Undressed By His Arrogance

(This is a thank you for 100 power stones. Next up, 200)

Ivy laughed at that, a genuine laugh that softened her whole face. She sat on the arm of his chair, looking him over. "I’m glad you are feeling better. Work has been crazy, add that to school and it’s...well...crazy."

"I get it," Eugene said. "I still owe you a date though."

"Yeah, you do," Ivy said softly. "And uh...I know I said this while you were back in the hospital, but you were pumped full of painkillers, I don’t think you registered what I said."

"Whats that?" Eugene asked, his brows pulling together, confusion warm and soft rather than sharp.

"Thank you for saving me."

"I wasn’t saving you. I was saving me."

"excuse me?" She raised a brow.

"I needed another chance to tell you that I love you." Eugene smiled gently.

"Uh..." Ivy stammered. Her heartbeat instantly kicked up to a painful rhythm. "I mean... we..."

"I know... it’s only been a couple of weeks," he continued, lifting a hand. "But I knew from the first time at that restaurant. When I kissed you good night. I knew. But then, I would be a creep telling you that then, right?"

"I..." Ivy swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

"I’m not telling you because I want to hear it back. I’m just telling you." Eugene clarified.

He said it with such calm certainty that Ivy felt a tug, a painful, gentle thread pulling at her chest. There was no demand in his tone. No pressure. Just truth. And truth, she realized, was more disarming than heat and dominance and tension could ever be.

Ivy smiled—small, shaky, real. "Right. How about I share my ice cream with you instead? I got one on my way back from school."

"perfect!" His whole face brightened.

Ivy pulled out the bowl from the bag and two spoons. She handed him a spoon, then curled herself onto the couch beside him. Eugene shifted carefully, stretching out one leg and placing his cane within reach.

"So... Netherlands trip? You mentioned it on the phone yesterday." he asked around a spoonful.

She nodded. "Yep. Investors meeting." She made a vague gesture with her spoon. "Sharona’s arrest is all over the news. And it’s messy. Very messy. And I need to reassure the investors."

Eugene whistled low. "Sounds like drama you didn’t ask for."

"That’s been the story of my life for a while now," Ivy muttered, rolling her eyes.

And as they talked about the trip, about the scandal, about her uncle and the project, she felt the strangest mixture of comfort and guilt sink into her bones.

He chipped in with his humourous quips every once in a while as they talked late into the night. With Eugene, Ivy was at ease. There was no sexual tension, no charged electricity ready to snap and burn her from the inside out. No battle for dominance. No sharp pull in her lower belly that made her forget her name.

With him, it felt like she could breathe.

It felt like they were best friends, and isn’t that what every healthy relationship needed?

A steady anchor. A soft place to land. A man who looked at her like she was something gentle and precious, not something to be devoured.

She savored the ease, even as a tiny, dangerous part of her missed the chaos.

*****

A few days later, Ivy left the country with her assistant, Marissa. She had barely slept on the eight-hour flight—her mind had been a storm of meetings, investor expectations, and the gnawing anxiety that Sharona’s mess would spill into their laps before she could stop it.

When she finally stepped off the plane at Schiphol Airport, exhaustion clung to her. But the moment the automatic doors slid open and the crisp night air hit her face, she inhaled deeply, letting the foreign scents—rain and river water replace the plane smell.

Marissa stretched her arms above her head. "God, the Netherlands smells clean."

They slid into the waiting car, and as they drove through Amsterdam, her tiredness eased just a little.

It was truly the city of dreams.

She made a mental note to take a tour of the city before heading back.

If she wasn’t dragged into a thousand meetings.

If the investors didn’t grill her alive.

If the Sharona scandal didn’t ignite a nightmare.

Marissa and Ivy checked into the hotel the investors had booked for them.

Marissa gave her a tired wave. "Good night, Miss Morales."

"Night," Ivy replied softly.

The moment she entered her room, she dropped her bags and flopped onto the soft, oversized bed. She let out a groan.

But she didn’t sleep.

Not yet.

She made a brief video call with Eugene.

"You look tired," he observed.

"I look dead," she corrected.

"And somehow still beautiful. Must be witchcraft."

Ivy snorted. "Shut up."

He talked about his physical therapy, the TV show he started without her ("traitor," she accused).

After Eugene, she called her grandpa.

Finally, she sent a quick text to her uncle:

Landed safely. Hotel is nice. Will update tomorrow.

Try not to panic.

She checked her laptop again. She needed to be sure—absolutely sure—that her presentation for the next morning was saved, exported, backed up, and ready to go. Her heart had been skittering since landing in Amsterdam.

Her phone pinged.

Winn: Beautiful city, isn’t it?

Of course he would text. Of course he would find a way to slink into her night. Ivy blew out a breath, rubbing her hand over her face. She should ignore him. She’d promised safety, boundaries, professionalism. Only business. But her fingers—traitorous, curious—typed back anyway.

Me: Yes, it is.

Another ping came immediately.

Winn: We should see it together one of these days.

Ivy rolled her eyes. The man was impossible. She typed fast, as if speed could choke the warmth rising up her neck.

Me: I am jetlagged and tired. Good night or whatever time it is there.

A pause. Then—

Winn: It is also night.

Me: That’s impossible.

Winn: Anything is possible, mijn liefje.