Fourteen Stories

Fourteen Stories
Chapter 43:

Ivy’s POV

I woke up to silence. For a moment, I didn’t move. The couch was warm, the blanket still smelled faintly of cedar and rain–his scent. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in just enough light to make the skyline blur in shades of gold and gray.

Damian was gone.

The place where he’d been still held a trace of him, a faint outline etched into the pillows of the sofa. On the table sat a mug of coffee, still steaming. Beneath it, a folded note in his sharp, confident handwriting.

The guards are nearby. Don’t leave the building without telling them or me.

No signature. No goodbye. Typical.

I groaned and dropped my head against the back of the couch. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or laugh. Probably both.

After a shower and an hour of staring at the immaculate walls that didn’t feel mine, I decided to go out anyway. Because what was he going to do–arrest me? I chuckled at the thought.

I slipped on my jacket, ignoring the cameras discreetly tucked into the corners of the hallway, and took the elevator down. The lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and rain. A man in a dark suit, probably another one of Damian’s people, no doubt, nodded as I passed. I ignored him too.

Outside, the city was still damp, glistening after the storm. The streets were busy again, filled with honking cars and rushing pedestrians. The kind of noise that could make you feel invisible.

It was almost comforting.

I walked aimlessly at first, stopped for a coffee, pretended to check my phone, told myself I wasn’t looking over my shoulder every few seconds. But I guess, old habits die hard. My eyes caught every shadow, every face that lingered too long.

Maybe Damian was right. Maybe I wasn’t safe.

Still, I couldn’t live trapped in that sleek glass box pretending it wasn’t a cage.

By the time I returned, dusk had settled over the city. The sky was bruised purple, clouds thick and low. When I stepped into the apartment, everything looked exactly as I left it, except the faint scent of something that hadn’t been there before.

“Damian?” I called.

No answer.

I hesitated, scanning the open space. My heartbeat picked up when I saw it; a single red rose, resting on the counter. No note this time. Just the flower, vivid and out of place against the pale marble.

I moved closer, each step slower than the last.

The petals were fresh. Drops of water clung to the stem, as if it had just been pulled from the rain.

I touched it, and the faintest chill ran through my fingers.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

A text. Unknown number again.

Did you like the gift?

My breath hitched.

I stared at the screen, pulse thudding in my ears.

Me: Who is this?
The reply came almost instantly. ‘You should lock your windows.’

My blood turned to ice. I spun toward the glass wall, nothing. No movement. Just my own reflection staring back at me.

Then I saw it.

A smudge. Not dust, a handprint. Faint, high up on the window. Too high for me to reach.

I stumbled back, my heart thudding harshly in my ribcage.

My phone buzzed again.

‘It’s a pretty view from up there.’

That was enough.

I grabbed the nearest thing: my phone, my bag, I wasn’t even sure, and bolted for the door. My hands shook as I punched the elevator button again and again, muttering, “Come on, come on, come on..”

The doors slid open and I nearly crashed into a tall shape waiting inside.

“Easy,” a familiar voice said, steady, controlled.

Damian.

He grabbed my arm before I could fall backward, eyes flicking instantly toward the bag clutched in my hand, then to my face. “What happened?”

I didn’t even realize I was shaking until he pulled me out of the elevator and into the hallway again.

“Talk to me, Ivy.”

“There was…someone…” My words tangled. I thrust my phone at him. “Look!”

He scanned the texts, eyes darkening with every line.

“Where’s the phone from?”

“I don’t know!” I snapped. “Do you think I stopped to check the area code?”

He pocketed the phone and strode into the apartment, his muscles bunching with every movement. I followed, trembling, as he went straight to the window and examined the glass. His fingers hovered over the faint handprint but didn’t touch it.

When he turned back, his expression had changed, turning colder and sharper.

“You’re not staying here tonight,” he said.

“I just got here!”

“Exactly. Which means they already knew where you’d be.”

“Damian–”

He was already pulling out his phone. “Jason. She’s compromised. Bring a team. No, not the lobby, through the east access. I want the prints lifted, now.”

He hung up and looked at me. “Pack a bag.”

“No.”

“Ivy.”

“I said no!” My voice came out too loud, too brittle. “You can’t just keep uprooting me like this! I can’t live like I’m some fragile thing you have to wrap in a bubble!”

His voice dropped an octave. “You’re not fragile. But you are in danger.”

I shook my head. “You don’t know that.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance until I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Someone climbed fourteen stories to touch your window. They knew you’d see it. You think that’s random?”

My breath caught.

He searched my face for a long moment before speaking again, quieter now. “I should never have left you here alone.”

There was something in his tone that wasn’t that quiet authority he carried, it almost sounded like guilt.

I didn’t want to care. I wanted to stay angry. But the fear was already clawing up my throat, and the truth was, his presence steadied me.

“Where are we going?” I asked finally.

He didn’t hesitate. “Home.”

“Home,” I echoed, though I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

His gaze softened, but only for a second. “To the one place Lucien won’t dare step foot.”

“Lucien?” I asked, “How are you so sure its him?”

He didn’t answer, “Get your things,” he said instead. “I’ll explain on the way.”

I stared at him for a beat longer before turning toward the bedroom. My hands were still trembling, but I forced them to move.

Because something in me, the part that still trusted him despite everything, believed that if I didn’t, there wouldn’t be another chance.

When I came back, he was still standing by the window, staring out into the dark. The rose lay on the counter where I’d dropped it.

His eyes flicked toward it once. “Don’t touch that again,” he said quietly.

Then, softer, almost like a promise:

“This ends tonight.”