Jamison could tell Ivy was secretly relieved—she finally had a watertight excuse not to go back. But he couldn’t really argue with her. Farley Shepherd’s mess of a second family and illegitimate child was no small matter. It needed handling, and fast. “I’ll drive you home. Get some rest today, stay in, and wait for me. Once I’ve sorted out my sister’s situation, I’ll come back and be with you.” He glanced at Ivy, his voice low and gentle, his words deliberate and careful. “I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me. Your sister needs you more right now,” Ivy replied. Jamison didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on the road, silent.

When they reached Ivy’s apartment, he didn’t even step inside—just dropped her off and walked away. He didn’t return for hours. It was past ten at night, just as Ivy was about to drift off, when she finally heard the front door. She’d already changed into her thin, close-fitting nightgown and crawled into bed, not planning to get up again. She pretended to be asleep, hoping he’d think she’d already gone to bed.

Still, she couldn’t help but listen for sounds from the living room, every nerve on edge. Footsteps grew closer, and then the bedroom door opened. She heard him come in, but he didn’t approach the bed or head for the bathroom. In fact, he seemed to vanish, leaving the room eerily quiet. Ivy held her breath, willing herself to stay still. But after a few moments, curiosity got the better of her. She rolled over to sneak a glance. By the faint glow of the nightlight, she spotted him sitting on the armchair across the room—tall, broad-shouldered, but slumped in silence. Whatever had happened tonight, it clearly hadn’t gone well. After a brief hesitation, she sat up and switched on her bedside lamp. Jamison turned suddenly, surprise flickering across his tired, hoarse voice. “You’re still awake? Did I wake you?” Ivy ignored his question, climbing out of bed and walking over. “What’s wrong? You come home and just sit here, not even bothering to shower—what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just needed a minute,” he replied, his tone quiet and gentle, but somehow different than usual. She stood in front of him, eyes lowered, studying him. Their gazes met. Jamison pressed his lips together, then stood up and took a deep breath. “Go back to bed. I’ll shower now.” He reached out and gave her shoulder a gentle pat. But Ivy caught sight of his hand—her eyes narrowing as she grabbed it. “What happened to you?” The skin over his right knuckles was scraped raw, with scabs already forming in the worst spots—fresh and ugly. Jamison glanced at the wounds, brushing it off. “I hit someone. Got carried away. It’s nothing.” “Nothing? You’re bleeding all over the place!” Ivy snapped, her pretty face tightening in concern. “Sit down. I’ll go get the first-aid kit.” She turned to leave, but Jamison caught her arm. “Wait.” “What is it?” “Let me shower first. There’s no point cleaning it up now—I’ll just get it dirty again.” She gave him a long look, then relented, concern still etched on her face. “Can’t you even manage by yourself?” He gave a lopsided grin. “You want to help me?” “In your dreams! Don’t even try that on me.” She shook off his hand and stalked out to fetch the first-aid supplies. Jamison, bothered by the bloodstains on his shirt, didn’t waste any more time. He headed straight for the bathroom. When he finally emerged, Ivy had set the first-aid kit on the coffee table. “Come here,” she called, her tone cool. Jamison looked down at his hand, frowning, and walked over. Ivy’s eyes widened in alarm—blood was seeping from the wounds on his knuckles, trickling down his fingers, about to drip onto the floor. “How did this get so bad? Why are you bleeding so much all of a sudden?”