Darling Obsession

Chapter 7

Harlan

Q uinn closes her eyes, instantly succumbing to the kiss.

As soon as my chef strides past, pretending not to notice us, I rip myself away.

I retrieve her cake from the fridge in the chef’s kitchen myself and let her plate it, just to keep her busy. And after dessert with my family, I see everyone out the front door. I need all the people out of my house. My siblings take off, and I have Quinn driven home.

I don’t think about that kiss one more time.

I think about it many, many times. All damn night, and the next day.

And for many days after.

Obsessively.

She touched her tongue to my lip.

She licked me.

Tasted me.

You don’t use tongue unless you mean it, right?

On Thursday morning, I go into the office early, as usual, but I can barely focus on work. The morning is half over before I realize I’ve gotten little done. I stared at the wall through two meetings.

The only thing I hate more than meetings are parties—and basically any occasion that Quinn makes cakes for, including awkward apologies—but I’ve had my team book me solid with meetings this week. I’m trying to occupy my mind with work and other people’s voices, instead of the incessant one in my head that keeps telling me to replay that kiss.

It’s not working.

Alone in my office after useless meeting number two, I try to focus on the financial statements for Crave bakery that Brant placed on my desk.

Printed out on paper.

I’ve been avoiding the internet and every device I own, because the temptation to look at Quinn online or pore over those surveillance images on my hard drive is too strong.

I just want to forget about her, and my entire challenge. Move on with the next person’s challenge. I keep telling myself I’ll feel better then.

But Damian left town after the dinner at my place, and Jameson left the next day. Apparently, no one put much stock in the idea that I’d actually finish my challenge eleven days early. We can’t draw the next name from the box until they both get back, the day after tomorrow, and we can all meet up. We agreed to draw each challenge together.

It’s making me uneasy, the waiting.

As far as my siblings know, I successfully completed my challenge five nights ago, well within my allotted thirty days.

I introduced them to Darla.

Jameson even called me the next day to congratulate me more sincerely—and admit that he was the one who devised my challenge. He actually told me he was impressed that I came through.

But is the challenge really complete? I’ve earned my inheritance in my siblings’ eyes—but at what cost? The challenge was completed on a lie. A lie that’s much worse than the original lie I told them that I was “holding out for Darla.”

Because what if they find out?

It’s not the lie that troubles me, exactly. It’s not knowing if it will hold. Or if my siblings will somehow glean that my relationship with “Darla,” the woman they met at dinner, doesn’t exist.

It’s been eating at me ever since the dinner. I’ve barely slept. I can’t stop thinking about the lie, the truth, the things Quinn said to my family at dinner.

Her .

I like things black and white.

I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about this chatty, cheerful woman with turquoise hair.

I just don’t like loose ends.

I run my thumb over the diamond tennis bracelet in my pocket, over and over. The one she left behind at my place, in the hallway, where I kissed her.

Where she kissed me back.

This bracelet is a loose end. But only if she asks for it, which she hasn’t. I haven’t heard from her. Maybe she doesn’t know that she dropped it at my place.

I don’t know if she’ll reach out, looking for it.

I don’t even know if she left it on purpose. How do I know what devious lengths a woman might go to if she wanted to see me again?

Wishful thinking.

I don’t know her at all.

Her feelings for me, and how she’ll deal with me or my siblings when she runs into any of us again—if it ever happens—are uncertainties, and I don’t like uncertainties. Uncertainties are shades of gray, and they send my mind into endless spirals of what if .

I can’t live with what ifs.

I need answers.

Clear data.

Facts and figures.

Not embellished desserts with no function but to overindulge the senses.

Even lies are better than uncertainties, as long as they’re fully received. Believed.

Black lies.

White lies.

It doesn’t matter. Black or white is always better than gray.

I decide I need to disrupt my spiraling with another meeting—before I break down and start scrolling Quinn Monroe’s TikTok like a Gen Z with a crush—and have Brant call Savannah’s assistant to find out where she is.

Then I stalk out of my office, heading straight for the executive elevator. My head of security, Manus, gets up from his desk and strides after me, diving into the elevator just before it closes. Maybe it’s the look on my face that has him running.

He straightens his tie. “Are we in a hurry?”

“That special assignment I gave you?” I growl. “You gave me bad data.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” he says carefully. “The search was exhaustive, and thorough.”

That may be so.

