Chapter 51 Ivy

Chapter 51 Ivy
The first thing I become aware of is the ache behind my eyes — a slow, heavy pressure that makes the room tilt when I blink. The second thing is the quiet.

Until it isn’t.

Muffled voices filter in from the hallway.

I turn my head toward the door, wincing as the motion sends a ripple down my neck.

“…you can stop right there.”

Luca’s voice. Steady, calm, but carrying that edge he only uses when he’s at his limit.

Then another voice, rougher, full of something like desperation wrapped in arrogance:

“I am going in. Her father gave me permission.”

Lorenzo.
My stomach twists.

I’m awake now, fully, painfully.

I push myself up a little, just enough to hear clearer, heart hammering a warning inside my chest.

“She’s my concern.” Luca declares and then lets out a humorless laugh. “You lost the right to claim that.”

“You don’t have that right. I never lost anything. She walked away because of a misunderstanding. I am going to get her back,” Lorenzo says back. 

My hands curl tighter around the blanket.
No.
No, I don’t want to see him.

Not after living two lives. I have learned not to make the same mistake twice.

Not after he made his love feel like a trap I barely escaped.

Luca’s voice drops lower, quieter, but every syllable carries:
“And she chose to come back to me, not you.”

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, heat prickling my skin — a mix of resentment and something colder, older. Something that feels like fear trying to disguise itself as anger.

Lorenzo scoffs and he says something back but I have a hard time hearing it.

Then I hear a different voice:
“Perfect. Both of you in one place. Just what I needed. I was rather hoping you both would kill each other.”

My breath stutters.
Edward, my loyal protector. 

My papa’s voice finally cuts through everything — deep, calm, impossible to ignore.

“Lorenzo has five minutes.”

I close my eyes.
Why would papa do this to me? 

He knows I don’t want to see him but he must want to keep the peace between the two mafia families. I decided to trust papa because I know for a fact he would not do this if there was a way out of it. 

I hear three sets of footsteps shift.
My pulse thumps loudly in my ears.

I know Lorenzo is coming so I do the only thing I can think of to try to get out of talking to him.

Pretend I’m still asleep.

I hear the door knob start to rattle as it is turned. 

I am on my side facing away from the door. I slam my eyes shut as I hear the door creak open. 

He steps in and closes the door softly. I still keep up the sleeping act as I hear his footsteps as he gets closer. Then he stops. I cannot see him but I know he is close to the bed. He stood there for a second, just waiting. 

He finally breaks the silence. 

“Ivy…” He whispers softly. A little too soft for my liking. He does not get to be soft for what he did in my past life. Yes, he did not do it yet but my pain is still there from it. Still real. 

I am still stewing in my anger when his voice cuts through the dark. “Ivy, are you awake?”

Of course he wouldn’t let me have a moment of peace. I let out a sigh I don’t bother hiding—might as well get this over with so he’ll finally leave me alone. I push myself upright and turn toward him.

And damn him. Damn him for looking like that.

And there he is. Far too close.

He’s standing beside the bed, shadows from the lamp stretching around him and making his presence feel even larger. Damn him for looking like that. His white button‑down is rolled up neatly along his strong forearms, fabric pulled just tight enough to show the shape of them. The top few buttons are undone—maybe one too many—offering a fleeting glimpse of warm skin and the subtle rise of his collarbone. His deep brown slacks fit like they were tailored just for him, clean lines and crisp fabric that only make him more annoyingly put together. 

Why can’t the universe make only the good‑hearted ones good‑looking? Would that really be so hard?

I narrow my eyes at him, ignoring the unwanted flutter in my chest as he takes a slow breath, his attention fixed entirely on me.

“Why are you here?” I shoot at him, the glare sharp enough to cut.

“I heard about what happened and I needed to see you,” he says. His voice is soft, steady, and for a split second he looks genuinely concerned—but I will not be fooled again.

“Well, you saw me. You can leave now!” I snap. His expression falters, a soft, wounded look flickering across his face.

“Ivy… please. Can we talk?” he asks, and there’s a desperation in his voice he can’t hide.

I hesitate. Do I want to see him? Absolutely not. But maybe—just maybe—this is my chance at closure.

“Speak then,” I say flatly.

His shoulders drop with visible relief, as if the single permission breathes life back into him.

“I know you called off the engagement. It was not my choice. You are the only woman I want,” he says, stepping closer before lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. The audacity. My blood surges with heat.

“You say you chose me? Really?” My voice cracks into a shout before I can stop it. “You really are cruel! You claim I’m the only woman, but I know there are others you would rather favor!”

My breath comes fast, like I’ve sprinted miles. Anger burns through me, a wild and familiar heat.

He stares at me, brows pulled together in confusion, like he can’t fathom what I’m accusing him of. Maybe he hasn’t pursued Rose yet—not openly, anyway. But now that they’ve met, it’s only a matter of time.

“Ivy, you have to believe me—there is no one else,” he says, voice thick with urgency. Not urgency for me, of course. More like desperation to keep his pawn in place.

“It doesn’t matter! I don’t want to marry you!” I shout, and the words feel strangely freeing. When you’ve died because of betrayal, you learn what matters and what doesn’t. You learn to stop caring. To let go.

He watches me closely and must finally sense the wall I’ve put up. With a defeated sigh, he rises from the bed. Only then do I notice the black shopping bag in his hand. He extends it toward me.

“Take it,” he says quietly. “I got it for you.”

I stare at him, unsure what he expects or what trick lies hidden this time. His expression, though—determined beneath the exhaustion—doesn’t waver.

He isn’t giving up.

Which only leaves me with one unsettling question:
Why is he trying so hard?