16. Harper
HARPER
The elevator doors closed behind me, and for the first time all morning, I let myself breathe.
I felt like someone had hollowed out my chest with a dull spoon and then expected me to walk through Northwell’s lobby like a woman who had not just publicly said goodbye to someone she had been foolish enough to…
I closed my eyes, trying to block out everything that had just happened, the entire weekend…
His voice, his panic, his stupid beautiful face, the way his hands lifted to his hair when he realized too late that words could not be shoved back into his mouth once they were out.
I opened my eyes and gripped the railing inside the elevator and stared at my reflection in the polished steel doors.
My hair was smooth, my blouse still tucked neatly into my trousers, all the careful elegance of a woman who knew how to perform dignity even when her heart was actively attempting to crawl out of her body and die on the floor.
My mother would have hated that. She always said women in our world were taught to bleed beautifully. Quietly. In private, where no one could see the mess.
I swallowed hard and forced my chin up.
I may have forgotten who I was for a while, tried to outrun who I really was, but not anymore.
The elevator descended slowly. Every floor felt like another second I had to keep my face composed.
Another second I had to pretend I had not heard him call me ‘a whore for hire’ in a conference room full of people.
Another second I had to not think about Caleb stepping toward me like he might put himself between me and Elliot, Rowan’s fury, or Julian’s angry surprise.
Elliot’s face when I…The memory hit hard enough that I had to close my eyes. Because beneath the anger and the cruelty and the panic, there had been something else there. Fear.
And I hated that I saw it. Hated that some tender, pathetic part of me wanted to turn around and ask why. I wanted to ask what happened to him that made hurting me feel like protection.
No. Absolutely not. Hurt people could get therapy.
They could call a friend. They could drink water instead of scotch, scream into a pillow, or do literally anything other than schedule a woman to walk out of their private elevator so the person they claimed to want more with could understand her place.
So, no, I would not go back.
The elevator opened into the lobby, and my face was already fixed by the time Timothy stepped beside me. I almost forgot they were with me in the elevator.
Shit.
He didn’t say anything at first. We moved through the lobby together, my team trailing behind us. Outside, the cold air bit at my cheeks, sharp enough to make my eyes water.
Timothy waited until we reached the car before he finally said, “Do you want me to cancel the rest of your calls today?”
“No.”
My voice sounded normal.
“No,” I repeated, softer this time. “I’m fine.”
He looked at me as if he was very aware I was not fine, but he valued his life enough not to argue with a woman wearing heels sharp enough to be considered weapons.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle Northwell,” he said.
I nodded. “You already have everything.”
“I do.”
I opened the car door, then paused. “And Timothy?”
“Yes?”
“If Elliot Vale tries to use Northwell to get to me, you do not patch him through.”
His expression shifted, but he schooled it, saying, “Understood.”
I slipped into the back of the car and closed the door before anyone could say anything or before a certain someone could make things worse.
The second the car pulled away from the curb, I opened my laptop. I worked, I built plans, put out fires, and controlled narratives. I made messes look clean and powerful men look less destructive than they actually were. The irony was not lost on me.
Sunday had been the same.
I had not slept since leaving Elliot’s building. I had gone home, dropped my bags inside the front entry of my townhouse, and stood there in the dark, still wearing my travel clothes, still hearing that woman’s voice.
“That is the second time my booty call with him was fucked up.”
The words had looped through my head until I thought I might actually go insane.
I stood in my hallway for several minutes before I moved directly to my office.
Because if I stopped, I would break. So I didn’t .
I turned on every lamp, opened my laptop, and started pulling together the transition plan.
I made lists, wrote emails, annotated every recommendation I had for Northwell’s public image for the next quarter, and I included Julian and Lucy's relationship timeline, Rowan’s risk exposure, Caleb’s public engagement recommendations, Theo’s complete lack of definable purpose, which was somehow a branding issue and a lifestyle choice, and Elliot.
His section took the longest. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I knew exactly what to say.
The Face of Northwell required stability, consistency, and visible emotional maturity.
I stared at those words for fifteen minutes, then deleted emotional, and eventually added it back.
By five in the morning, I had called the firm’s managing partner and informed her I would work remotely through the holidays and possibly into the new year.
