The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk
Chapter 8
Ivy woke up to screaming. Happy screaming.
"Ivy! Wake up! Look at the internet!"
Kia was jumping on the foot of Ivy's bed.
Ivy groaned, pulling the pillow over her head. "Are they burning me in effigy yet?"
"No! Look!"
Kia shoved her phone under the pillow.
Ivy squinted at the screen. A grainy video from inside Soho House.
Holt's voice, clear and cold: "Ivy is family. So I would suggest you stop tweeting about her."
Ivy's jaw dropped.
She scrolled down. The hashtag HoltProtectsFamily was trending.
Omg they are cousins?? That explains the awkward hug!
Holt is such a protective big bro!
Kennedy Gilmore getting shut down is my spirit animal.
"He did it," Ivy whispered. "He actually did it."
Alex burst into the room, holding two coffees. "We are back in business, baby! The casting director just emailed to confirm the time. They are 'excited to see Holt's talented cousin.'"
Ivy sat up, feeling a strange mixture of relief and guilt.
He had lied for her. The man who never lied, who prided himself on brutal honesty, had lied to the world to save her career.
She owed him.
"I need to go see him," Ivy said.
"Call him," Alex said.
"No. I need to go there."
"The paparazzi are still outside," Kia warned.
"I'll take the Toyota," Ivy said. "The old one with the dented bumper. They won't look twice at it."
Thirty minutes later, Ivy was wearing a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a hoodie. She slouched low in the seat of her 2010 Corolla.
As she reached the underground garage, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Black Escalade, main gate. You have sixty seconds. Go now. - E
Ivy didn't hesitate. She heard the roar of engines and shouting from the main entrance as the paparazzi swarmed the decoy vehicle. She gunned the Toyota's tired engine and slipped out the service exit, unnoticed. The paparazzi were focused on the black SUV.
She was free.
Ivy drove toward the hills. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.
What was she going to say? Thanks for lying? Thanks for not divorcing me?
And why did he do it?
Was it just to protect the Nicholson name from scandal? That was the logical answer. Holt was a businessman first, an actor second.
But the memory of the text-Mrs. Nicholson-nagged at her.
She reached the winding roads of Beverly Hills. The air was cleaner here, smelling of eucalyptus and money.
Ivy pulled up to the massive iron gates of The Fortress. There was no keypad. Just a camera.
She rolled down the window and looked into the lens.
"It's... Ivy," she said to the plastic box.
A beat of silence. Then, the heavy gates groaned and swung open.
Ivy drove up the long, winding driveway, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She wasn't just visiting her "cousin." She was visiting her husband. And for the first time in three years, she felt like she was walking into the lion's den.
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