But the data was bad.

I don’t care how well Quinn Monroe checked most of the boxes on my list. Do I have leverage over her as my employee? Check. Does she need to retain her job for financial security? Check. Is she willing and able to pretend to be someone she’s not, to bend or break rules, and to keep a secret? Check, check, and check.

The problem is, there was that one last box that she also seemed to check, but fucking didn’t.

Is she emotionally unavailable?

Big nope.

I was very specific that she was not supposed to get attached to me in any way, or want anything from me other than her continued employment and the paycheck it provides. She was not supposed to develop any feelings for me whatsoever.

This was not supposed to get personal.

But that kiss…

The way she looked at me after?

No.

I don’t have time for this.

Manus is talking, offering to have our team run the data again, run more surveillance, find someone else. He doesn’t understand that it’s too fucking late. Because he doesn’t know why I had him seeking an ideal candidate for some secret—and probably unethical-sounding—job.

I just cut him off. “Never mention this again.”

“Of course.”

“I’m meeting with my sister. You won’t be needed.”

I step off the elevator, alone, letting it close behind me.

The thing about Manus that I appreciate the most is that he does what he’s told—with efficiency, and without questioning my orders. Security personnel who come from a military background tend to perform like that.

Which is why I hire them.

When I stalk into Savannah’s office, she seems surprised to see me outside my usual habitat. I normally don’t stray far from my office or my house. This whole Darla/Quinn mess is really fucking with the order of things.

“What a rare and unexpected pleasure,” she remarks. “My twin brother, storming into my office.”

“About as rare as you being in your office.”

“I’m always in my office,” she says grimly.

She is. But not in this office. These days, she practically lives in her new office over at the resort.

We’re a block from the water in Coal Harbour, and through the wall of windows looking northeast, I can see the waterfront property where the Vance Bayshore resort sprawls, mid-renovation, just two blocks away. “Can’t get away from it, can you?” I remark. I know she can see it clearly from the window of her penthouse apartment upstairs, too. None of my siblings are married yet, but my sister is definitely married to her work.

“Down time is overrated,” she mutters.

I couldn’t agree more.

I pace over to the massive vision board on her wall, where she or her assistant have tacked up hundreds of images, everything from bits of maps and blueprints, to sales forecasts and newspaper clippings, to color schemes and fabric samples. As Vance Industries’ Chief Revenue Officer, Savannah’s talents lie in sales, marketing, and revenue generation, but she recently took a step back from that role to focus on the resort’s opening, and the gala that will launch it.

I don’t think any of us knew how much the completion of the resort—Granddad’s final labor of love—would take over our lives, especially hers and Graysen’s.

“So what brings you up from the depths?” she asks me. “Don’t tell me I submitted my lunch receipts too late.”

“I heard you were looking for me.”

“I was. Tried to meet with you yesterday. And this morning. Your team is incredibly adept at concealing your whereabouts and dodging my calls.”

“Good. Then they’re doing their jobs.”

I don’t know why she’s been trying to reach me, but hearing whatever she wants to say—hopefully not that she can’t wait for me and the chatty cake baker she met at dinner the other night to make “lots of kids”—couldn’t be worse than being alone in my head right now.

“You lied to us,” she says, shocking me out of the rhythm: I was starting to zone out in front of her vision board, picking at the diamond bracelet, spelling out the word with my thumbnail. B-E-A-U-T-I ? —

“About what?” A second after it comes out of my mouth, I realize that’s not the most convincing denial.

“Her name isn’t Darla.”

Oh. That lie.

—F-U-L.

The next lie slides out easily. “It’s Allison, but Darla is an old nickname.” I wander over to one of the plush armchairs facing Savannah’s desk and sit down. “She likes to be called Quinn, her middle name.”

“Why Darla?” Savannah inquires. Innocently, I think.

I anticipated this question. “I don’t know. She told me once. Something about… darling? It sounds like Darla, maybe? I wasn’t paying attention.”

Savannah laughs under her breath. “Sounds like you.”

I am a proficient liar. It’s not something I’m proud of, it’s just a fact.

And my family is proficient at butting into my personal life, wherever they can. It doesn’t surprise me that they’ve already done their research on “Darla.” After hearing that she works at Velvet, Savannah probably had her head of security, Peter, look into her immediately, pull her employee file and her background check.