She didn’t question me.
By six, Timothy had agreed to take over as Northwell’s point of contact.
By seven, I had boxed up the things Elliot had sent me. Every piece, every reminder. Every pretty little lie. Then I stood in front of the desk in my bedroom and stared at the first edition book I had found for him.
It had taken three calls, one favor from an auction contact, and far too much money for a book I only knew existed because Elliot had told me about it half asleep one night.
His voice was so soft then. Sleepy and unprotected.
He had told me about a nanny who used to read it to him when he was little.
About how she smelled of lavender hand cream and peppermint tea.
About how, for a while, she was the only person who made the house feel less empty.
He had said it as if it were nothing, like it didn’t matter.
Like it was normal for little boys to remember hired caretakers with more tenderness than their own parents.
I had tracked down the book the next morning, and was going to give it to him after we talked.
After he told me what he wanted us to be, after I was brave enough to tell him my real last name, who my family was and why I was so guarded.
Instead, I wrapped it carefully and placed it with the returned gifts. My fingers lingered on the paper too long. I considered keeping it because that felt like keeping the version of Elliot I had almost believed in. But that version had not been real enough to stop him from hurting me.
So I sent it too.
Then I called my father. He answered on the second ring, “My angel.”
I closed my eyes and sat on the edge of my bed, surrounded by half-packed bags and open boxes, and the wreckage of the life I had been building.
“I’m coming home early.”
The silence on the other end changed, as if he moved to a quieter room. “How early?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
Another pause. Then, “Do you need me?”
My throat tightened so quickly that I had to press my fingers against it. “Yes.”
The word came out small, barely there, but he heard it.
“I’ll send the plane.”
“Dad…”
“No.” He used the same tone that had silenced boardrooms, senators, reporters, and me when I was eight and convinced I could cut my own bangs.
“I’ll send the plane,” he repeated.
“You don’t need to rearrange your day.”
“Harper.” Just my name, that was all. Because my father had never made me ask twice to be loved.
“I’ll be home waiting for you.”
I stared down at my hands, at the ring on my right hand, the one I wore because it belonged to my mother.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“And Harper?”
“Yeah?”
“Eat something.”
That was when the tears finally came. They were accompanied by what could only be described as a laugh that sounded more like a snort. It was not pretty.
But only my father and those he trusted most knew I shut down for a while, that when I was stressed, I didn’t eat, and that became dangerous.
“I will.” I reassured him.
I am pretty sure he knew I was lying. And that was even more obvious when I got on the family plane and the stewardess and pilot showed me all my favourite foods my father insisted be aboard when I arrived.
The flight to New York was quiet. My father’s plane had always felt normal to me in the strange way things from childhood become normal before you understand they are not.
Cream leather seats. Warm wood. The faint scent of citrus cleaner and expensive coffee.
A flight attendant who had known me since I was a teenager and still asked if I wanted sparkling water with lime before I even sat down.
“Shall I get you your favourite?” she asked gently.
I looked up, and she held the bottle. For a moment, I had the absurd thought that Elliot hated sparkling water. Then my stomach twisted.
“Yes,” I said, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Marta.”
Her eyes softened, but she did not ask. No one on my father’s staff ever asked. They knew the rules. Privacy was not a luxury in my family; it was survival, and we had learned that the hard way.
I spent most of the flight staring out the window while clouds shifted beneath us like torn cotton.
My phone lay face down on the table in front of me.
I had turned it off because the temptation to check whether Elliot had called was humiliating.
So I left the phone dark and tried not to think about the fact that part of me still wanted him to say the one thing that would make this hurt less.
I’m sorry.
Not excuses or technicalities. Just that.
When we landed, the private terminal in New York was nearly empty.
Security was already waiting. Two black SUVs idled near the curb, engines sending pale exhaust into the cold air.
One of my father’s men took my luggage before I could reach for it.
Another opened the back door of the second vehicle.
“Miss Montgomery,” he said quietly.
The name hit differently after so long being called Harper Lane. I guess my father decided he was done hiding me.
“Hi, James.”
His expression softened. “Good to have you home, love.”
Home.
I looked past him toward the winter-grey sky and wondered why the word felt both like comfort and defeat.