Ivy
The penthouse feels wrong. It’s the same floor to ceiling windows, the same minimalist furniture I picked out myself, the same sprawling view of the city I conquered. But it feels like a cage now. A beautifully decorated, obscenely expensive cage.
"Careful, my love," Julian says, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist. His touch makes my skin crawl. "Just a few more steps."
He guides me to the cream-colored sofa as if I’m made of spun glass. I grit my teeth against the pain in my ribs, but more so against the sight of the glowing ‘5’ that bobs above his head. It followed us all the way from the hospital. A constant, infuriating little beacon of his bullshit.
"There we are," he says, arranging pillows behind my back with theatrical care. "Comfy? Can I get you anything? Water? More of your pain medication?"
"I’m fine, Julian. Just tired."
"Of course, you are. You need to rebuild your strength." He kneels in front of me, taking both my hands in his. His eyes are wide with sincerity. A world class performance. "I’ve cleared my schedule for the next two weeks. I’m all yours. I’ll be your chef, your nurse, your gatekeeper. Whatever you need."
I force a smile. It feels brittle, like it might crack my face in two. "Thank you. That’s… sweet."
The ‘5’ flickers. It doesn’t change, just wavers, as if my weak praise was somehow unsatisfying. I want to scream. I want to ask him what his game is. I want to know why my sworn enemy registers a ninety five on this bizarre emotional Richter scale while my devoted boyfriend can’t even break into double digits.
But I say nothing. Rhys Blackwood’s words echo in my mind. *Brakes rarely fail on a brand new truck.* He planted a seed. The numbers are watering it.
"I’ll make us some tea," Julian says, rising to his feet. He kisses my forehead, a lingering, proprietary gesture. "You just rest."
I watch him walk toward the kitchen. As soon as his back is turned, the number above his head dips. A clear, undeniable ‘4’. It lasts for only a second before snapping back to a ‘5’ as he glances over his shoulder to smile at me. My breath hitches. It’s not just a static rating. It fluctuates. It reacts. It’s real.
The buzzer for the private elevator chimes, startling me.
"I’ll get it," Julian calls from the kitchen. "You don’t move a muscle."
I hear his voice, smooth and charming. "Lena, so good to see you. She’s just getting settled."
My heart leaps. Lena. My best friend. My COO. My rock. She strides into the living room, her sharp black suit a welcome contrast to Julian’s soft cashmere sweater. Her gaze is sharp, analytical, cutting right through the fragile patient charade.
"Don’t you dare stand up," she warns, her voice warm but firm.
And then I see it. A glowing, steady ‘85’ hangs above her short, dark hair. It’s warm. It’s solid. It feels like truth. Relief washes over me so intensely I feel lightheaded.
She sits in the armchair opposite me, ignoring Julian as he hovers nearby. "How are you? And I want the real answer, not the press release."
"I feel like I was hit by a truck," I say, a small, genuine smile finally reaching my lips.
She allows a small smile in return. "Fair enough. You look… better than I expected. Less dead."
"Always a plus."
"I brought you the quarterly reports," she says, pulling a tablet from her briefcase. "Figured you’d be going stir crazy."
"Lena, no," Julian interjects, stepping forward. He places a hand on her shoulder. "The doctor was very clear. No work. No screens. She needs total rest."
I watch Lena’s number. It doesn’t waver. The ‘85’ is as solid as she is. She subtly shrugs off his hand.
"Ivy runs a billion dollar company, Julian. Her brain doesn’t just switch off. A market report is less stressful for her than wondering what’s happening without her."
Her loyalty is a physical thing, a warmth spreading through my chest. The ‘85’ seems to glow a little brighter.
"I’ll be the judge of what’s stressful for my girlfriend," Julian says, his tone hardening slightly before he plasters on another concerned smile. "She’s been through a trauma. The last thing she needs is pressure."
He looks at me, his eyes pleading. *See how I protect you? See how much I care?* The number above his head remains a steadfast ‘5’.
I need to know more. I need more data points.
"You’re both right," I say, playing the peacemaker. It’s a role I detest. "Lena, can you just give me the verbal summary? The highlights? No numbers, I promise." My head throbbed at the irony.