It’s what we do. None of us trust outsiders easily. Which is why I no longer introduce my siblings to any women I might get involved with.

Just look at the disaster when they found out—before I did—that Chelsea was cheating on me. My family didn’t stop gossiping about it until long after the relationship ended.

It’s like they truly believe my love life is somehow their business.

“What’s going on with you?” Savi scrutinizes me. “You’re especially twitchy today. As you were at dinner.”

I stop picking at the bracelet in my pocket. “So?” I say flatly.

She frowns.

Twitchy is one way to put it.

It started creeping in after the dinner, when I stayed up way too late going over and over the events of the evening. What Quinn did, said, wore, how she ate, the way she laughed. Was she a convincing Darla?

It only really hit me Monday morning when I found myself unable to concentrate on work that it was starting.

Or maybe it started when she walked into my office with a cake.

Or when she served me drinks at Velvet.

Or when I saw those photos of her sucking face with her boss outside his apartment.

Or when Manus first gave me her name, and I pulled her employee file.

I don’t even know.

But I’ve been down this road before. Never over a woman, exactly. It’s not about her anyway. It’s about the lie she told for me, and my fear that the truth will be discovered. I think.

All I know for sure is that poring over information about her, looking at pictures of her, and even thinking about her is triggering the “reward pathways” in my brain, and—if I keep doing it—will become habit forming. Therefore, thinking about her will lead to obsessing about her, and obsessing about her equals literally overthinking about her.

It’s a cycle for which vicious is not an adequate descriptor.

I’ve always thought of my obsessive disorder like a flesh-eating disease for the mind. If I’m not careful, I’ll be losing more sleep to it, losing my appetite, losing countless hours of my life as it spreads, killing my ability to focus on anything else.

“So, Darla… Quinn… was rather impressive at dinner,” my sister prompts, still studying me. Like she’s waiting for me to go on. But what more is there to say? I’ve never felt the need to fill the silence in a room. And she was the one who wanted to talk to me, right?

“That cake she made was divine,” she goes on. “I’d order some for the gala if the whole situation weren’t so… problematic…”

Again, she seems to be waiting for me to pick that up where she left off.

I don’t.

“She’s very pretty. Well-spoken. Vivacious. And she handled our questions without breaking much of a sweat. She was… effervescent.”

Agreed. She was far too bubbly for my liking.

I didn’t ask for bubbly.

I didn’t ask for Champagne, or worse, some overly sweet rosé with a cutesy label featuring a cupcake or high heels, the kind women bring to book clubs and bachelorette parties.

I thought it was obvious that I was looking for more of a straightforward chardonnay; not too dry, not too exciting.

I never would’ve told her to just be herself if I knew she’d be so… sparkling.

When she behaved more like a love-struck girlfriend than a casual lover, it messed with my head more than I’d like to admit. She made our relationship sound more serious than I meant for her to, considering I was already planning for us to “break up” immediately afterward. Hadn’t I made that clear?

“You two make an interesting couple,” my sister concludes.

“We’re not a couple.”

“Could’ve fooled her.”

I struggle not to take the bait, but I can’t resist. “And by ‘interesting,’ you mean…?”

“Things that you keep quiet about, she was vocal about. And things that you seem to be unemotional about, she was emotional about.”

I notice she said “seem to be.”

“And that is precisely why we would not make a good ‘couple.’”

“You don’t think so?” Savannah actually seems surprised. “I mean, even I was starting to buy into the act that you hate everyone. It’s very convincing. But clearly, you don’t hate her.”

“I never said I hated her. But do I look like I’m about to commit myself to a hyperactive woman with turquoise hair and a sweet tooth? And make hyperactive babies?” I almost shiver at the thought.

Instead of laughing like I might’ve expected, Savannah frowns.

She gets up and walks over to the window, gazes out toward the resort.

“You’ve changed over the years, Harlan.”

“I hope so. Haven’t we all?”

She glances at me, arms folded across her chest. “Change isn’t always for the better.” She gazes out the window again. “We used to share a bedroom. And do you remember when we were about eight, Mom said it was time we had our own rooms? So we did. But then sometimes you would come into my room in the night with a blanket and pillow, and sleep on my floor? You did that for years.”

“I remember.”

“You did it a lot just before France.”

She doesn’t say after Dad died .

But we both know what she means.

“You didn’t like sleeping alone in your own room, so she’d put you in with Jamie.”

