Chapter 88 Eighty Eight

Chapter 88 Eighty Eight
IVY POV

The silence after the call didn’t feel like silence.

It felt like doors slamming.

I stared at my phone screen even after the line went dead, as if it might light back up and undo what he’d just done. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Ronan never did things halfway. Even when he was wrong, he committed to it like it was a sport.

“Come to my place if you want answers.”

Like I had nothing else to do. Like I wasn’t sitting in a glass office with my entire career balanced on a three-hour fuse.

I let out a slow breath through my nose and set the phone down carefully, like it might bite me if I moved too fast.

My laptop was already open. Tabs everywhere. Headlines. Clips. Comments spiraling out of control.

Hale’s Fall From Grace. Ronan Hale Brawl Video Leaked.

Should He Be Suspended?

A sponsor list sat in another tab. Half of them are already marked with red flags by the PR team.

My stomach tightened.

Three hours.

Claire hadn’t been joking. Harrington didn’t issue deadlines unless he was already halfway to firing someone. And by that, it means I get sent back and kiss my partnership goodbye

I pressed my palms against my desk, grounding myself.

Think.

Not about Ronan.

Think about your job this is all you’re work for. Ivy, I muttered to myself

The intercom on my desk buzzed.

“Miss Cross,” Claire’s voice came through, tight. “Harrington wants an update.”

My throat went dry.

“Tell him I’m drafting preliminary damage control language,” I said quickly. “We’re waiting on a full statement from Hale’s camp.”

A pause.

“He asked if ‘waiting’ means you’re actually handling it or if you’re personally involved in the chaos.”

I closed my eyes for half a second.

“Tell him I’m handling it.”

Another pause. Then softer:

“Ivy… he’s not in a mood to be managed right now.”

“I know.”

The line clicked off.

I stared at the phone again.

Ronan’s contact name sat there like a dare.

For a moment, I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened to the office noise bleeding through the walls… phones ringing, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly two desks over like nothing in the world was falling apart.

Then I grabbed my keys.

I stood so fast my chair rolled back.

No. Not like this. Not without control.

If I went to him, it wouldn’t be because he snapped his fingers and I came running. It would be because I needed information. Because I needed to fix this before it swallowed everything I had built.

That was the story I told myself as I walked out.

But my grip on the keys was too tight to be calm.

The Uber ride felt shorter than it should have.

And extremely quiet.

Every red light made my frustration spike higher. Every second I imagined Harrington opening his office door, asking for the statement, asking for me and me not being there.

When the car finally stopped outside Ronan’s building, I almost didn’t move.

Glass. Steel. Wealth that didn’t care about consequences.

I got out anyway.

The lobby guard barely looked at me before letting me through. Of course he didn’t. Ronan’s name opened doors. Even when it was attached to headlines like brawl and suspension review.

The elevator ride up was too smooth. Too quiet.

My reflection in the metal doors looked… composed.

That annoyed me more than anything.

Because I wasn’t composed.

I was angry. And tired. And aware of every stupid memory I hadn’t managed to bury.

The doors slid open.

I raised my hand to knock.

But the door opened before my knuckles made contact.

Ronan stood there.

No shirt.

Hair still messy as he’d barely touched sleep. A faint bruise blooming along his jaw that hadn’t been in the video…closer now, real now, not just headlines and pixels.

His eyes landed on me and held.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then, softly, like he’d been waiting longer than the call suggested:

“You came.”

I stepped inside anyway, brushing past him without permission.

“Don’t start,” I said immediately. “I’m not here because you told me to come. I’m here because I have three hours to fix your mess before your stupidity ends my career.”

The door clicked shut behind me.

The air in the apartment felt heavier than I remembered.

Ronan didn’t answer right away. I heard the slow sound of him closing the distance behind me instead.

“I didn’t ask you to fix it,” he said.

I turned sharply.

“That’s literally what you did.”

“No.” His gaze stayed on mine. “I asked you to come hear the truth.”

My jaw tightened.

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched.

Something about him was different up close. Not calmer. Never calmer. Just… contained in a way that felt more dangerous than the chaos on the news.

I crossed my arms.

“Start talking then,” I said. “Because right now all I know is you got drunk, picked a fight in a club, and set my entire career on fire in the process.”

His eyes flickered at that last part.

“You think I don’t know that?” he said quietly.

I held his gaze.

“Then explain it.”

Another pause.

And this time, when he spoke, his voice dropped lower.

“I didn’t start the fight.”

I scoffed.

“You were literally on video throwing punches.”

“Because someone else did first.”

That stopped me for half a beat.

My expression tightened.

“Who?”

Ronan’s jaw flexed once.

And for the first time since I’d known him again—since all of this started spiraling back into my life—I saw something in his face that wasn’t arrogance or hunger or frustration.

It was guilt . The kind that had roots.

“Someone who had no business saying your name,” he said.

The air shifted.

My stomach sank slightly.

“…My name?” I repeated carefully.

His eyes stayed on mine.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“He shouldn’t have dragged you into this he had no right to.”