The boardroom buzzed with soft conversations and the rustling of papers as executives filed out one by one. Ivy stood near the polished oak table, her hands still slightly trembling from the adrenaline. She had just finished presenting her pitch—concise, confident, and utterly compelling. The room had responded with murmurs of approval, nods of genuine interest, and finally, the golden confirmation: a verbal agreement to the proposed deal.
It was done.
She had secured the investment.
Marcus stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, watching her with a rare softness in his expression. As the last of the investors left, he approached her, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"You were spectacular, Ivy. Your father would be proud."
She turned toward him, her face alight. "We got it, Marcus. They said yes."
He chuckled—a warm, genuine sound. "I heard. You owned that room."
Without thinking, Ivy stepped forward and threw her arms around him. The embrace was spontaneous, full of joy and relief. Marcus hesitated for a moment, then returned the hug, his hand resting lightly on her back.
It was meant to be a moment of celebration, but something shifted.
She pulled back just slightly to look up at him, their eyes locking. The air between them felt suddenly charged, thick with something neither of them had expected. And then—without thinking, without calculating—he leaned in.
Their lips met in a brief, quiet kiss.
It wasn't rushed or passionate. It was gentle. Unspoken.
And yet, the moment their mouths touched, Ivy froze.
She stepped back. Her eyes widened, her breath shallow. "Marcus..."
His jaw tightened, guilt already flashing in his eyes. "I—I'm sorry. That shouldn't have happened."
But Ivy didn't speak. She wasn't angry. She wasn't upset. She was confused.
Because that kiss—that soft, unfamiliar touch—had sparked something inside her. Something she didn't have a name for.
They stood in silence for several long seconds, the distance between them now feeling more fragile than ever.
Marcus cleared his throat and checked his watch. "There's a dinner reservation waiting. Let's go. You deserve to celebrate."
---
Dinner was held at a quiet Italian restaurant tucked into a row of brownstones not far from the hotel. The lighting was low, the music soft and unobtrusive. Ivy had changed into a deep blue silk blouse and high-waisted trousers, her hair in soft waves. Marcus wore a gray cashmere sweater over a crisp white shirt—understated and refined.
They talked at first about the meeting—the way the CFO seemed skeptical at first but was eventually won over by Ivy's pitch, the moment one of the executives asked if she was really Graham Bennett's daughter and how she had responded with confidence and grace.
But eventually, the conversation shifted.
"I wasn't always good at this," Marcus said, twirling his glass of wine. "Speaking. Pitching. Being in rooms like that."
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Really? You seem like you were born for it."
"I had to work for it. Learn the nuances. Like your father did. He was always the visionary. I was the one who executed."
She leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "You've never talked much about your own family."
Marcus took a slow sip of his drink before answering. "My wife, Lara, she's a fashion designer. Very successful. Very focused. Always traveling."
"And your kids?"
He nodded. "Three. Liam is a surgeon, lives in Chicago. Mila sings—mostly lounges, small jazz clubs. And Aria... Aria's my youngest. She says she's a lifestyle content creator, but mostly she asks for money and posts pictures from yachts."
Ivy smiled faintly, unsure of what to say.
"I don't say that to be cruel," he continued. "I love my children. But sometimes... I wonder if I gave too much and taught too little."
She tilted her head. "That's not fair to yourself. Parenting doesn't come with a blueprint."
He smiled, a little sadly. "Maybe. But sometimes I think... if I had a daughter like you—"
He caught himself.
But the words were already out.
Ivy looked down at her plate, heart thudding in her chest.
Marcus reached for his glass again, letting the silence fill the space.
After dessert, they took a quiet car ride back to the hotel. Neither of them said much. The kiss earlier hung in the air between them like a fragile thread neither dared touch.
When Ivy reached her room, she kicked off her heels and sank into the armchair by the window. London twinkled in the distance. Her phone buzzed. A text.
From Marcus.