“Jamie flopped around too much and always woke me up.”

“So you’ve said.” She turns to face me. “You were much nicer to him back then. You were nicer to everyone. That was just before you really started hating school, I think. I was worried you were going to get kicked out, and we wouldn’t be in the same school anymore.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing. I just never thought you’d be the brother who wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“I tell you things.”

She scoffs. “That I’ve blown the budget on the gala, I know. You tell me at least once a week.”

“It’s a fact.”

“It might be nice to hear the truth.”

“About what?”

“About what you’re feeling.”

“About what?” I repeat.

“About Darla, for example. Quinn. Whatever you want to call her.”

“If there was something to tell you, I would.”

“Hmm,” is all she says.

I don’t think she could pay me enough to tell her about my love life, and maybe she knows it. I have more than enough money, for one. No one on earth has that kind of leverage over me. Or her.

I don’t need to tell anyone anything. None of us really do.

It’s better that way.

Black.

White.

“Isn’t it interesting that she lost her father as a child, too?” she says.

“We don’t really know each other very well,” I say disinterestedly. I don’t want to discuss Quinn. Everything I say about her is just another lie to my sister.

But I’ve been thinking about the things she said about herself at dinner, too.

I didn’t have Manus dig that much into her past.

I wanted to know her present.

If I saw Quinn Monroe without knowing a thing about her, I wouldn’t have guessed that the two of us had a thing in common.

Turns out we have one of the most formative events in our lives in common.

“Well, maybe you could’ve known her,” Savi says. I’m not sure how to read that tone. Wistful? It’s like she feels sorry for me.

“Meaning?”

Her shoulders drop. “Look, Harlan, I’m actually sorry you have to give her up. But you do know you can’t continue a relationship with her, don’t you? It goes against company policy.”

I do know. But it’s actually kind of a relief to hear it from my sister.

I’ve been flailing around in this gray bog of what if and uncertainty for the last five days, trying to come up with reasons to see her again and knowing that I can’t.

“I’m aware,” I force out. “And I’m sure Graysen would fire me if he could.”

“It’s not a joke, Harlan. Graysen is fucking pissed .”

“So this is you being his messenger, saving me from a confrontation with Graysen?”

“This is me trying to save Graysen from a heart attack. The opening of the resort wouldn’t survive our CEO dropping dead,” she says smartly. “You don’t seem to understand how much pressure he’s under, and how seriously he bears it all.”

She’s right. I don’t really want to see it. I have enough of my own issues to deal with.

But I don’t like to think of Graysen struggling. He’s our leader.

Our unmovable mountain.

“Well, you can all calm down,” I say cooly. “No heart attack necessary. I already broke up with her.”

Savannah blinks. “You did?”

“You demanded to meet her. Or rather, Jamie forced my hand, with the challenge. So, you met her. But we’re over. I broke it off after the dinner.”

“Oh.” Clearly, she did not see that coming. “Well… that’s some good news, then.”

And now I feel guilty for lying to her, yet again. She believed me so fast.

But I expected her to believe me.

Quinn really oversold our relationship at dinner, but my family is used to me being secretive, antisocial. And single. It probably won’t surprise any of them to hear I dumped a woman directly after introducing her to them.

Really, it’s too easy to lie to them. They trust me, even when they shouldn’t. And they definitely shouldn’t when it comes to my personal life.

“I knew that’s what you’d all want,” I go on. “For me to end it with her.” I keep telling myself that it is over. I can’t have my lie exposed, my family finding out that Quinn is not Darla. It would only be dangerous to see her again. “But it was over between us anyway. She’s not right for me. And now you can just stay out of it. It’s done.”

“That’s good,” Savi says carefully. “But unfortunately, it’s not good enough. She also can’t work for us anymore, Harlan.”

I start picking at the diamond bracelet again. “What do you mean? I told you. I’m not seeing her anymore.”

“I mean, it’s bad enough that we hired a woman you’ve been sleeping with. She can’t remain an employee of any of our companies. Graysen wants every trace of any connection between you two erased . Fortunately, Peter couldn’t find any evidence of your relationship online?—”

“Peter?” She had her geriatric bodyguard snooping on me ?

A vein in my head starts to pulse, and I grit my teeth.

“Does anyone else know you’ve been seeing her?” she asks, ignoring my anger.

“No.”

“Good. Then the last connection to cut is her employment with us.”