Lena’s eyes search mine. She knows me. She knows this passive, agreeable version of me is an act. But she nods. "Alright. Project Chimera is on schedule. The acquisition of OmniCore is hitting some regulatory snags, but nothing I can’t handle. And the board is… antsy. But I told them if I got one more call asking about a succession plan, I’d start leaking their terrible golf scores to the press."
I laugh, a real laugh, though it sends a jolt of pain through my ribs. "Good. Thank you, Lena."
"Always," she says. Her ‘85’ is the only thing in this room that makes sense.
Julian stands there, looking between us, his role as the sole protector momentarily usurped. He clears his throat. "Well, since you’re talking shop, I’ll go check on that tea."
He retreats to the kitchen. The moment he’s out of my direct line of sight, I see his number dip again in my periphery. Another flash of a ‘4’.
My paranoia is a living thing, coiling in my gut.
Later, after Lena leaves with a promise to return tomorrow, I find myself standing by the window, looking down at the street fifty stories below. The city lights are just beginning to glitter in the dusk. Julian is on the phone in his study, his voice a low, indistinct murmur.
I see Michael, the evening doorman, helping a woman with her shopping bags. He’s been here for years. A kind man with a daughter starting college, a fact I only know because I asked. I make sure he gets a generous bonus every Christmas.
I focus on him, trying to see. And there it is. Fainter, due to the distance, but clear. A ‘70’. A warm, pleasant orange number. It makes sense. He likes me. I’m a good tipper, a polite resident. We have a positive, if superficial, relationship. A seventy feels right.
This isn’t a hallucination. It’s a faculty. A sense I never had before. A terrible, clarifying new sense.
"What are you doing out of bed?" Julian’s voice comes from directly behind me. I jump, startled, and a sharp pain makes me cry out.
"Whoa, easy there." He immediately puts his arms around me, holding me steady. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you."
I lean against him, my body tense. I’m a snake coiled in his arms. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my back. Or maybe it’s my own. I look at our reflection in the dark glass. My face is pale, my expression guarded. His is a mask of loving concern. And above his head, that pathetic, infuriating ‘5’.
"I just needed to see the sky," I lie.
"You should have called me." He kisses the top of my head. "Come on. I made soup. Your favorite. Cream of tomato with grilled cheese croutons."
He leads me back to the sofa. He’s laid out a tray on the coffee table. A steaming bowl of soup, a glass of water, my pills arranged neatly in a small dish. It’s a perfect picture of loving care.
"You remembered," I say, my voice quiet. It was an offhand comment I made months ago, that my mother used to make me this soup when I was sick.
"I remember everything you say," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Because every word you say is important to me, Ivy."
His sincerity is flawless. His actions are perfect. Any woman would melt. Any woman would believe him. But I can see the number. It’s a lie. It’s all a lie. The soup, the memories, the gentle touch. It’s a performance.
"Eat," he says softly. "You need your strength."
I pick up the spoon. The soup is delicious. He’s a good cook. A good actor. I eat slowly, methodically, under his watchful gaze. Each spoonful feels like swallowing poison.
"I was thinking," he says, settling on the floor beside the sofa, looking up at me. "When you’re better, we should go away. Just the two of us. That villa in Tuscany we talked about. No phones, no work. Just us."
He talks about our future, painting a beautiful picture of sunlight and wine and love. He speaks of devotion and forever. He uses all the right words. And the whole time, the number above his head just sits there. A stubborn, solid ‘5’.
It doesn’t rise with his declarations of love. It doesn’t change when he talks about a future together. It’s a fixed point of falsehood in a sea of pretty words.
He thinks I’m broken. He thinks I’m a fragile thing he needs to manage. He has no idea that the accident broke something open inside me. It gave me a weapon. I can see the truth now, glowing above everyone’s head.
And the truth is, the man kneeling at my feet, the man who says he loves me more than life itself, barely feels anything for me at all.
"That sounds wonderful, Julian," I say, setting the empty bowl back on the tray. My voice is even, my smile is serene.
He beams, his own smile wide and triumphant.
I feel a chill spread through me that has nothing to do with the accident. It’s a cold, hard certainty. I’m living in a stranger’s house. I’m sleeping in a stranger’s bed. I am being played. And I am going to find out why.
