Chapter 5
Three months out, and I was breathing again.
Not thriving—that would come later. But breathing. Filling my lungs with air that belonged only to me.
Priya's firm was small but fierce. Six analysts, all women, all underestimated by the old-money City boys who dominated London finance. We were hungrier. Sharper. We worked twice as hard because we had to.
I thrived in it. The work lit something in me that three years in Damien's shadow had nearly extinguished—ambition. Not the quiet, supportive ambition of making someone else's empire stronger. My own ambition. Sharp-toothed and unapologetic.
Within two months, I'd landed three major clients through restructuring strategies that Priya called "borderline supernatural."
"Where did you learn this?" she asked, reviewing my work on a shipping magnate's tax exposure.
"Practice."
"This isn't practice. This is mastery. Who were you before you came here, Ivy Chen?"
"Someone invisible."
She didn't push. Priya understood invisibility—she'd built her firm after being passed over for partner three times at a Magic Circle firm.
I was rebuilding. Slowly. Brick by brick.
But some nights—the quiet ones, when London settled into darkness and my studio felt too empty—I'd reach for my phone and find nothing there.
No tiny voice asking for one more story.
No small hand reaching for mine in the dark.
Lily.
I dreamed about her. Her laugh—that full-body giggle when I tickled her feet. Her serious face during piano practice. The way she'd press her forehead against mine and whisper, "You're my best person, Ivy."
I'd wake up gasping.
Victoria posted on Instagram—Lily in the Kensington kitchen, wearing an apron, "baking" with her new "mummy." The caption: "My little princess! Domestic bliss 💕"
Lily wasn't smiling.
I closed the app. Deleted it.
Some doors have to stay shut or they'll drag you back through.
Month four. A Thursday. I was leaving the office late when I saw him.
Damien. Standing across the street. Rain-soaked. No umbrella. No driver.
Just—standing there. Looking at me like a man who'd lost something and couldn't remember where he'd put it.
My blood went cold. Then hot. Then nothing.
I kept walking.
"Ivy."
I didn't stop.
"Ivy, please."
I stopped. Not because he asked. Because his voice—that controlled, commanding voice—cracked on the word "please" like he'd never said it before in his life.
I turned.
He looked terrible. Not the polished magazine-cover billionaire I'd lived with. This man was thin. Hollow-eyed. His suit was wrinkled—Damien, who ironed his pocket squares.
"You blocked me," he said.
"Yes."
"I need to talk to you."
"We have nothing to discuss. The contract ended. I signed."
"It's about Lily."
My heart seized. "What about Lily?"
"She won't eat. Won't sleep. Won't speak to anyone except—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She keeps asking for you. Every day. Every night."
"That's not my problem anymore. You made that clear."
"I know. I know I did." He stepped closer. Rain running down his face like the tears he'd never shed. "But she's five years old and she lost her parents and now she's lost—"
"Don't. Don't you dare put that on me. YOU ended this. YOU replaced me. YOU told a five-year-old that the only mother she remembers was a temporary arrangement."
"I didn't tell her that."
"What did you tell her?"
Silence.
"What did you TELL her, Damien?"
"I told her you had to go. That it wasn't her fault."
"And Victoria? Playing house? Posting Instagram photos of MY child in MY kitchen wearing MY apron—"
"She's not yours." His voice was quiet. Terrible. "That's what the contract said."
I felt it like a physical blow. Stepped back.
"You're right," I said. Cold. Final. "She's not mine. Nothing was ever mine. I was just the help."
I walked away. Didn't look back.
Behind me, he said nothing.
Good.
Not thriving—that would come later. But breathing. Filling my lungs with air that belonged only to me.
Priya's firm was small but fierce. Six analysts, all women, all underestimated by the old-money City boys who dominated London finance. We were hungrier. Sharper. We worked twice as hard because we had to.
I thrived in it. The work lit something in me that three years in Damien's shadow had nearly extinguished—ambition. Not the quiet, supportive ambition of making someone else's empire stronger. My own ambition. Sharp-toothed and unapologetic.
Within two months, I'd landed three major clients through restructuring strategies that Priya called "borderline supernatural."
"Where did you learn this?" she asked, reviewing my work on a shipping magnate's tax exposure.
"Practice."
"This isn't practice. This is mastery. Who were you before you came here, Ivy Chen?"
"Someone invisible."
She didn't push. Priya understood invisibility—she'd built her firm after being passed over for partner three times at a Magic Circle firm.
I was rebuilding. Slowly. Brick by brick.
But some nights—the quiet ones, when London settled into darkness and my studio felt too empty—I'd reach for my phone and find nothing there.
No tiny voice asking for one more story.
No small hand reaching for mine in the dark.
Lily.
I dreamed about her. Her laugh—that full-body giggle when I tickled her feet. Her serious face during piano practice. The way she'd press her forehead against mine and whisper, "You're my best person, Ivy."
I'd wake up gasping.
Victoria posted on Instagram—Lily in the Kensington kitchen, wearing an apron, "baking" with her new "mummy." The caption: "My little princess! Domestic bliss 💕"
Lily wasn't smiling.
I closed the app. Deleted it.
Some doors have to stay shut or they'll drag you back through.
Month four. A Thursday. I was leaving the office late when I saw him.
Damien. Standing across the street. Rain-soaked. No umbrella. No driver.
Just—standing there. Looking at me like a man who'd lost something and couldn't remember where he'd put it.
My blood went cold. Then hot. Then nothing.
I kept walking.
"Ivy."
I didn't stop.
"Ivy, please."
I stopped. Not because he asked. Because his voice—that controlled, commanding voice—cracked on the word "please" like he'd never said it before in his life.
I turned.
He looked terrible. Not the polished magazine-cover billionaire I'd lived with. This man was thin. Hollow-eyed. His suit was wrinkled—Damien, who ironed his pocket squares.
"You blocked me," he said.
"Yes."
"I need to talk to you."
"We have nothing to discuss. The contract ended. I signed."
"It's about Lily."
My heart seized. "What about Lily?"
"She won't eat. Won't sleep. Won't speak to anyone except—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She keeps asking for you. Every day. Every night."
"That's not my problem anymore. You made that clear."
"I know. I know I did." He stepped closer. Rain running down his face like the tears he'd never shed. "But she's five years old and she lost her parents and now she's lost—"
"Don't. Don't you dare put that on me. YOU ended this. YOU replaced me. YOU told a five-year-old that the only mother she remembers was a temporary arrangement."
"I didn't tell her that."
"What did you tell her?"
Silence.
"What did you TELL her, Damien?"
"I told her you had to go. That it wasn't her fault."
"And Victoria? Playing house? Posting Instagram photos of MY child in MY kitchen wearing MY apron—"
"She's not yours." His voice was quiet. Terrible. "That's what the contract said."
I felt it like a physical blow. Stepped back.
"You're right," I said. Cold. Final. "She's not mine. Nothing was ever mine. I was just the help."
I walked away. Didn't look back.
Behind me, he said nothing.
Good.