Undressed By His Arrogance-Chapter 268: Your Daughter Is Dead

"Your daughter is dead," Tim said. "That’s the fuck that’s going on."

The silence that followed was instant.

"Shot by your partner-in-crime, Sharona," Tim added casually. "But then, it shouldn’t hurt too much, right? I heard you have backups."

"What? What? Sylvia?"

"See ya later." Tim said, turned and followed Winn and Anna, leaving Tom to stew in his own poisoned legacy.

Tom sat heavily on the stairs. Sylvia... dead? No. Impossible. She was his daughter.

******

The Orchard mansion was quiet, peaceful.

Ivy sat by the bed, watching over Anna’s sleeping form. The older woman’s chest rose and fell in slow, medicated breaths. Ivy had tucked the blanket up to her shoulders, smoothing her hair back every few minutes, trying to give comfort where there was none to give.

Her own eyes were red-rimmed, and exhaustion clung to her shoulders.

The door opened.

She looked up slowly.

Winn stood in the doorway.

"How is she?" Winn asked. His gaze flicked to his mother, softening only for a fraction of a second.

"I think the sleeping meds finally kicked in," Ivy said. "She cried herself to exhaustion."

Winn nodded. "Thank you for staying with her," he said, stepping inside. "But I need you... and it cannot wait."

"Winn, I have to..." Ivy started to say, but he cut her off.

"I’ll have the house staff take over from here, Ivy. I need you right now," Winn asserted.

He stood in the doorway—broad shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes too bright from exhaustion and barely contained grief.

Ivy’s lips parted, the instinct to protest rising, but she caught the tremor in his hand—the one he tried to hide by sliding it into his pocket. Her argument deflated.

"Okay," she answered wearily, pushing herself to her feet. Her knees cracked—she’d been sitting in the same position for hours. Her palms brushed the blanket over Anna’s legs one last time, lingering in a silent promise that she’d return. "Where are we going?"

"Canada." Winn answered simply.

The way he said it—flat, hollow—sent a small chill through her.

Ivy didn’t ask any more questions.

"One more thing." Winn turned to her. "Sharona’s transport to holding was ambushed. She is in the wind."

"Jesus Christ." Her hand flew to her forehead. "Will this nightmare never end?"

Knowing she was free made Ivy’s stomach twist into hard knots. Her pulse throbbed at her throat.

"It’s a good thing." Winn said.

Ivy blinked, stunned. "A good thing?"

"It will give me the chance to find her," he said quietly, "and kill her myself."

Ivy could feel his fury radiating off him.

"Winn?" Ivy called as Winn began to walk away.

He stopped mid-stride, shoulders tightening, back rising and falling with a heavy breath. His eyes were a storm: sharp, tired, aching... but focused on her as if she were the only anchor he had left.

"What?" he asked quietly.

"Before we leave," Ivy whispered, stepping toward him, "come with me, please."

She reached for his hand, and Winn didn’t resist. His fingers were cold, tense, stiff. Ivy squeezed gently, letting her warmth bleed into him, then pulled him toward his room.

"Ivy, we have to go," he said.

"I know," she answered softly. "We will."

She pushed open his bedroom door. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat on the nightstand. His jacket lay abandoned on the floor.

He stopped just inside the doorway, as if unsure why she’d brought him here.

Then Ivy reached for his shirt.

Her fingers brushed his stomach—warm, taut, trembling—and Winn inhaled sharply.

"Ivy..." he warned.

She ignored the warning and began to unbutton his shirt. Slow. Gentle. Methodical. Each button slipped through the hole with a tiny click, and Winn’s throat bobbed every time her knuckles grazed his chest.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

She lifted her gaze to meet his. Her eyes softened.

"Take a shower, Winn. You still have her blood on your clothes."

His breath stopped.

Then it released in a shattered exhale.

Ivy slid the shirt off his shoulders. The fabric whispered down his arms. He didn’t move—not a muscle—just let her undress him. She folded the shirt instinctively, then hesitated.

"Do you want me to clean this?" she asked gently, afraid of overstepping.

"No!" Winn snapped, then caught himself. "Just... put it in the drawer there." He pointed stiffly. "I’ll find a safe place for it later."

Ivy nodded, understanding more than he said. She crossed to the wooden dresser, opened a drawer, and laid the shirt inside.

"Clean up," she told him softly. "I’ll be waiting for you in the living room."

She turned to leave, hand already on the knob, before something tugged at her chest and forced her back around.

He was still standing shirtless in the middle of the room. His shoulders sagged. His skin was flushed from stress. His eyes looked so lost she felt her heart physically ache.

"I haven’t said this to you," Ivy murmured. "I am so sorry about Sylvia."

"I know, love. I know." he said.

Ivy nodded, throat tightening, and quietly left the room to give him privacy. As she walked down the hallway, she dragged a shaking hand across her face. She wondered—almost prayed—that going to Canada would help him grieve properly. Maybe seeing the place Sylvia spent her final days, breathing the same air she breathed, walking the path she walked... maybe it would finally pierce that iron cage Winn had locked around himself.

But grief was unpredictable. Would it break him? Or worse—would it harden him beyond repair?

By the time she reached the living room, Joey and Reese were already waiting.

Joey stood the moment he saw her face.

"How is he?" Joey asked.

"I... I don’t know." Ivy whispered, fingers curling into her palms. "God, I don’t know. And I don’t know how to help him."

Her voice broke, and once the first crack appeared, it spread. Tremors wracked through her shoulders, and tears spilled despite her attempts to blink them back. "He won’t... at least with Anna we know what to do but..." Her breath caught. "With Winn, I don’t even know where to start."