I love you, Ivy.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't poetic. It wasn't wordy. It was raw. Unfiltered. Sent by a man who had spent a lifetime hiding behind strategy and diplomacy, finally letting something through.
She stared at the message for a long time.
Then, slowly, she typed back.
I don't know what this is, Marcus. But I've never known any love but my father's. And you... you feel safe.
She hesitated. Deleted it.
Instead, she sent:
Good night.
And then she turned off the phone and lay in bed, eyes wide, heart pounding, feeling the weight of something new. Something terrifying. Something undeniable.
Marcus sat alone in the silence of his hotel suite, the muted lights casting a soft glow across the polished wood and sleek decor. Outside, London glimmered with its usual restrained elegance. But inside, the stillness roared.
He had barely touched the celebratory wine Ivy had insisted they order up after the investor meeting. The pitch had gone off flawlessly. Ivy had commanded the room—not with arrogance or inexperience—but with a quiet strength, intelligent questions, and a composed grace that caught even the most seasoned venture capitalists off guard. She had closed the deal. Graham would be proud. Hell, he was proud.
But pride wasn't the only thing coursing through him.
He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging a heavy breath through his nose. What the hell am I doing? The words pounded through his thoughts like a hammer against glass.
She was twenty.
Just twenty.
A young woman, yes, but so much younger than him. Someone he'd watched grow up. Someone whose father he called brother in every way except blood. Graham trusted him. Trusted him to guide her. Protect her.
And here he was, nursing a kiss that had lasted two seconds too long.
It hadn't meant to happen. The hug was spontaneous—natural, even—celebrating her success, the shared pride of a mission well-executed. But then she had turned into him, her perfume soft and warm, her eyes lit with joy and something else... trust. Admiration. It had undone him. When she'd looked up and smiled, her lips close enough to feel his breath, he hadn't stepped away. Instead, he'd leaned forward like gravity was no longer interested in the rules.
And she hadn't stopped him.
That alone haunted him more than anything.
Marcus got up, poured himself a double bourbon, and stood by the window. The city was blurred in gold and violet reflections on the glass. His mind drifted to his own family—his wife, Elara, a celebrity fashion designer always on the move, always booked, always seen. Their children were grown now. His eldest was a doctor stationed overseas. His son toured with his band. And then there was Sasha—the daughter he had spoken about last night. The one who chased luxury more than ambition. Lifestyle influencer, she called herself. Marcus knew that was code for spending money while avoiding responsibility.
He loved his children. But Ivy… she was the daughter he wished he'd raised.
She carried herself with discipline, grace, and an unrelenting work ethic. Graham had raised her with vision and grit. She wasn't entitled. She wasn't loud or self-absorbed. She had poise. Hunger. Heart.
He respected her.
He felt something more than respect—and that truth frightened him.
He took a sip of the bourbon, the heat from it traveling down to meet the tension simmering in his gut.
He could tell himself that nothing had really happened.
He could chalk it up to adrenaline and proximity and the warmth of shared success.
But he knew the truth.
When he'd sent that message—I love you, Ivy—it wasn't an accident. It wasn't a slip of the finger or a phrase misused.
He meant it.
Not love in the pure, paternal sense. Not the way Graham loved her. This love was messier. Complicated. Inappropriate, even. It was want and admiration and guilt laced together in a knot he didn't know how to untangle.
And yet, despite every voice of reason screaming in his head—he didn't feel ashamed.
He felt alive.
More than he had in years.
She had replied.
She hadn't recoiled. She hadn't lashed out. There had been silence for a moment… then a soft acknowledgment. Not with words. But with understanding.
He knew Ivy had no experience in love. No relationships. No boyfriend stories. No reckless romantic escapades. Her father had once mentioned that Ivy had always been focused—driven toward the future, uninterested in fleeting distractions.
Marcus wondered if he had just become her first distraction.
Or if she was becoming his last great mistake.
He placed the glass down. His reflection stared back at him in the window—gray at the temples, eyes tired from years of closing deals and building empires.