19. Harper
HARPER
By the time New Year's Eve arrived, the house felt lighter. Like someone had opened a window somewhere and let fresh air in.
The week after Christmas passed quietly.
I slept and read. Worked remotely when I had to, giving my notice at work and helping transition my accounts.
I spent more time with my father than I had in years.
Some mornings we drank coffee in the library while he reviewed reports and I caught myself up on the workings of the foundation.
Other days we walked the property together, boots crunching through snow while he pointed out improvements he wanted to make.
Tonight the house was glowing, it wasn’t polished or curated. It felt intimate, just family friends.
The people who had been here before everything changed, who remembered me.
I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, smoothing my hands down the skirt of my dress for the third time.
It wasn't something my Chicago self would have chosen.
The Harper Lane version of me preferred structure, sharp tailoring, and armor-like neutrals, clothes that forced people to take me seriously.
This dress was different. Soft, rose-colored, with long sleeves and a fitted bodice that spilled into a fluid skirt. It wasn't defensive. It was just... pretty.
My hair curled softly over my shoulders and down my back, and scattered across my nose and cheeks were tiny flecks of gold.
Glitter freckles. I had seen them online, thought they looked cute, and then immediately regretted trying them.
I leaned closer to the mirror, maybe they looked ridiculous. A knock sounded at my door.
"Come in."
My father stepped inside, and for a second he just stared. Something unreadable crossed his face, then he smiled. "My angel."
I laughed nervously. "What?"
He shook his head. "You look so much like your mother it nearly stopped my heart."
My chest tightened immediately.
His voice softened. "The dress. The hair."
His eyes found the glitter across my nose. "What is that?"
I groaned.
"What?" he asked.
"I knew it looked ridiculous."
His laugh echoed through the room."No. I just had absolutely no idea what it was."
"They're glitter freckles." I defended.
He blinked. "That's a thing?"
I felt my cheeks turn pink, as he studied me another moment before saying quietly, "I think your mother would have loved them."
And somehow that nearly undid me, because I could picture her. Absolutely covered in glitter, insisting it was fashion, and convincing half the room to join her.
My father offered me his arm. "Ready?"
I slipped my hand through his. "As I'll ever be."
The party was already underway when we made it downstairs. Music drifted through the house, and laughter. The smell of rich food, and the familiar comfort of people who belonged here. The moment we entered the drawing room, a woman gasped.
"Oh, my God."
I barely had time to brace myself before Margot Hastings swept toward me. She wrapped me in a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and childhood memories.
When she finally released me, her eyes were suspiciously bright. "Look at you."
I smiled. "Hello, Margot."
She cupped my face immediately. "No." Her voice cracked. "No, absolutely not."
I blinked. "What?"
"I have seen photographs." She shook her head. "But they don't do you justice."
Heat crept into my cheeks. "Margot…"
"You are Sophie all over again."
My throat tightened as she smiled through tears.
"The same eyes." Then she laughed. "And thank God you got your father's height because Sophie spent too much time standing on chairs."
My father rolled his eyes. "Her height was perfectly average."
"She was five foot two." Margot rebutted, then she looked over my shoulder and smiled.
I turned and forgot how to breathe. Oliver Hastings stood across the room.
The last time I'd seen him, we were barely adults.
The memory I carried was all long limbs, easy smiles, and trouble.
This version looked different. Broad shoulders, dark hair, tattoo ink disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, and a black suit worn without a tie.
Like somebody had tried to dress him up, and he'd only cooperated halfway.
But it wasn't the tattoos or the suit that caught me. It was his smile. So warm and honest.
Oliver's grin widened. "Holy shit."
His gaze moved over me as his mother chided him for language. "Damn, Harper."
I laughed immediately. "Hello to you too."
His eyes landed on my face, then narrowed. "What is on your nose?"
I groaned.
He stepped closer, studying me, then barked out a laugh. Loud enough, several people turned to look.
"Oh my God!" I covered my face. "They're awful, aren’t they?"
"They're glitter," he laughed.
"I know." I said between my fingers.
"Why?"
"I saw someone on social media do it."
Oliver looked genuinely horrified when he pulled my hands from my face. "You saw someone else do it?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Yes."
