Chapter 9: The Last Night As Ivy

POV: IVY

The night before my wedding, I stood in front of the mirror and wondered whether anyone would remember the woman I was before I became my sister.

I woke from a fitful, restless sleep at the first light of dawn, the pale grey sky bleeding through the heavy curtains of my bedroom. Across the room, hanging against the dark wood of the wardrobe, Gemma’s wedding gown seemed to loom like a silent ghost waiting for its turn to claim my body.

By tomorrow afternoon, news broadcasts and high-society magazines would be flooded with photographs of Michael Sterling and his glamorous new bride. Everyone across the city would see Gemma’s face, Gemma’s smile, and Gemma’s perfect posture. No one would know that the real Gemma was thousands of miles away. No one would know that the quiet, hidden twin who spent her nights buried in books had surrendered her very name so an old woman could breathe.

I pulled myself out of bed, my feet cold against the hardwood floor. Evelyn had given me strict orders earlier in the week: I was confined to the estate for final dress fittings, security briefings, and preparation. I couldn't leave the house. I couldn't risk being seen out in public before the media rollout.

Panic and a suffocating sense of isolation squeezed my chest. I couldn't visit St. Jude’s Hospital in person. I couldn't sit by her bedside or hold her frail hand one last time before tomorrow's altar.

Desperate for any connection, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and dialed the direct nursing station for Suite 402.

The phone rang three times before a calm, professional voice answered. “St. Jude’s Memorial, ICU nursing station.”

“Hello, my name is Ivy,” I said, my voice trembling and cracking around the edges. “I’m calling for patient room 40, my grandmother.”

“Ah, Miss Ivy,” the nurse replied, her tone softening immediately. “How can I help you today? She’s resting comfortably right now. The new treatment protocol has kept her vitals remarkably stable.”

“Thank you,” I choked out, a wave of relief washing over me, followed instantly by a deep, aching void. “I... I know I’m not allowed to leave the house today, and visiting hours are restricted. Is there any way, please, could you take a phone inside to her? Just for a minute? I need to hear her voice.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the sound of muffled hospital monitors clicking in the background.

“Well, strict visiting rules apply, but seeing as you’re her primary caregiver... hold on just a moment, Miss Ivy. Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, tears spilling over my eyelashes. “Thank you so much.”

I waited, holding my breath as faint shuffling sounds echoed through the speaker. A moment later, the line clicked.

“Ivy? My sweet girl?” Grandmother’s frail, paper-thin voice rasped softly through the receiver, filled with a warmth that instantly cut through the cold, terrifying walls of my bedroom.

“Grandmother,” I sobbed quietly, pressing the phone so hard against my ear that my fingers turned white. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Why are you crying, little bird?” she asked, her voice laced with immediate concern. “Are you alright? Is your mother giving you a hard time at the house again?”

Hearing her worry about me, even from a hospital bed, even when she was the one fighting for every breath, shattered what little composure I had left. I wanted to scream the truth. I wanted to tell her that Evelyn and Gemma were trading me off like property, that tomorrow at noon I was walking down the aisle as a fake bride to a cold billionaire just to keep her alive.

My throat tightened into a painful knot, choking off the words.

“I’m not crying, Grandmother,” I lied, swallowing hard as I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. “I’m just... I miss you so much. I hate that I’m stuck here at the house today and can’t come visit you in person.”

Grandmother let out a soft, gentle sigh on the other end of the line.

“Don’t you worry about an old woman in a hospital bed, Ivy,” she murmured soothingly. “You always carry the weight of this family on your shoulders, constantly running around trying to fix everyone else’s mistakes. But you listen to me very carefully.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to her dear voice.

“You deserve a life of your own, my sweet girl,” she whispered with absolute conviction. “You deserve to be loved for who you are, not for what you can give or what sacrifices you can make. Don’t ever let anyone lock you in a cage, Ivy. Promise me that.”

Her words hit me with devastating force, echoing through my mind like a final, heartbreaking plea.

(Don't let anyone lock you in a cage.)

She didn't know that the iron bars were already locked tight around me. She didn't know that I had walked into the trap willingly, sealing the door shut with my own hand to keep her heart beating.

“I promise, Grandmother,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’ll come see you the very first chance I get. Please... just keep fighting.”

We spoke for a few more minutes until the nurse gently reminded us that Grandmother needed to rest. After thanking the nurse through tears, I hung up the phone and sat in the quiet darkness of my room.

Her words followed me through the rest of the afternoon, lingering like a ghost as the servants brought up the bridal trunks, the veil, and the white satin shoes. Evelyn checked in twice to ensure I was reviewing the guest lists and practicing Gemma’s cold, haughty posture. I swallowed my grief, locked my emotions away behind a wall of numbness, and prepared for the performance.

By ten o'clock that evening, the house fell into an eerie, suffocating silence.

I sat on the edge of my bed in my silk pajamas, staring out the window at the dark trees swaying in the cold autumn wind. I had scrubbed off my natural nail polish to match Gemma’s shade, sprayed her expensive Parisian perfume behind my ears to mask my own scent, and carefully tucked my small silver frame containing Grandmother’s graduation photo at the very bottom of my luggage.

Just as I finally pulled back the duvet and lay down on the mattress, the screen of my phone lit up on the nightstand with a sharp, vibrant chime.

I reached over and picked it up. A new message had arrived on my messaging app.

It was a photo sent directly from Gemma.

In the picture, Gemma was sitting comfortably in the plush back seat of a sleek, black chauffeured Mercedes cruising down the brilliantly lit avenues of Paris. She was holding a crystal glass of pink champagne, her dark eyes sparkling with utter freedom and triumph, the Eiffel Tower glowing softly in the background behind her tinted window.

Beneath the photograph was a short, flippant caption:

“Enjoy my wedding, sister. Paris looks so good on me.”

I stared at her glowing, triumphant smile on the screen. A cold, absolute calm settled deep over my heart, extinguishing the last remnants of my fear.

I deleted the message, clicked the screen off, and laid the phone face down in the dark.

Tomorrow, Ivy will cease to exist.