CHAPTER 11: CHAPTER 11 HIS CONCERN FOR HER

Ryan’s POV

My fingers drummed restlessly against the polished mahogany desk as I reviewed the quarterly reports.

The numbers were solid, our company’s assets growing steadily under my leadership, yet something felt... off.

I couldn’t place this nagging sensation that had been haunting me for weeks.

A knock at my door interrupted my thoughts.

"Come in," I called without looking up, my focus still locked on the document before me.

The familiar scent of expensive perfume—too strong, too deliberate—filled the room as Ivy entered.

I didn’t bother giving her more than a passing glance as she approached my desk, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor with calculated precision.

"Ryan," she purred.

"Have you seen the latest news? Everyone online is calling me a design genius! My career is finally reaching its peak!"

She thrust her phone in front of my face, displaying a social media post that had apparently been shared millions of times.

Her eyes shone with expectation, clearly waiting for praise.

I frowned slightly, annoyed by the interruption but, for Sophie’s sake, still had to acknowledge her achievement..

"Yes, very impressive," I offered flatly, already returning my attention to my work.

Rather than taking the hint, Ivy set her phone aside and suddenly "stumbled," landing directly on my lap.

Her arms snaked around my neck like invasive vines, clinging despite my immediate tension.

She gazed up at me with deliberately hooded eyes, mimicking a seductive expression I’d seen before—on Sophie’s face. The similarity momentarily stunned me.

"Ryan," she breathed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "don’t you think I look beautiful today?"

For a split second, I froze.

The resemblance between the sisters was undeniable from certain angles—the same curve of the lips, the same tilt of the head.

But instead of seeing Sophie in that moment, my mind conjured an image of Serena—her genuine smile, her quiet strength, the way she moved through a room without demanding attention yet commanded it anyway.

I snapped back to reality, roughly unwinding Ivy’s arms from my neck and pushing her firmly away from my body.

"Ivy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?" My voice carried a dangerous edge.

Her lower lip jutted out in a practiced pout. "Ryan, don’t you like me this way? Sophie once told me that you and I would make a good match!"

I slammed my fist against the desk, the sound reverberating through the office. "Enough! Do you even hear yourself?"

"Ryan, my sister really did say that," she insisted, leaning closer again. "She told me if she ever left, I should take care of you..."

I struck the desk again, harder this time. "I said ENOUGH! I never want to hear such nonsense again. Out of respect for Sophie being your sister, get out now!"

Ivy remained frozen in place, her mouth opening and closing as if trying to formulate another approach.

When she still didn’t move, my patience evaporated completely.

"Simon!" I called sharply.

My assistant appeared in the doorway immediately. "Yes, boss?"

"Escort Ms. Hart out. From now on, she is not to enter my office without an appointment and proper business purpose."

After Ivy had been removed—still protesting weakly—I felt the tension headache beginning to form behind my eyes. The day’s productivity was effectively ruined.

"Simon, bring me a coffee," I said, moving to the leather couch in the corner of my office.

"Right away, Boss."

I closed my eyes, trying to center myself. The coffee arrived quickly, and I took a sip before grimacing at the unfamiliar taste.

"What beans did you use? This doesn’t taste right."

Simon glanced nervously at my expression. "The ones in the cabinet, sir. Would you like me to make another cup?"

"Forget it," I muttered, setting the cup aside. "Can’t even get a simple coffee right."

As the words left my mouth, I suddenly remembered who used to ensure my coffee was always perfect—Serena.

She would personally grind the beans each morning and store them in my office.

Despite my cold treatment, she had silently anticipated my needs, creating a comfortable environment I’d taken entirely for granted.

The coffee’s temperature, the subtle aromatherapy diffuser she would light during my rest periods—all little touches she never mentioned or sought praise for.

"Boss, would you like to use the rest area for a while?" Simon suggested, noticing my exhaustion.

"Yes. Go prepare it first."

Simon nodded and hurried to arrange the small adjoining room where I occasionally napped between meetings.

When I entered a few minutes later, I immediately noticed the unlit diffuser by the bed. Another flash of irritation surged through me.

"What’s wrong with you? Can’t you handle even basic tasks?" I snapped.

Simon looked genuinely distressed. "Boss, these things were always handled by Mrs. Blackwood herself. I—"

"That’s your excuse? You couldn’t ask her how it was done?"

Without hesitation, Simon pulled out his phone and dialed Serena’s number, deliberately putting the call on speaker.

"Simon? Is something wrong?" Her voice—clear, composed, so achingly familiar—filled the room.

"I wanted to ask where Ryan keeps his office supplies. I hope I’m not disturbing you?"

"Oh," she paused briefly before systematically listing every detail of the routines she’d perfected over years—the specific location of the premium coffee beans, which drawer held the aromatherapy oils I preferred, even the exact timing for brewing my afternoon tea.

"And please don’t call me Mrs. Blackwood anymore," she added at the end. "Ryan and I are divorced now."

I felt my face darken at those words.

Simon glanced at me nervously but continued the conversation, clearly afraid to end the call prematurely.

"One more thing," Serena added, her voice softening slightly.

"His stomach is sensitive. After business dinners, make sure someone prepares a hangover soup with extra sugar. He hates bitter things."

"Is that everything? You can call if you have other questions."

The casual mention of this intimate knowledge—this care she still extended despite everything—felt like a knife between my ribs.

And yet, beneath the ache, something warm flickered. She remembered. She still cared.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs.—thank you, Ms. Serena."

She ended the call promptly, not lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

The finality of that simple action—the complete absence of attachment—twisted something painful inside me.

Simon pocketed his phone, the silence in the room thick with unspoken tension.

"Boss, I’ve noted everything she said. I’ll handle these matters going forward."

I barely heard him, lost in my own thoughts. "She left with nothing," I murmured, more to myself than to Simon. "Is she even managing financially?"