He shook his head. "You are Harper fucking Montgomery."
I froze, and then he said. “You could do anything, wear anything…”
I laughed. "What?"
"You should be setting trends." His grin returned. "Not worrying whether you can follow them."
For a moment, I just stared at him, not because of what he said, but because of how easily he said it. Like it wasn't a compliment, but a fact.
Oliver's grin softened. "There she is."
I blinked. "What?"
"That look." He pointed at my face. "The one where you're about to argue with me."
I laughed despite myself. "You haven't seen me in years, how'd you know what I was thinking?"
"No," he nodded. "But you've always made that face."
I rolled my eyes, and his smile widened. "See?"
Before I could come up with a comeback, another familiar voice interrupted.
"Harper?"
I turned, and the evening unfolded from there the way it always used to. Not like a party, more like a family reunion. People who had watched me grow up pulled me into conversations before I could escape them. Questions about Chicago, work, and whether I was eating enough.
At some point, I found myself sitting beside Margot while she showed me photographs from a charity event she'd attended.
Across the room my father stood with Grant Hastings and two other men discussing foundation initiatives.
For the first time in a very long time, I wasn't checking my phone, waiting for a text, or wondering whether Elliot would call.
The realization caught me off guard. Because for weeks everything had felt tied to him.
Every thought, decision, every hope. And now...
Now I was laughing at something Oliver said while Margot insisted we all try a dessert recipe she'd found online. I felt normal. Comfortable.
A glass of champagne appeared beside my elbow. I looked up at Oliver. He leaned casually against the arm of my chair. "Do you need me to rescue you from my mother? I think you're being held hostage."
Margot gasped. "I am sitting right here."
"I know."
Margot swatted him, and Oliver laughed. The sound settled somewhere deep inside me.
It was warm and effortless, the exact opposite of how living in Elliot’s orbit had felt. With Elliot, every interaction was a high-wire act, a sharp, consuming spike of adrenaline that kept my pulse racing and my stomach in knots.
What I felt right now wasn't thrilling. It was safe.
A month ago, I might have mistaken safety for boredom. Tonight, it felt like finally taking a full breath of air.
Later, as dinner was winding down and conversations split into smaller groups, I stood beside my father near the fireplace. He handed me a fresh glass of wine, and I took it.
"Having a good time?" he asked.
I smiled. "I forgot what it was like to enjoy parties."
His eyes softened. "You're smiling more."
The observation caught me off guard. "Am I?"
"Yes."
Before I could respond, another guest approached. Then another, and another. The conversations shifted naturally toward work. Toward the foundation, and Montgomery International. Questions I would have avoided a month ago suddenly didn't seem so intimidating.
"What do you think?"
I glanced toward my father; he remained silent, letting me answer. I thought about Lucy, about advocacy. About the women and families I'd met through charity work over the years, how often people with resources wrote checks and convinced themselves that was enough.
Then I said, "I think stories matter." The small group around us fell silent, so I continued.
"I think people care more when they can see the human side of something.
" A few heads nodded. Encouraged, I kept going.
"Most organizations spend too much time talking about numbers and not enough time talking about people. "
My father's expression remained carefully neutral. But I knew him; I knew that look. He was listening. Not to his daughter, but to a future partner, and that realization didn’t terrify me like I thought it would.
I felt eyes on me, and when I looked up, I saw Oliver watching me with a big smile on his face.
His smile should not have affected me, but it did. Not because there was anything flirtatious about it. There wasn't. It was pride. Uncomplicated pride. Like he was happy to see me succeeding. Like he didn't need to be the smartest person in the room to feel important.
The realization hit me harder than it should have.
For so long I had surrounded myself with people who measured worth in achievement.
In appearances. In what could be gained from a connection.
Yet standing here, surrounded by people who had known me since I was a little girl running through these halls with grass stains on my knees, none of them seemed interested in what I could do for them.
They were simply happy that I was home. A warmth settled low in my chest. One I wasn't entirely sure what to do with.
"Well," Grant Hastings announced loudly from across the room. "Now that we've all established Alexander's daughter is considerably smarter than the rest of us, can we eat dessert?"