I stare at my sister, willing the rage to subside, but it’s only rising. “And how do you expect to accomplish that? We can’t exactly fire a woman because I fucked her, can we?”

“No. But we can, and we must, convince her to quit.”

Fuck.

This is bad.

I promised Quinn that her employment is secure. After she brought an apology cake to my office, fighting for her job.

And then I blackmailed her into lying for me.

I take a steadying breath. I can’t allow emotion to override logic here. I have to keep control.

“That may be easier said than done,” I say calmly. “You heard her at dinner, when she said she takes waitressing jobs when she needs to. Which means, she needs the money.”

“She’s a baker and a cocktail waitress,” Savannah points out, unmoved. “Those jobs are abundant.” She sighs. “And I’ve already had Damian arrange a position for her at the Crystal, to soften the blow. Don’t be mad.”

The Crystal. A luxury hotel in downtown Vancouver, with a five-star restaurant—which is not owned by us. It’s owned by Damian’s best friend.

I draw a deep breath through my nose and grit out, “No.”

“Why?”

Because the Crystal is nowhere near my office.

Because I won’t know when she clocks in and out.

Because I can’t watch her on the security cameras.

The swiftness with which these facts come to me is disturbing.

“She’ll be full-time as a baker,” Savi says. “And she can sling cocktails in the bar, too. You can talk details with Damian, then give her the news. Phrase it like it’s a promotion. If she wants more hours, a bit of a raise, just tell Damian.”

“I don’t like this side of you.”

“Which side?”

“The one that gives me orders.”

“Ha. I’ve been bossing you around since the playpen. Nobody tells you what to do and gets away with it like I do.”

“Don’t gloat.”

“Because no one loves you like I do, Harlan,” she adds, with a fake-sweet voice that makes my skin crawl.

“Don’t overdo it.”

She drops the sweet act. “Out of discretion, you should give her the message yourself. If you think that’s wise. If you don’t…” I’m not sure what the look she gives me is all about. Wariness? “I’ll do it for you.”

I scowl. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“So you think it’s wise for you to see her again?”

What the hell is she getting at?

“I told you, it’s over between us. I’ll meet with her in private, and get it done.”

“And you’re sure it’s over?”

“How many times do you need me to say it?”

My sister stares at me for a moment too long.

Then she sits down at her desk, picks up a file folder, and drops it in front of me. “What’s this?”

I open the cover and glance at the first page, where a few words grab my eye. Crave bakery. And my name.

I close the folder and dead-eye my sister. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It really doesn’t matter, does it? What Graysen wants, Graysen gets,” I add bitterly.

“Are you going to talk to her,” she presses, “or am I?”

“I’ll do it,” I growl. I get to my feet.

“Fine. The sooner the better.”

“And what about Graysen?” I growl. “He’ll stand down?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” she says. “It won’t be hard. He’ll trust you to be discreet, because the only one in the family who wants a scandal even less than he does is secretive, antisocial you . Just make sure she’s pleased with the new job arrangement. We need her leaving happy.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” She sighs wearily. I’m sure she doesn’t love being in the middle of this. Or being the messenger. Any more than I love receiving the message. “Then never mention her again, and you know Graysen won’t, either.”

“Deal.”

The thing is, I also need Quinn to be happy. So she won’t ever feel the need to mention Darla, or the fact that I blackmailed her, again.

But fuck the Crystal. I’ll arrange a new job for her where I don’t have to worry about Graysen’s rules, and it will go without saying that I could take it away. She’ll know I still have the upper hand.

I’ll make sure she knows that it’s in her best interest to take the new job and run.

And I’ll still have control.

I pick at the diamond bracelet in my pocket as I leave Savannah’s office.

I’d planned to leave no loose ends with Quinn after our dinner, so none of this could ever come back to fuck me. That plan meant never seeing Quinn again.

But now I have to.

One last time.

I need to handle this quick, keep it professional, and get it over with, then put the whole thing behind me. Then I really won’t see her again, which I keep telling myself is what I want.

I don’t like loose ends. Relationships are all or nothing, and all is way too messy. I prefer to be alone.

And I don’t need these incessant thoughts of her.

By tonight, I’ll have cut all ties with her; severed all loose ends.

Black.

White.

I’ll kill this budding obsession when I see her one last time, and I’ll give her back her bracelet.

And my family will never find out the truth about Darla.