new faces. New patterns. Matteo doesn’t explain any of it.
He doesn’t need to.
He’s closer than before. Not physically hovering, not watching me like I’m fragile, but present in a way that doesn’t allow for gaps. If I stop walking, he stops. If I turn, he’s already angled to face me.
It’s protective.
It’s strategic.
It’s permanent.
That’s what finally pushes me.
We’re in one of the smaller sitting rooms, the ones no one uses unless they mean to. No staff nearby. No glass walls. Just space and quiet and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.
Matteo pours water for both of us. Sets my glass down within reach. He doesn’t sit immediately.
“You okay?” he asks.
The question is neutral. It’s always neutral with him now.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He waits.
That’s become his tell. He doesn’t challenge lies anymore. He just lets them hang and waits to see if I’ll correct myself.
“I’m not,” I add.
He nods once and sits across from me.
“What do you need?” he asks.
The phrasing is deliberate. Not what happened. Not what are you hiding. Not why didn’t you tell me.
What do you need.
“I need you to listen,” I say.
“I am.”
I wrap my hands around the glass. Don’t drink. Just anchor myself to something solid.
“The other night,” I begin, then stop.
Matteo doesn’t rush me.
I try again. “At my apartment.”
“Yes.”
“They weren’t there for me,” I say. “Not the way you think.”
“I know.”
That makes my throat tighten.
“They weren’t trying to take me.”
“I know,” he repeats.
I look up at him. “You’re very sure of that.”
“They didn’t behave like men who intended to leave with you,” he says. “They behaved like men who wanted to be seen.”
I nod slowly.
“That’s what scares me,” I say.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I’ve been running from this longer than you realize,” I continue. “Longer than you’ve known me.”
He leans back slightly. Still attentive. Still locked in.
“I figured that part out,” he says quietly.
I swallow.
“I should have told you sooner.”
“Yes.”
There’s no judgment in it. Just fact.
“I didn’t,” I say. “And now it’s worse.”
“Yes.”
I let out a breath that shakes despite my best effort to control it.
“If I tell you,” I say, choosing each word carefully, “you won’t look at me the same.”
That finally gets a reaction. Not anger. Not surprise. Interest.
“That’s a risk,” he says. “Not a reason.”
I shake my head. “It is if I know what it does to people.”
“You don’t know what it does to me.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them.
“I think I do.”
Silence stretches between us, thick but controlled. He’s not pressing. He’s waiting to see if I’ll step forward or retreat.
“You’re already involved,” I say. “Whether you want to be or not.”
“I made that choice when I decided to protect you,” he replies.
“That’s not fair.”
“May be,” he agrees. “But it’s accurate.”
I stand abruptly, pacing once, then stopping with my back to him.
“This isn’t just about me,” I say. “It doesn’t stop with my name or my past or whatever you think you’ve noticed.”
“I know,” he says again.
I turn back. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because no one tests response time unless they’re planning something bigger,” he says. “And no one plans something that patient unless they’ve been waiting a long time.”
My chest tightens.
“They won’t stop,” I say.
“Neither will I.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
He stands too.
“You think telling me will make it worse,” he says.
“I know it will.”
“For you,” he clarifies.
“For you,” I correct.
He studies my face, reading what I’m not saying.
“You think the truth will turn me away from you.”
I don’t answer.
“That’s not how this works,” he says.
“You don’t know what I come from,” I snap, sharper than I intend. “You don’t know what people like me pull others into just by existing.”
He steps closer. Not crowding.
“Try me,” he says.
The words land hard.
Not challenging.
Inviting.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“There are things I’ve done,” I say. “Things I was trained to do. Things I survived that most people don’t walk away from clean.”
“None of that scares me,” he says.
“It should.”
“Then tell me,” he says. “And let me decide.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“If I say his name,” I say quietly, “you’ll go looking for him.”
“Yes.”
“And when you find him…”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t stop.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
That’s the moment. The exact moment I realize the truth isn’t a confession. It’s a trigger.
I look away.
“I can’t,” I say.
He waits.
“I can’t do that to you,” I add.
He exhales slowly, a little frustrated.
“You’re already doing something to me,” he says. “Just not what you think.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need that kind of protection.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.
“And you don’t get to decide that I’d rather not know,” he counters.
We stand there, neither of us moving, both of us locked into a stalemate that feels heavier than any argument we’ve had.
Finally, I step back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For starting this.”
He watches me carefully. “Are you?”
“Yes,” I say. “And I’m sorry I can’t finish it.”
Another stretch of silence.
Then he nods once.
“Okay.”
That’s it.
No anger. No pressure. No warning.
Just acceptance. And somehow that’s worse than anything else he could have said.
He moves past me toward the door, stopping briefly.
“This doesn’t stay contained forever,” he says. “You know that.”
“Yes.”
“And when it breaks,” he adds, “I won’t be angry that you didn’t tell me.”
I close my eyes.
“I’ll be angry that you thought I’d walk away.”
The door closes behind him.
I sink back onto the couch, hands shaking despite my effort to steady them.
I was afraid the truth would ruin what we have. Now I understand something worse.
The truth won’t destroy us.
It will change him.
And once Matteo changes, there’s no pulling him back.
That’s the real danger.
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it contained.