Chapter 37 Network, What Like It’s Hard?
Network, What Like It’s Hard?
Harlee
The ballroom breathes warm air pulses in waves, heavy with perfume, champagne, money.
Chandeliers throw fractured light across sequins and glass, and every surface gleams like it knows it’s being watched.
The sound is layered. Laughter on laughter.
Jazz slipping through speakers like silk.
Chips clacking at the tables, dice snapping sharp and final, the low murmur of people who are used to being heard.
I let myself drift inside it.
Just a little.
The champagne slides cold down my throat, bubbles popping against my tongue, loosening something tight behind my ribs.
Not enough to blur the edges. Just enough to soften them.
My heels ache in that distant, manageable way.
The dress hugs me like it’s on my side. My hair is behaving.
When I catch my reflection in a mirrored column, I slow.
Okay. Yeah.
This version of me stands straighter. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Not apologizing for space. Not shrinking preemptively. Not hoodie-and-problem-set Harlee. This is the girl who belongs in rooms with chandeliers and donors and conversations that decide futures.
And then—
Rebecca.
Dressed in a black floor-length gown and diamonds, her eyes cut toward me—sharp and familiar—that old Southern woman scan sliding over my body like an audit. What’s real. What’s soft. What still needs fixing. The echo of it hits my chest before I can stop it.
The reflex is there.
That old flinch.
I don’t take it.
I roll my shoulders back instead, take a slow sip of champagne, and let the warmth settle deeper. I earned my seat. Even if she never understands how.
My gaze drifts—
and lands on August.
Of course it does.
He’s across the room, mid-conversation, wearing the hell out of a tux that looks custom-built for him. Black, clean, unforgiving in the best way—cut sharp across his shoulders, tapering like it knows exactly what it’s doing. The kind of suit that doesn’t just fit—it frames.
He stands easy in it. Too easy.
One hand at his side, the other lifting just enough as he speaks—like he doesn’t need to demand attention to have it. People angle toward him without realizing it. Women especially—smiling a little wider, leaning a little closer, hoping proximity might translate into access.
I get it.
He’s polished. Controlled. Charming in a way that feels intentional.
But they’re seeing the version he lets the room have.
I’m watching the one who isn’t trying.
The one who looks like he’s already tired of being impressive.
They don’t know how his voice drops when it’s just us.
How his hands lose restraint when he stops thinking about it.
How that control slips—just enough—to feel real.
And then—
his head turns.
His eyes land on me.
Not a sweep. Not a pass.
A stop.
It’s quick. Barely a second.
But it lands heavy anyway—low in my stomach, sharp enough to pull me clean out of whatever I was just thinking.
Because that look?
It isn’t for the room.
It isn’t for the performance.
It’s for me.
I don’t look away.
If anything, I hold it a second longer.
Then I lift my glass—cool, casual—like I didn’t just accept the challenge.
Tonight is professional. Controlled. Supportive.
I am not about to be the girl standing in a corner losing her mind over a man in a tux.
Still…
my attention drifts.
Finds him again.
Tracks the quiet confidence in the way he moves through the room—like he owns it without ever needing to prove it.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because out of everyone here—
he looked at me
like I was the only thing worth stopping for.
“—and I swear,” Wynter says beside me, voice bright and sharp, “he tripped over his own feet like the universe said absolutely not.”
I laugh, real and grateful. Wynter looks unreal tonight. Black velvet draped over her like she was born into it, skin glowing, eyes alive. She belongs in rooms like this without trying. Always has.
She leans closer, inhaling like she’s tasting the air. “This room is Capricorn as hell. All ambition, no joy. Corporate foreplay.”
“Please don’t say that,” I mutter.
She grins. “Relax. Mercury’s in retrograde. I’m just here to observe the mess.”
A sudden swell of noise rolls across the room. Cheers. Applause. Someone yelling like they’ve just won the lottery.
Wynter rises onto her toes. “Oh. Somebody hit big.”
At the craps table, a man in a shiny suit throws his arms up, shouting like he just conquered mortality. His hairline looks… aspirational at best.
“YOLO!” someone yells.
I roll my eyes. “These men absolutely have that tattooed somewhere unfortunate.”
Wynter squints. “Fake confidence. Loud aura. That’s a man who should not be making financial decisions during a waning moon.”
I choke on a laugh.
A woman cuts through the crowd near the bar, and both of us clock her at the same time.
Blonde. Glossy. Poured into a dress that looks more like fabric sheets than fabric—sheer in places it shouldn’t be, clinging in places it absolutely should not.
Her body moves with the unmistakable confidence of a very recent BBL, hips swinging like gravity is optional and attention is guaranteed.
