CHAPTER 1

Ivy’s POV:

They say behind every successful man is a strong woman. At first, I was happy listening to that statement. It sounded like a partnership. It sounded like being wanted and needed.

He’d said it to me a lot, you know? My fiancé.

We got engaged five years ago, straight out of university, seconds before he hired me as his secretary and officially became my boss. I’d spent those five years building Davis Rutherford’s career from the ground up. I was his brain, his calendar, his conscience, and apparently, his primary source of unpaid labor.

I thought I was building a future. I thought every late night spent correcting his spreadsheets and every board member I charmed on his behalf was an investment in us.

Turns out, I was just a highly efficient personal trainer, preparing him for a different woman.

And that woman just happened to be my very own, lovely step-sister.

“Hnggh Davisss… it feels so good…”

I stood in the hallway of the place I had called home for five years, jaw clenched tight.

I’d just finished a twelve-hour workday, survived a three-hour board meeting where I’d basically done Davis’s job for him, and all I wanted was a glass of cheap wine and a hot bath. Instead, I was standing outside a bedroom door that was slightly ajar, treated to a cinematic view of my fiancé rutting into my step-sister.

I pushed the door open silently. I didn't scream. I didn't drop my bag. I just stood there, watching the scene with the detached exhaustion of someone looking at a piece of equipment that had finally, inevitably, broken down. After five years of fixing Davis’s messes, I didn’t have the energy for the "dramatic damsel" routine.

I was too tired to cry.

I had seen enough CEOs cheat on their wives to know the script, but I’d been stupid enough to believe Davis was the exception. I thought his lack of imagination would at least keep him loyal.

Rosaline’s eyes widened immediately as they met mine over Davis’s shoulder. She didn’t stop. She didn’t push him away. Instead, she pulled him closer, her fingers digging into his back as the corner of her lips quirked up in a smirk so faint it was almost imperceptibly cruel.

She’d won.

In her mind, she had scaled the mountain and planted her flag. She’d lured the "big prize" into her bed. It was a pathetic achievement, considering the prize in question was a man who still couldn't remember his own mother's birthday without a calendar alert from me, but Rosaline thrived on my scraps.

Rosaline Whitford. My step-sister. The "Rose" of the family. The beautiful one with chestnut hair and ocean-blue eyes that people seemed to fall into like shallow puddles. She was the preferred one, the adored one, the one who had spent her life taking my things just to see if she could. Even my own mother looked at her with a warmth she never reserved for me.

Then there was me. Ivy. Poison Ivy. The unwanted reminder of an abusive ex-husband my mother wanted to forget. I was the older one, the "shorter, uglier" one—or so the family narrative went. I was the thorn, and she was the flower.

Well, the flower was currently covered in sweat and semen, and I was officially done being the dirt she grew in.

I cleared my throat. "Careful, Davis. You’re making that face again. It’s really not as sexy as you think it is."

The effect was instantaneous. Davis fumbled, his rhythm breaking so violently he almost tumbled off the bed. He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and filled with a frantic, pathetic kind of shame.

My first instinct was to tell him his shirt was inside out. Five years of being his handler had left me with a Pavlovian urge to fix his life. But as I watched him stumble over his own trousers, tripping like a drunk toddler, the urge died.

I didn’t want to be his secretary anymore. And I damn sure didn't want to be his mother.

“You—Ivy? When did you get back?” He stammered, frantically trying to tuck his dick back into his pants.

"Take your time with the zipper, Davis," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "It’s clearly the most difficult thing you’ve had to handle all day. Do you want me to call your mother to help you, or can you manage?"

He finally managed to hide his "little thing"—which had gone impressively limp the second I spoke—before he blurted out the one line I’d been dreading.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

I actually laughed. “Unless this is a very realistic CPR demonstration that requires both of you to be naked and moaning, it is exactly what it looks like.”

He stepped toward me, reaching out, and every fiber of my being wanted to recoil. He smelled like my home, my sister, and my own wasted years.

But I didn’t move. I stood my ground.

“Ivy, please. Listen to me. I’m sorry, okay? I—this isn’t what I wanted… it just happened…”

"Don't bother with the 'I'm sorry' speech, Davis," I cut him off, my voice rising. "I’ve proofread your emails for five years; I know your vocabulary isn't up to the task of a sincere apology."

I reached up, twisted the engagement ring off my finger, and looked at it before I tossed it onto the nightstand. It bounced and landed near Rosaline’s foot.

"The ring is on the table—feel free to give it to Rosaline."

My gaze snapped to my step-sister. She was huddled under the duvet, wearing a mask of faux shame that didn't quite hide the triumph in her eyes. "Enjoy the recycling, Rose. I’m done with the trash."

"You’ll find my resignation letter on your desk in the morning," I added, turning on my heel.

"No, Ivy! Don’t do this!" Davis lunged forward, grabbing my elbow. His grip was tight, desperate. "We’ve been together for seven years. We have a life! Plus... we both know you need this job. Where are you going to go?"

My eyes narrowed.

"Fuck you, Davis." I ripped my arm out of his grasp. "You think I’m some charity case? You didn't hire me to help me; you hired me because I’m the only reason you haven't been fired by your own board of directors yet."

I stepped closer to him, enjoying the way he flinched.

"As for my 'need' for a job? I’m a well-educated, highly skilled woman who has been doing the work of a CEO for a secretary's salary. I’ll find a better position. One with higher pay, better perks." And preferably one where I don’t have to cook my boss’s dinner after a twelve hour shift and wake up early the next day to make him breakfast.

I looked at him one last time—the man I’d wasted half my youth on—and felt nothing but a cold, hard resolve.

"Don't follow me. Don't call me. And for God's sake, Davis... fix your zipper. You look ridiculous."