Chapter 1
HARPER
Morning light filtered through the boutique windows in weak February rays, catching dust motes that drifted through air scented faintly with lavender sachets and the vanilla candle I'd lit to mask the mustiness of my back storage room.
I stood behind my checkout counter with invoices spread across the surface like evidence at a crime scene.
Red ink bled across white paper, Overdue stamped across bills from vendors I'd once paid on time, Final Notice threatening consequences I couldn't afford to face.
This is fine, everything is fine.
I picked up the lease statement from Chen Properties and felt my stomach drop for the hundredth time this morning.
The numbers hadn't changed since I'd first opened the envelope an hour ago, staring at them like maybe if I looked hard enough, they'd rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. Twelve thousand dollars overdue, it might as well have been twelve million. If you counted this month’s rent due at the end of the month, it would be closer to sixteen thousand.
My fingers traced the embossed letterhead, the thick paper felt expensive beneath my touch. The kind of quality that said Chen Properties didn't need my money, which somehow made owing it worse. Mr. Chen could afford to be patient.
The boutique was quiet around me, the kind of oppressive silence that made my skin itch with anxiety.
Too quiet for a Monday morning, though that wasn't unusual for February in Warren.
Outside my windows, Main Street lay mostly empty.
A few trucks were parked at the diner down the block, and someone walked a dog past the hardware store, the usual slow pulse of small-town life that had seemed charming when I'd first opened six years ago.
Now it just felt like evidence of terrible business planning.
What had I been thinking, opening a boutique in a town of three thousand people?
I'd been thinking I could make something of myself.
Build something that was mine and prove to my parents that I wasn't the screwup they'd always assumed I was after I'd dropped out of that fancy university in Denver to move here and work retail jobs while I figured out what I really wanted.
The boutique had been my answer. My dream. Proof that I could succeed at something without their money, their connections, or their perfectly mapped future for my life. How’s that working out for you?
I was failing. Spectacularly. In a way that would give my mother ammunition for years' worth of conversations at the family dinners I'd stopped attending.
I shoved the Chen Properties statement under the stack of other bills, unable to look at those numbers anymore, and reached for my coffee.
The mug was cold against my palm, the liquid inside long past drinkable.
I'd poured it two hours ago and forgotten about it while spiraling over math that didn't add up no matter how many times I recalculated.
The coffee tasted sharp and stale when I forced myself to swallow, but at least it gave my shaking hands something to do.
I closed my eyes, leaning against the counter, and tried to work air past the tightness in my chest. Panicking wouldn't pay the bills, but apparently neither would anything else I'd tried.
I'd been lying to myself for months now, telling myself cheerful little lies that sounded good at three in the morning when I couldn't sleep.
I could fix this alone. I just needed one good week of sales. Spring would save me. Tourist season would turn everything around. I could make it work if I just tried harder, stayed open longer, posted more on social media, ran more sales.
The thoughts spiraled faster, my breathing speeding up to match.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
The boutique suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air too thick to pull into my lungs properly.
Sweat prickled along my hairline despite the February chill seeping through the old windows.
My hands trembled where they gripped the counter, knuckles white, the wood grain blurring as my vision tunneled.
Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like the YouTube videos said.
But my lungs wouldn't cooperate, taking short, sharp gasps that left me dizzy.
The numbers on my bank statement flashed behind my closed eyelids—red, always red, never enough.
Four days until rent was due. Three maxed credit cards.
Two vendors threatening collections. One business circling the drain while I stood here hyperventilating like that would solve anything.
I forced myself to count backwards from ten, focusing on each number, each breath. Ten. Nine. Eight. The tightness in my chest eased slightly. Seven. Six. Five. My vision cleared. Four. Three. Two. The panic receded like a wave pulling back from shore, leaving me shaky and exhausted but functional.
Maybe it was time to admit I couldn't do this.
The thought settled heavy in my gut like spoiled food. Defeat tasted wrong, like admitting I'd wasted six years and every dollar I had on a pipe dream everyone had warned me about.
What choice did I have at this point? Ask Anna for money?
She was trying to plan a life with Jaxon and still trying to heal from everything Daniel had put her through.
I couldn't show up at her door with my hand out like some kind of financial vampire.
Call my parents? Listen to them smugly remind me they'd predicted exactly this outcome while they bailed me out, then hold it over my head for the rest of my natural life?
Connor couldn't even stand to be in the same room as me anymore, so that option was out.
The phone rang, shattering the quiet like glass breaking, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I glanced at the caller ID and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Miller's Textiles.
One of my biggest vendors. One I was two months behind with after ignoring invoices that added up to a number I couldn't afford to think about without spiraling.
Shit.
My hand hovered over the phone, trembling slightly. I could let it go to voicemail again, adding it to the collection of increasingly urgent messages I'd been deleting without listening to. I'd been doing that for a week, watching the calls come in and chickening out every single time.
But avoidance became its own problem, and at some point, not answering was worse than whatever they were going to say.
I picked up before I could change my mind. “Harper Walsh.” My voice came out steadier than I felt, which was something.
“Ms. Walsh.” The person on the other end was clipped and professional, clearly done being patient.
An older woman with the exhausted tone of someone who'd made this call a hundred times to a hundred struggling business owners and knew exactly how it was going to go.
“This is Rebecca Miller from Miller's Textiles.
I'm calling regarding your outstanding balance of four thousand, two hundred dollars.”
The number hit me like a physical blow even though I'd known it for weeks, had stared at it on invoices until the digits burned into my retinas.
“I know,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice even as my free hand gripped the edge of the counter hard enough to hurt. The wood was cold under my palm, grounding in a way that kept me from completely losing it. “I've been meaning to call you. I'm working on getting caught up, I promise.”
“Ms. Walsh, you've been 'working on it' for eight weeks.” Rebecca's voice wasn't unkind, but it was firm and final in a way that made my chest tight.
“I've been more than accommodating. I've extended your payment terms twice already.
But I have my own suppliers to pay and my own bills to cover.
I need a payment by Friday, or I'll be forced to send your account to collections.”
Friday. Three days away.
My throat went tight, making it hard to get the words out. “How much?” The question came out smaller than I wanted, almost a whisper, like maybe if I said it quietly enough the answer wouldn't be as bad.
“At minimum? Two thousand dollars to bring you current on the oldest invoices. The rest we can work out a payment plan for, but I need to know you're serious about paying this debt.”
I had four hundred and seventeen dollars in my business account. I'd checked it this morning while lying in bed staring at the ceiling of my apartment, unable to sleep for the third night in a row, watching the numbers glow on my phone screen like an accusation.
So basically, I'm screwed. Cool. Great. Fantastic.
“Friday,” I repeated numbly. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror across the room, pale and tired with dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide anymore. I looked like hell and I felt even worse. “I'll have something for you by Friday.” Liar.
“I hope so, Ms. Walsh. I really do.” Rebecca's voice softened slightly, taking on a sympathetic edge that somehow made it worse. “I'd hate to see your business fail. You've been a good customer up until recently. But I can't keep extending credit indefinitely. You understand.”
“I do. Thank you for being patient with me.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth, all polite gratitude for patience I didn't deserve and couldn't repay.
The line went dead.
I set the phone down carefully on the counter, like it might explode if I moved too fast. My hands were shaking worse now, trembling so badly I had to press them flat against the counter to make it stop.
The morning sun streaming through my windows felt too bright and too cheerful for the panic clawing up my throat like a living thing.
Two thousand dollars by Friday. And that was just one vendor out of a dozen I owed money to.