Undressed By His Arrogance-Chapter 242: Tom Was Never The Problem

Ivy sat in the reserved booth of Commissioned Club, platinum section. She rested her injured arm in a sling, fidgeting slightly with her untouched drink as she scanned the room.

Her eyes flicked toward the entrance just as a familiar presence filled the doorway. Trish moved with her usual fluid grace. Relief washed over Ivy’s features, and she rose slightly from the booth to greet her friend. They embraced.

"Of course! It’s you, isn’t it?" Trish said, her eyes immediately on Ivy’s arm. Concern etched her face. "I saw the news about a hit and run in front of Everest Headquarters. A part of me thought...that it had something to do with you. But since you said I should never call you, I couldn’t."

Ivy sank deeper into the plush chair as Trish slid in beside her, the soft music thrumming up through the floors.

"I always knew going after Tom was dangerous," Ivy said. "But we were wrong. Tom was never the problem. The problem was Sharona."

"That bitch!!!" Trish practically growled, flipping her bright curls over her shoulder. "I should have given her a beat down when I had the chance. But seriously—wait." Her eyes widened. "Does that mean I’ve spent months working for another bitch for nothing?"

"You mean Tom’s mistress?" Ivy said dryly, arching a brow.

"Uuuuuhhhhhh..." Trish let out a groan, leaning her head back dramatically. "Ivy, I swear, I cannot wait until I can smack that woman in the head. That woman is a real biyachhhh!!" She dragged the word out as if tasting it. "All that charity bullshit she does—please. It’s all compensation for what a horrible, soulless, Botox-infused demon she is."

"Well, I called you because I think you can stop now—stop the charity volunteering. Since Tom didn’t order the hit on me, there’s no use going after him anymore."

Trish’s face shifted. "That may be," she said. "But there is still something off."

A chill moved across Ivy’s spine—a prickling awareness she had learned to trust. "What is it?"

Trish twisted slightly to face her. "You know the charity is for dispensing medication to less-privileged older people, right?"

Ivy nodded.

Trish continued, "The thing is—every month, Tom sends in a package. Special delivery. Only to her. She acts like it’s holy scripture descending from heaven, and I, the stupid volunteer, am the messenger angel." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I’ve managed to peek at it once or twice. They’re blood pressure medications."

Ivy blinked. "Blood pressure? That’s... ordinary."

"No." Trish shook her head with emphasis. "Not ordinary. The same brand. The same dosage. The same package. Every month. And she’s cagey about it—like, ridiculously cagey."

"I don’t understand," Ivy said.

"He sends in a package containing blood pressure medication, and she sends the package back to him the same day, also containing blood pressure medications." She shook her head, her brows pinched in exaggerated confusion. "I don’t get it."

Ivy’s gaze narrowed. "Are you sure it still contains blood pressure medication when it goes back out?"

"Absolutely," Trish replied. "Same medication. Same number of pills. No difference. I counted them."

Ivy rubbed her forehead slowly. "I wonder who he is giving them to. I don’t think it’s anything. I really think you should pull out."

Trish scoffed, flipping her curls. "Morgana Adams might be a bitch, but she is doing great work with the charity. I’d like to stay on."

"You do realize," Ivy said, leveling a stare at her, "that you just called her a bitch and followed it with ’I’d like to stay on.’ Do you hear yourself?"

Trish shrugged. "Listen, honey, bad people can do good things. Hitler built roads."

"Trish. Please don’t compare Morgana to Hitler."

"Well, you know what I mean," she muttered, waving it off. "The woman is terrible and rude but the charity actually helps people."

"Working with Tom Kane’s mistress...he will find out some day. It might get dangerous."

"It’s a charity. Anyone can work there." Trish scoffed again, dismissive.

"Trish, I threatened him at the ground-breaking ceremony. If he finds out you’re anywhere near his mistress, he will get suspicious."

"I promise, when he finds out about me, I will put an end to it," Trish said, lifting two fingers, her glossy lips pursed in faux-seriousness.

"Promise?"

"Promise." Trish leaned in and nudged her shoulder gently. "So what’s going on in your life now? I seem to have missed a lot."

"Oh... I started seeing this guy..."

"WHAT?! Start talking!"

And Ivy did.

By the time Ivy finished, the two of them were dancing in the booth, tipsy and giggling.

They danced. They complained. They gossiped.

*****

Ivy was quite tipsy by the time her driver pulled up to the estate gates.

It had been a whole argument with Evans earlier to keep her bodyguard on. Evans had fired the man after the hit-and-run, but Ivy stood her ground with surprising steel. She’d pointed out—loudly—that none of it had been the guard’s fault. The only people responsible were the ones who wanted her dead. The compromise was messy, but the guard was reinstated.

She stepped into the hallway, trying to straighten her posture, smoothing down her hair, adjusting her jacket over her cast.

She heard laughter coming from the living room.

Deep. Male. Two voices.

There sat her grandfather and Winn. Together. Laughing.

Over a bottle of brandy.

Her heart lurched into her throat. Winn’s head tipped back in laughter. Her grandfather was wiping tears from his eyes, his face red from amusement and alcohol.

"Grandpa?!" Ivy shouted.

Sam jolted upright on the sofa, nearly dropping his glass. "Shit!!!" he hissed under his breath, quickly shoving the brandy into Winn’s hand.

Ivy marched forward, finger shaking. "Please tell me you didn’t mix that with your medication!"

"And you—" Ivy spun toward Winn, eyes blazing "—why would you encourage this?"

Winn stared at her with a baffled expression, holding the stolen brandy glass mid-air.

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked slowly. "He’s a grown ass man, Ivy."