“You slept all afternoon–can you really sleep again now?”

“Of course I can.”

“Don’t rush off. Stay up and talk with me a while–it’s not often we get time alone, just the two of us.”

Jamison meant every word. It was rare, after all: a secret place, no interruptions, the freedom to do as they pleased. That was exactly what made Ivy nervous.

Jamison noticed how guarded she looked, and chuckled. “Relax. I managed to keep my hands to myself while holding you earlier, didn’t I? Now that we’re just sitting on the couch, what do you think I’m going to do?”

Ivy pressed her lips together, out of words.

Seeing her soften, Jamison held her a little closer. They chatted idly, conversation drifting wherever their thoughts took them.

Leaning against him felt surprisingly comfortable. Ivy gradually relaxed, letting him become her personal armchair. Dating, after all, is mostly about spending time together–learning how to talk, so that love can grow. They talked deep into the night, until it was almost morning.

Over the course of their rambling conversation, Ivy learned about the Ludwig family, and why Jamison had the confidence to stand up to them. Turns out, besides his annual dividends from the Ludwig Group, Jamison also owned several private hospitals in his own name. And everyone knows–private clinics catering to wealthy clients are like gold mines. When rich people spend money on their health, they do it with abandon. Calling them money-printing machines wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

Ivy couldn’t help but marvel. “So being a doctor is just your smallest source of pocket change.”

Jamison replied seriously, “I don’t care about the money, but the work itself means the most to me.”

She let those words sink in, and found herself liking him even more. With his background, he could have coasted on inherited wealth, but instead he chose to do something meaningful for society, to heal the sick and save lives. That was genuinely admirable.

That night, Jamison managed to stay over. Despite his privileged status, he made up the guest room himself, even smoothing out the sheets. Before bed, even though they were under the same roof, they texted each other a good night.

Ivy stared at the message–just two simple words: “Good night.” Knowing he was in the guest room across the hall filled her with a strange, fluttery feeling. But there it was–this was what falling in love felt like.

The next morning.

Jamison woke shortly after six. Moving quietly, he cracked Ivy’s door open to check on her, saw she was still asleep, and gently closed it again. The storm had passed, but the streets were slick–no good for an outdoor run. So Jamison headed upstairs, planning to stretch and exercise on the rooftop terrace.

As he pushed open the glass doors, something caught his eye: several easels set up in the sunroom, each draped with a cloth to protect the canvases from harsh light. He paused, remembering his recent suspicions. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked over and lifted the cover.

Underneath was an unfinished oil painting–cold, muted tones, full of tension. Instantly, Jamison recalled a painting he’d seen at a recent gallery show: Lock. Afterward, he’d had someone look into the painting’s background and learned it was recommended by Sawyer Leroux. Jamison had gone to Sawyer, thinking the gallery would be thrilled to sell a piece. Surprisingly, Sawyer said the artist refused to sell, even with higher offers. Later, by chance, Jamison discovered that Ivy painted.

Now, seeing this canvas up close, Jamison felt his suspicions were all but confirmed. So, that painting–Lock–wasn’t about a married woman, but about a woman trapped, caged after being abducted. He’d also researched the artist “Jasmine.” She hadn’t produced many works, but was known in art circles for her bold, passionate style. Except, three years ago, her art had taken a dark turn–oppressive, bleak, desperate. Jamison stared at the painting, admiration and heartache mixing inside him for his girlfriend, who’d clearly suffered so much.

But what shocked him even more was that Miss Ivy was not only an investment prodigy, but also a well-known painter. He really had found a treasure. But why did Ivy hide it? Why keep her identity as “Jasmine” a secret from the world? Jamison couldn’t figure it out. But he knew that if Ivy found out he’d snooped around and uncovered her secret, she’d be furious–maybe even kick him out, or worse, break up with him.

He hurriedly replaced the cover, making sure everything looked untouched, and slipped back downstairs.

Ivy didn’t wake until half past eight. By then, Jamison was already gone. She grabbed her phone and saw his message:

Heading to work. Don’t forget to eat when you get up. I’ll come by after work tonight.

Ivy smiled, set the phone aside, and stretched. She was feeling much better, and after two days cooped up at home, she was ready to get out. She needed to check in with the police and ask about the progress on Emma Windsor’s case.

But just as she pulled out of the driveway, she was blocked by the Windsors, who had been waiting for her. Rosetta recognized her daughter’s car immediately. She rushed forward, arms spread wide to block the hood. Luckily, Ivy reacted quickly and slammed on the brakes.

Rosetta, shaken, hurried to the driver’s side window and knocked. Ivy lowered the window, her eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses. “What do you want?”

Rosetta’s face crumpled as she pleaded, “Ivy, please, help your mother. I wouldn’t come to you if I had any other choice…”