Wilde Secrets (Cape Wilde)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Harper

H iding in the bathroom during the charity gala her sister was performing at was not her finest moment, Harper Holden had to admit. But at least it was the nicest bathroom she’d ever seen. The acres of marble and gold fittings gleamed under lighting that wasn’t too bright, nor too dim.

Goldilocks lighting.

The walls were papered in deep maroon and gold wallpaper, giving the space a vague impression of old-money glamor, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling. An actual crystal chandelier. In a bathroom. There was even an anteroom with dressing tables and velvet-covered chairs.

“I thought this kind of thing only existed in LA,” Harper said softly as she slowly turned on the spot to take it all in.

There were so many mirrors she couldn’t move without glimpsing her reflection. Everywhere she looked, she saw herself in the red strapless dress that hugged her curvy figure like a second skin. The shiny satin fabric of the skirt fell to the floor in a silken waterfall, and her toenails that Isla, her sister, insisted she paint to match the dress, peeked out from her strappy gold sandals.

Harper tugged at the bodice for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Despite the strapless bra that was an absolute feat of engineering to keep her generous breasts contained, she still feared a wardrobe malfunction. Satisfied that she wasn’t about to give half the charity gala attendees a look at her breasts, she gave her reflection a satisfied nod.

“You look good,” she said to her reflection.

And she did look good. Really good.

Her hair had behaved for once, swept up into some complicated updo courtesy of the hairdresser Isla had insisted they hire for the event. Harper’s blond locks were held in place with what felt like a hundred pins and an entire can of hairspray, but somehow didn’t feel like plastic when she touched them.

Her makeup was subtle, enhancing her golden-brown eyes, and for once she hadn’t smudged her mascara halfway down her cheeks.

She sighed. But it didn’t matter. Harper had never fit in with this crowd, and she never would. Tall, buxom, and curvy, Harper Holden stood out in the LA pop music scene where waif-like women sported cheekbones that could cut leather. And she stood out here in Boston, just as much as in LA.

Women like her sister, Isla, with her hit albums and her face on magazine covers were what the industry wanted.

“It’s just the way it is,” Harper said to herself, picking up her evening bag.

The door to the ballroom opened, a blast of sound flooding the quiet space. The clicking of their heels on the marble floor warned Harper of the few seconds she needed to dash into a stall and shut the door. Peering through the slight gap left between the door and its frame, Harper watched as two women strutted in on impossibly high stilettos.

The only thing worse than hiding in a bathroom at a charity fundraising dinner was being caught hiding in the bathroom. She could just imagine the tabloid headlines: 'Sister of starlet lurks in restroom’.

She turned the lock and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, hoping the other women would leave quickly so she could have a few more minutes to herself.

She wasn’t like these people. She wasn’t a celebrity. She wasn’t famous or rich or successful. Or married to someone famous, rich, or successful.

Harper was just her sister’s plus-one.

Which was why she was hiding in the bathroom in the first place. She had been so overwhelmed with all the people stopping to talk to Isla that she’d felt faint and tight in the chest, like it was getting hard to breathe. A sure sign of a looming panic attack.

She needed a quiet space to take a few minutes to calm her breathing and try to relax.

Closing her eyes, she waited, focusing on her breath and not paying attention to the women’s voices until she heard her sister’s name.

“Isla Holden? Isn’t she the one with the weird family thing going on?”

Harper’s eyes flew open, her fingernails biting into her palms as she squeezed her hands into fists.

“Weird family thing?”

“Yeah, you know. Did you know her dad is her manager?”

She stopped breathing, straining now to hear every word they said.

“Really? It might be nice to work with your family.”

“Are you kidding me?” There’s an inelegant snort. “No way. Isla’s got to be what, twenty-five?”

Harper rolled her eyes. No, Isla was twenty-eight. But because she was shorter than Harper, everyone assumed Isla was the younger sister, not older like she actually was.

“I suppose so.”

“Way too old to still have daddy hanging around pulling the strings. And did you see who she brought with her?”

Harper scowled at the woman’s incredulous tone. She closed her eyes again and willed them to leave.

“Oh yeah, her sister. What does she do, anyway?”

“Apparently she’s the PA, but it’s obvious she’s just mooching off her talented sister.”

Harper forced her jaw to unclench and tried to breathe evenly.

Ignore them. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.

“It’s got to be hard having such a successful sibling.”

If only they knew the truth.

The women’s voices drifted away as they moved into the next room, and Harper sighed with relief. Their comments were not new, and after ten years of being her sister’s PA, she should be used to them. But they still cut.

Because it was Harper—and not Isla—who was the talent behind the songs that skyrocketed her sister to the top of the charts. And nobody could ever know.

It was the way it had to be. Without Isla, her music wouldn’t see the light of day. At least this way people got to enjoy Harper’s songs.

She stood on shaky legs and opened the stall door. Crossing to the row of sinks, she checked her makeup. Thankful for the blessings of waterproof mascara, she lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and turned to leave.

“Don’t let them get to you,” a woman said from the other end of the row of stalls.

Harper squeaked and put a hand to her chest. “You scared me. I thought I was alone.”

The other woman stepped forward. She was short and plump, with red-painted lips and brown hair cut in a sleek bob. Harper had the vaguely uneasy feeling that she recognized her from somewhere.

“I was waiting for them to go, too.” She walked toward Harper slowly, an oddly predatory mien to her gait. “It must be hard to hear them talk about you like that.”

Harper snorted and turned away, busying herself with her evening bag. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Yeah, but they’re stupid if they don’t realize you’re the brains behind it all.”

Harper froze, her hand buried in her evening bag. “What?” Surely, she hadn’t said what she thought she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The woman shrugged and turned to the mirror, pulling out her lipstick and touching up the already perfectly applied red. “Everyone knows Isla doesn’t write her own songs.”

Harper could barely hear over the rushing of blood in her ears. She staggered to one of the velvet chairs and sank onto it. Her stomach twisted, threatening to upend. She pressed a hand to her middle, willing her dinner to stay down.

The woman continued, oblivious to Harper’s roiling stomach. “A girl like her? Singing about being an outcast? Misunderstood? The last one chosen?”

Harper forced a laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t I?” The woman turned from the mirror, replacing the cap on the tube of lipstick with a decisive snap. “Let’s just say there’s more than one person jealous of her success who's willing to speak up.”

“Who told you?” Harper whispered.

The woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart. Anyone with half a brain could figure it out.” She walked over to Harper and cocked her hip, smirking down at her. “And as for who told me? You just did. This is just the story I’ve been waiting for.”

Harper gaped, trying to process what had just happened, as the woman pulled out her smartphone and snapped a picture of her.

“Thanks for the scoop, Harper,” she said cheerily, as if she hadn’t just destroyed not only Harper’s life but that of her sister in the space of under five minutes.

Harper watched her leave in horror, frozen in place. Then the door to the ballroom opened, the sound of the crowd beyond moving her into action.

“Oh god,” Harper groaned, dropping her head into her hands, not caring if her carefully curled hair was messed up. “Oh, fuck.”

What was she going to do? Ten years of work down the drain. And not just her work, but that of her sister. Her father. She’d just ruined their family.

What will Isla think? What would their dad say?

Harper swallowed past a lump in her throat. She might have crippling anxiety when it came to crowds, but she was no coward. She pushed to her feet and gritted her teeth. With every second, the looming confrontation with her father drew closer.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” She asked herself. This time, the answer was not reassuring.

She couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. She grabbed the handle with one hand, yanked it open, and strode into the ballroom.