Marcus stepped through the front door of his mansion and was greeted by silence—too much of it. No excited bark from the dog, no music drifting from his wife's studio, and none of the chatter he used to hear from his children, back when they still lived here. The house was beautiful, grand even, but it felt like a luxury mausoleum tonight.
He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and loosened his tie, the weight of the trip settling on his shoulders. Ivy. Her name clung to his thoughts like a perfume that wouldn't wash off. Her laugh, her eyes, the feel of her in his arms after the meeting—it haunted him. And the text he'd sent. I love you, Ivy. God, what had he done?
Before he could even head upstairs, the sound of stilettos echoed sharply on the marble floor.
"You're back earlier than expected," his wife, Miranda, called out, stepping into view.
She looked every inch the fashion icon—elegant, poised, distant. Her makeup was flawless. So was the wall between them.
"Investor trip ended smoothly," he replied, heading toward the kitchen for a drink. "Ivy handled it brilliantly."
Miranda cocked her head. "That girl? Your friend's daughter?"
Marcus's hand froze around the glass. "Yes. She's impressive."
Miranda's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Well, let's just hope she doesn't end up like our own daughter—living off your money and calling it content creation."
He didn't respond. He didn't need to. The silence between them already said too much.
Upstairs, after pouring a drink he barely tasted, Marcus stood by the window overlooking the pool. He knew the thoughts in his head were dangerous. Ivy was young. Sweet. Innocent. Everything his life had lost touch with. Everything his heart longed for.
He thought of the moment on the plane, when she'd agreed to keep things secret. When she'd whispered, "Let me know what it feels like… to have a man."
It wasn't just desire. It was deeper than that. Ivy awakened something in him—something wild and protective and alive.
His phone buzzed.
Ivy: Just landed. Thank you for everything, Marcus.
He stared at the message. His thumb hovered, trembling. He wanted to say something back. Something more. But the door creaked open.
It was his youngest son, Jason—the singer. "Dad, can we talk?
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Jason?"
His son walked in, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie half-zipped. "Surprise. I thought I'd come spend a few days here before I go back to campus."
Marcus's expression remained guarded. "You didn't text."
Jayden shrugged. "Didn't know if you'd be back yet. Figured I'd wait."
Marcus studied his son. Tall, lean, sharp-featured like his mother, with eyes that had grown distant in recent years. The boy had chosen med school over business, science over stocks. He rarely stayed longer than a weekend when visiting.
"I thought you had midterms," Marcus said.
"Next week. Needed a break. Things at Mom's are…" Jayden on trailed off. "Complicated."
Marcus nodded slowly and gestured toward the bar. "Drink?"
Jayden shook his head. "Still not a fan of your twenty-year-old scotch."
The corner of Marcus's mouth twitched. "You never did take after me."
Jayden dropped his bag. "Actually, I came because I heard from Eliza you were out of town. London, right?"
Marcus stiffened. "Yes."
Jayden walked over and plopped onto the sofa. "Investor summit?"
"Among other things."
Jayden looked up, something curious flickering in his gaze. "So…who went with you? Thought I saw a photo online. Some gala night. Looked like you weren't alone."
Marcus kept his tone neutral. "Your goddaughter. Ivy represented her father. I was overseeing her."
Jayden raised an eyebrow. "Ivy Bennett? She's all grown up now, huh?"
Marcus turned to the window again. "Yes. She is."
Jayden didn't press further. But the room filled with an invisible weight. Questions unasked. Realizations hovering just outside the boundaries of certainty.
Finally, Marcus broke the silence. "You hungry?"
Jayden blinked, as if surprised. "Yeah. Actually. Starving."
Marcus walked toward the kitchen. "I'll have something brought up."
And as he made the call, his mind replayed Ivy's voice as she boarded the plane that morning.
"Thank you, Marcus… for believing in me."
Her words were soft, sincere—without expectation, but full of something unspoken.
Marcus stared at his reflection in the stainless-steel fridge.
The front door opened . His wife stood there, arms folded, wearing a sleek wine-colored silk robe that clung to her slender frame like it had been sewn onto her skin.
"am tired," he said, removing his coat. "Have you heard from Maya and Olivia "
"Maya is at the hospital. Emergency shift. Drew's performing at some charity event downtown. And your influencer princess, Olivia, is in Paris—shopping, last I checked."
"Of course," he muttered.
His wife raised an eyebrow. "You sound disappointed."
"No," he replied too quickly. "Just tired."
She stepped closer, her perfume—rose and sandalwood—wrapping around him. "Then you should rest."
"I will."
But rest was the last thing on Marcus's mind.
He followed her into the sitting room. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows on the minimalist decor. Photos lined the mantle: their wedding day, the kids' graduations, gala events. Marcus barely glanced at them. His mind was elsewhere—still back in London, on a jet, in a room, with Ivy.
"Marcus," she said, sitting on the edge of the cream velvet sofa, legs crossed elegantly. "Are you going to keep pacing like that or sit down?"
He sighed and joined her.
She studied him. "Something's off."
"I said I'm tired."
"Tired doesn't look like guilt."
He turned to her, surprised. "Excuse me?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You've been distant for years, Marcus. I stopped asking why. Maybe you should start asking yourself."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
She leaned over and placed a hand on his chest. "Whatever you're carrying, Marcus… let it go tonight. Be here."
He exhaled. "I'm trying."
She stood and extended a hand toward him. "Then let me help."
For a second, he hesitated. Then he rose and followed her upstairs.
The master bedroom was just as he had left it—neat, luxurious, distant. But tonight, the air shifted. His wife lit candles, poured them each a glass of aged whiskey, and moved toward him with intent.
"Let me remind you," she said softly, "what it feels like to come home."
Marcus let her draw him in, not just out of longing or habit—but out of desperation to forget. To bury what he felt in London. To silence Ivy's voice in his head. To replace forbidden desire with familiar passion.