Chapter 52 Ivy

Chapter 52 Ivy
I stare at the black shopping bag in his hand, refusing to reach for it, refusing to give him even an inch. The room feels heavy with everything we’ve said—and everything I’m still refusing to say.

Before I make a decision, before I can even open my mouth, the door swings open.

Luca doesn’t knock. Of course he doesn’t.

“You’ve had five minutes,” he says, but the irritation in his voice tells me he didn’t bother counting. His eyes sweep the room, landing on the scene: me sitting stiff‑backed on the bed, and him standing too close with a gift dangling from his hand.

Luca’s jaw tightens.

I feel the shift in the air immediately. The fragile, strained moment between us shatters like thin glass.

“I wasn’t finished,” he snaps at Luca—calmly, but with a sharpness that betrays the edge beneath his words.

“Well, you are now,” Luca fires back, stepping farther into the room. His presence is a wall, solid and unwavering. Protective. Overbearing. Familiar.

My pulse stutters. This is exactly what I didn’t want—two storms colliding in the shrinking space around me. I just want Lorenzo to leave and this is only dragging that time out. 

“Both of you, stop,” I mutter, my head throbbing. “Please.”

They fall silent, but their glares stay locked on each other like they’re waiting for the other to blink first.

I drag in a slow breath and force myself to look up at him. At the gift still held out. At the determination in his eyes, deepening despite Luca’s interruption.

“Just take it, Ivy,” he says quietly, but there’s something strained in his voice now—like he’s holding too many things together at once.

Luca glances at the bag, then at me, suspicion all over his face. “You don’t have to take anything from him.”

I ignore Luca.

Against my better judgment—and maybe against my own common sense—I reach out and wrap my fingers around the handle of the bag. His shoulders ease again, barely, like my acceptance was the only thing keeping him upright.

The weight of the gift settles into my palm. He watches me as though the world hinges on what I do next.

“If that is all you can leave,” I tell Lorenzo. He looks sad at first but then happy. 

“Okay, I hope you like your gift, my Doña. It is the first of many,” he tells me with a bow. 

Lorenzo vanishes into the hallway before I can correct him, his footsteps fading fast, like he can’t bear to risk hearing my rejection twice.

The room falls into a thick, charged silence.

I stare at the empty doorway long after he’s gone, the black bag heavy in my hand like it’s filled with stones instead of whatever he thinks will change my mind.

I will never be his Doña.

Luca exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “He shouldn’t have come in here.”

“No,” I murmur, eyes still fixed on the bag. “He shouldn’t have.”

But that doesn’t change the fact that he did.

Or the look he gave me before leaving—equal parts hope and heartbreak. A dangerous combination.

Luca moves closer, stopping beside the bed where Lorenzo had been moments before. He doesn’t sit. 

“What did he want?” he asks, voice low.

I let out a humorless laugh. “To talk. To apologize. To win. I don’t know.”

His gaze flicks to the bag. “And that?”

I lift it slightly. “A gift. Apparently.”

“You don’t have to keep it,” Luca says, too quickly. “You don’t owe him anything.”

I know that. I know that. But my fingers tighten around the handle instead of loosening.

“I just want a minute,” I whisper.

Luca nods, stepping back but not leaving. He stations himself near the door, arms crossed, jaw set—watching, but giving me the space I asked for. A sentinel, not a shadow.

I look down at the black bag again. It sits in my lap, neat and elegant, like it was chosen with care. Like he thought about what I might like. Or what might make me stay.

My chest tightens.

Why now? Why this effort? Why act devoted after everything that has already been broken?

Slowly, I part the tissue paper, expecting something shallow or showy—jewelry, perfume, something meant to impress rather than mean anything. Something he can throw in my face later.

Instead… my breath stalls.

It’s a cardigan.

A long, dark green cardigan, thick and soft and unmistakably handmade. The yarn is a deep forest shade, rich like moss after rain. Knitted along the sleeves and down the front are delicate patterns—ivy leaves twisting and curling as if they’re growing right out of the fabric. Warm brown buttons run down the front, smooth and polished, each one slightly different, like they were chosen individually instead of in a pack.

I blink hard.

For a moment, the room feels smaller. Quieter.

Luca steps forward slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he looks down at it. “What is that?”

I don’t answer him. I can’t.

Because the cardigan looks… thoughtful. Personal. As if someone paid attention. As if someone knew exactly what would comfort me—what I would reach for on cold mornings or on nights when I couldn’t sleep. The kind of thing you give someone you care about.

But Lorenzo doesn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
He can’t.

My throat tightens.

Why would he give me this? Why go to this extent?

I run my fingers over one of the knitted ivy leaves, tracing the ridges. The craftsmanship is intricate—too intricate for a rushed or careless gift. Someone spent hours making this. Days. Maybe weeks.

Luca watches me carefully. “Ivy…?”

I swallow, forcing my voice to stay steady. “It’s nothing. Just a cardigan.”

But even I don’t believe that. And neither does Luca.

Because this isn’t nothing. It’s not even close.

This is a symbol.
A message.
A promise I never wanted.

And it leaves me with a single, unsettling truth I can no longer avoid:
Lorenzo isn’t pulling away.

He’s digging in.
Trying harder.

And I have no idea why.