Every step is deliberate, calibrated, meant to be seen.
Not confidence. Performance.
Wynter leans in. “Why is she walking like the floor is lava or something?”
I bite my lip. “Because if she stops moving, the BBL loses momentum.”
Wynter snorts. “Tragic. You’re supposed to let it settle.”
We watch as she laughs too loud at something no one said, touches a man’s arm a beat too long, checks the mirrors like they’re giving feedback. She isn’t here to enjoy the night. She’s here to be noticed.
Wynter tilts her head, listening to something under the music. “That’s proximity anxiety,” she murmurs.
“Manifesting bag security?” I ask.
“Heavy,” Wynter confirms. “You can smell it.”
I snicker under my breath, taking a slow sip as my eyes drift across the room again.
She nudges me with her elbow. “Meanwhile, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not.”
“You glow every time you look at him,” she says, nodding subtly toward August. “That’s not champagne. That’s alignment.”
“I’m trying to be discreet.”
“Bitch, please. Y’all been eye-fucking each other all night,” she teases.
Then she freezes.
Not theatrically. Not for effect.
Her entire body goes still.
A sharp inhale—her hand flies to my chest.
“Don’t move,” she whispers. “Nine o’clock.”
I follow her gaze.
August stands with a man in a deep maroon suit that fits like it was poured onto him. Tall. Broad. Built with intention. Even standing still, he feels in motion—like he’s always a second away from impact.
Wynter exhales like she just found religion. “Oh… that’s a running back.”
“You can tell?” I murmur.
“By the thighs alone,” she says, reverent. “That man runs through people for a living. On purpose.”
It clicks. “Is that—”
“Yes,” she hisses. “Monroe Hart. Panthers running back. Signed a few years ago. Took them to the Super Bowl. I would let that man ruin my birth chart.”
“Wynn!” I laugh, nudging her, but she’s already gone.
“That’s Aries Mars energy if I’ve ever seen it,” she continues, fully locked in. “Deep chocolate, honey eyes… I know you see it.”
Before I can pull her back to reality, she grabs my hand and tugs me forward.
“Come on,” she says, already moving. “Let’s go mingle with your man and my future mistake.”
My pulse skitters as we approach.
August’s gaze lifts—settles on me easy.
Familiar.
His face softens in that private way that feels like it shouldn’t be allowed in public. Like the room drops out for half a second.
“You’re back,” he says, like it means something.
Like I left.
“Just making my rounds,” I reply, but it comes out softer than I intend.
His gaze lingers half a second too long before he nods, like he’s letting it go.
For now.
“Harlee, Wynter,” he says. “This is Monroe Hart. And Emmett Holmes.”
Emmett grins, easy and polished, extending his hand. “We’ve heard about you.”
“Only good things, I hope,” I say, shaking his hand.
“That depends who you ask,” he replies, amused.
Monroe steps forward next, grip firm, eyes sharp with recognition.
“Did he say Harlee?” he asks, glancing at August like he’s piecing something together. Then back to me, grin widening. “Ah. You’re Complicated.”
My brows lift. “That what he calls me?”
August doesn’t even flinch. Just takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes flicking to Monroe with a look that says choose your next words carefully.
“Something like that,” he says smoothly.
Wynter slides in beside me like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“I know exactly who you are,” she says to Monroe, eyes bright. “Two thousand five hundred seventy-three yards in a single season? Be serious.”
Monroe lets out a low laugh. “You a Panthers fan?”
“Live and breathe,” she says, voice dropping just enough to make it intentional. “Thursday night game? Don’t fumble. I’ve got money on it.”
He leans in slightly, interest piqued. “How much?”
“Enough to make it hurt.”
“I like a woman with stakes,” he says, eyes lingering. “And confidence.”
Wynter smiles slow. “You haven’t even seen the rest of the outfit.”
She shifts just enough—knee sliding forward, slit catching the light without trying too hard.
Monroe notices.
Of course he does.
And then—
a hand appears.
Pale. Polished. Possessive.
Wrapping around his arm like it belongs there.
“Baby,” the blonde says, voice light but edged. “There you are.”
The air changes.
Subtle.
But immediate.
Monroe stills just slightly—not pulling away, but not leaning in either. His posture recalibrates, attention splitting.
Wynter’s smile doesn’t drop.
But it tightens.
Just enough for me to see it.
I glance at her.
She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel it—
oh, that’s what we’re doing?
BBL Barbie.
Of course.
“I thought you’d say you’d gamble with me,” the blonde continues, her gaze skimming over us like we’re part of the décor.