A knock came just as Ivy was finishing her makeup.
It had been a long day of travel, and the warmth of her hotel room, paired with a luxurious shower and a hearty meal, had coaxed her into a relaxed haze. Now, as dusk settled over London, she prepared for her dinner meeting with Marcus. Her father's best friend might be polished and professional, but she knew better than to underestimate him.
She approached the door with a touch of hesitation, not expecting room service again. When she opened it, a sharply dressed staff member stood holding a tray covered in a silver dome.
"Compliments of Mr. Hale," the man said politely, placing it gently on the table just inside the room before retreating.
Ivy closed the door behind him and lifted the dome.
There, gleaming under the soft lighting, was a slice of Belgian chocolate cake dusted with edible gold leaf, accompanied by a small pitcher of raspberry coulis and a hand-written card.
Thought this might feel like home.
Ivy blinked.
This was her favorite dessert—the exact one served every year at her childhood birthday parties, flown in from a little French patisserie in Manhattan. Her father hadn't mentioned it in years. How did Marcus…
She sat down slowly, her fingers lingering on the card.
Marcus had remembered.
She recalled a distant evening, years ago, overhearing a conversation between him and her father. She must have been sixteen. They'd been drinking scotch by the fireplace. Her father had chuckled about how Ivy insisted on "that chocolate monstrosity with gold on top" every birthday. Marcus had laughed, said something about "a girl with good taste."
And now…
Ivy took a forkful, savoring the rich bitterness cut by the sweet tang of raspberry. The gesture—simple yet thoughtful—hit her harder than she expected.
There was no message behind it, no hint of flirtation. Just acknowledgement.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus:
Dinner in the lobby restaurant. I'll meet you there at 7. We'll review tomorrow's schedule.
Professional, precise. Exactly as expected.
Ivy checked the time. Half an hour to go.
---
The restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel was elegant but understated. Dim lighting, polished mahogany, and the quiet clink of silverware filled the space. Marcus was already seated at a corner table, looking effortlessly composed in a navy-blue suit and open-collared shirt.
He rose slightly as she approached. "Evening."
"You really went all out with the chocolate cake," she said, sliding into her seat.
One brow lifted. "Did you enjoy it?"
She gave a soft smile. "Yes. Thank you. That was… very thoughtful."
He didn't smile, not fully, but there was something softer in his eyes. "Your father mentioned it once. I figured you might appreciate something familiar."
She folded her napkin onto her lap. "I do. And it was nice to feel remembered."
They paused as the waiter poured water and took their orders—steak for him, a roasted vegetable tagine for her. Once they were alone again, Marcus pulled out a leather portfolio.
"Tomorrow's summit starts at ten. You'll be on the second panel, which is focused on emerging market tech solutions. I've arranged for you to meet with two investors privately during the break—both are curious about Bennett Futures."
Ivy leaned forward, already absorbing details. "What kind of angles are they looking at?"
"Growth scalability and ethical implementation," Marcus replied. "They're European, cautious with legacy influence. They'll test you. But they like bold ideas."
"Then I'll give them bold."
That made him smile slightly. "I have no doubt."
They moved on to strategy—how she should position Bennett Futures' recent pilot projects, what to emphasize, what questions to prepare for. As they spoke, Ivy noticed how different Marcus was when discussing business: sharper, more alive. She'd seen glimpses of it before, but never like this.
And yet, in the middle of it, he hesitated.
He leaned back, folding his arms.
"You remind me of what I once hoped my daughter would become."
The statement landed heavy between them.
Ivy paused. "I didn't know you had a daughter."
"She's twenty-three. Olivia."
"And she's not in business?"
A rueful smile touched his lips. "She's in… spending. Vacationing. Designing handbags she doesn't want to sell. Not quite the legacy I imagined. But it's her life."
Ivy tilted her head. "That must be hard."
