She didn’t flinch. But her grip on the coffee cup tightened until her knuckles went white.
Ivy handed him a glass of wine. He set it down without drinking.
Then she matched with .
She matched. He messaged within thirty seconds.
And Ivy Aura, for the first time in her life, walked into something without a contract, without an exit strategy, and without a single damn rule.
“No.” He finally took her hand—not to kiss it, but to turn it over, palm-up. He traced the callus on her middle finger from years of signing contracts. “I’ve come to see if you’ll break first. Or if you’ll finally let something hold you together.”