He shrugged. "Disappointing, sure. But I've learned you can't force someone to want more than comfort. Not everyone's born hungry."
She understood then—part of his careful distance with her wasn't formality. It was grief. A quiet ache for a relationship he didn't have, projected onto the one she shared with her father.
They grew quiet. The tension wasn't awkward—it was personal. Real.
When dessert came, Ivy declined.
"I already had the best part," she said, and his eyes flickered with something unspoken.
After dinner, they stood together at the restaurant's entrance. The lobby was nearly empty.
"You did well tonight," Marcus said. "You asked the right questions."
"Thanks. Tomorrow, I'll do more than ask."
He gave her a small nod. "Then rest well.
She turned to go but paused.
"Marcus?"
He looked up.
"Thank you. For the cake. And the belief."
He held her gaze for a long moment. "Don't prove me right. Prove them wrong."
She nodded, then disappeared into the elevator.
Ivy slept off immediately she got to her room.
Marcus closed the door to his hotel suite with a quiet click, the murmur of London's night fading behind heavy walls. The suite was dimly lit, spacious and tastefully modern—too quiet, too polished, like most of the spaces he now occupied. He loosened his tie, draped his coat over the armchair, and dropped onto the edge of the king-size bed.
He sat there for a long moment, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. Then, with a heavy exhale, he lay back against the pillows, arms behind his head, letting the silence settle.
His thoughts, however, refused to stay still.
Fifty-three. That was how old he'd turned last month. A room full of expensive champagne, executives, board members, and hollow speeches praising his leadership. But no warmth. No real connection. His wife, Olivia, had sent flowers from Milan. She was launching a new line with a high-profile fashion house. Too busy to fly back. As always.
Their marriage had become a performance, a partnership curated for appearances. And maybe that's what they both wanted, once. But now? It just felt… empty.
He thought of his children.
Maya—the eldest—brilliant, determined, and too driven to call more than once a month. She was a doctor in Boston now, head buried in research and ER shifts.
His son, Jayden—passionate, magnetic, and currently halfway through a European tour. A rising R&B artist with a voice that could fill arenas. He rarely picked up calls. Usually posted his whereabouts through Instagram stories before returning a text.
Then there was Serena. His youngest.
The lifestyle blogger.
Or so she claimed.
She bounced between Miami and Ibiza, threw brand-sponsored pool parties, and sent weekly requests for funds—new gear, new travel, new PR team. She had his charisma but none of his ambition. A beautiful girl with no hunger for legacy, no drive to earn the empire he'd built. Every time they spoke, he left the conversation feeling like a stranger to his own bloodline.
He rubbed his eyes, sighed deeply.
Tonight, with Ivy—something stirred.
Not anything inappropriate. Never that.
But something undeniably… aching.
She had poise, clarity, a quiet fire he admired. She asked questions that mattered. She listened. Observed. Understood. She reminded him of himself—back before all the accolades and disappointments dulled the sharpness of his ambition.
He remembered a conversation with Graham years ago, when Ivy was still in high school. Her father had boasted—half laughing, half proud—that Ivy preferred boardrooms to birthday parties, spreadsheets to selfies.
And now, seeing her grown—elegant, focused, and so at ease amidst high-stakes plans—Marcus couldn't help but think:
If I'd had a daughter like that...
A daughter who wanted to lead.
A daughter who would fight for the future of a company instead of a brand endorsement deal.
Maybe then the Bennett-Hale legacy would have a more certain heir.
He turned to his side, staring at the skyline through the window. The city lights shimmered like distant stars. His thoughts softened.
He would never say it aloud—not to Graham, not to his wife, and certainly not to Ivy—but somewhere deep in the quiet of his soul, Marcus wished Ivy was his.
Not because he desired her.
But because he respected her.
Because he saw in her the kind of spirit he longed to pass something on to.
That realization, as sobering as it was, brought him a strange sense of peace.
He closed his eyes.
And within minutes, sleep took him.