23. Harper
HARPER
By the time I packed to return to Chicago, my room at Montgomery House no longer looked like the room I'd arrived in. Nothing had changed, and yet it felt like everything had. The furniture in this room was the same, but somehow the woman in it wasn't.
I stood in front of the mirror in the dressing room, staring at my reflection while holding a sweater I'd bought with Margot that still felt a little extra.
Soft green cashmere that was slightly oversized, it was comfortable enough to curl into, but Margot said it was cut in a way that suggested I might occasionally leave the house.
The old version of me would have picked the neutral one.
In a taupe or a nude or a black variation of something that matched everything.
Instead, I folded the green sweater and placed it carefully into my suitcase.
I glanced at my nails while I zipped the bag shut.
The blue polish had chipped slightly on my thumb, the colour still feeling so familiar, but just out of reach for me to name.
I should have hated that, should have already made an appointment to have the colour fixed or changed; instead, I smiled.
A soft knock sounded against the door.
"Come in."
My father stepped inside, already dressed for the city. A dark wool coat over a perfectly tailored suit. He leaned against the doorway and looked at the packed luggage. "So it's finally happening."
I nodded. "I suppose it is."
He crossed the room slowly. "Nervous?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
He smiled. "Ah."
"What?" I questioned, focusing on the task at hand and not my father's knowing eyes.
"That means yes."
I sighed. "I hate that you know that."
His expression softened. "No." He stepped closer. "You hate that I know when you're lying."
I sat down on the edge of the bed. "I don't know what I'm walking back into."
He sat beside me. "You don't have to."
I looked over. "What?"
"You don't have to know." The words settled somewhere deep in my chest.
"I think I should," I murmured.
"Why?" It was such a simple question, and my father asked it with such tenderness.
But how could I explain it?
Because Elliot was there. Because the city still felt like him.
Because I still woke up some mornings convinced I would open my eyes and see him.
Because every version of moving forward somehow involved admitting I wasn't as over him. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around how something that had only lasted a month had such an effect on me.
I looked down at my hands. "I don't know."
My father was quiet for a long moment, then he smiled and said, "That's all right."
I laughed softly. "You always make everything sound simpler than it is."
"No." He reached over and squeezed my hand. "I simply have more experience surviving impossible things."
My throat tightened. For a second, I saw him not as Alexander Montgomery. Not as the man whose name opened doors, or as the man who had spent years protecting me. Not my father. Just as a husband who had lost the love of his life and somehow kept waking up every morning afterward.
"Do you think I'm ready?" I asked quietly.
His answer came immediately. "I think you've been ready for a very long time." The words sat between us. Then he smiled again. "Also, Oliver's coming."
I laughed despite myself. "Of course he is."
"He insisted." My dad added, with a grin on his face I had seen too many times.
"I didn't know he could insist with you."
"Oh, he can't." My father stood. "I simply decided to allow him the illusion." That sounded about right. My father chuckled and then added, “Plus, maybe he will help shake some things up in Chicago.”
The plane felt smaller with Oliver on it. I am not sure how else to describe it, just smaller. My father spent the first hour reviewing documents and pretending not to watch us.
Oliver was swirling a glass of wine beside me, and when he finally took a sip, he followed it with an appreciative groan that had me shooting a look over at my dad.
"I think your father is clearly trying to manipulate me."
I blinked and looked up from my book to look at Oliver. "With alcohol?"
"With investment opportunities," he countered.
I laughed. "You think he's trying to convince you to invest?"
"I know he is," he replied with a wink.
"Maybe you should."
He looked toward my father, and my father looked up from his paperwork and said, "I support this conversation."
I laughed harder, and Oliver shook his head, saying, "See?"
"You'd make money," I pointed out.
He smiled and said, “I don’t think that’s why he'd want me involved."
"No?"
His gaze held mine. "No."
I suddenly found the view outside very interesting.
After a moment, he asked, "Can I ask you something?"
"That depends," I replied, feeling suddenly too warm, but trying not to fidget in my seat.
"On?"
"How invasive it is."
He laughed. "Fair."
I closed my book, my eyes trailing over his features that were both so familiar and different. "What?"
He swirled the wine again, asking, "Why Chicago?"
The question surprised me. "What do you mean?"
He glanced toward my father, then back to me, lowering his voice, "Why did he choose Chicago? Out of all the places in the world he does business, why would he choose for your first major public event with the Foundation to be held in Chicago?"
I blinked. The answer should have been obvious. Business. But our North American headquarters was in New York.... Media, or opportunity. But none of those answers felt right.
"I don't know," I answered honestly.
Oliver nodded. "I don't think it's an accident."
That thought followed me for the rest of the flight.
The townhouse was exactly as I'd left it. Thomas greeted me with a look that somehow communicated relief, affection, and I told you you'd come home, eventually.
"Miss Montgomery."
I guess someone got the memo. I smiled and replied, "Thomas."
"You cut your hair."
I smiled. "I did."
"It suits you."
"Thank you."
He hesitated, but then said, "Welcome home."
The words shouldn't have affected me as much as they did. But they did. Because I wasn’t sure if this place felt like home anymore. Not after everything.
That night, after everyone left, I walked through the townhouse alone.
Every inch meticulously curated to feel elevated and polished…
Perfect. I trailed my hands along the polished marble in the kitchen, letting my eyes dance over the items in my living room.
Then my office, and lastly my bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my phone. Should I call him?
The thought appeared so suddenly that I rubbed the ache in my chest. I wasn’t considering calling him, because I wanted him back.
Just because we would eventually see each other.
Chicago wasn't that big. Our world definitely wasn't, and maybe I didn't want the next time to feel like the last one.
But the thought of hearing his voice… The words he used to cut me down when I last saw him had me turning off my phone and going to bed.
Three days later, I found myself back at yoga for the first time since I left Chicago.
It was a mistake. The room smelled of eucalyptus and expensive self-improvement.
I spent forty minutes discovering muscles I had apparently abandoned years and not weeks ago.
By the time the instructor cheerfully announced our final poses, I was considering faking my death.
I shifted into position. Stretched. Breathed. And suddenly remembered Elliot.
The memory was stupid, not even a significant one. Just Elliot lying on his stomach in his bed one morning while watching me stretch. His expression had gone from appreciation to something more dangerous.
"You should warn people you can do that."
I laughed. "Do what?"
"Fold."
The way he'd said it, the look on his face, the promise in his voice…
My concentration broke, and I nearly fell over.
"Excellent work, everyone," the instructor chirped.
I think I might hate her.
When I finally extracted myself from the overly perky instructor, Oliver was waiting outside. He stood leaning against the building; his eyes found me immediately.
"Jesus Harper."
I stopped. "What?"
He gestured vaguely. "I never knew you could fold like that; you're very bendy."
My stomach dropped because I heard him say, “That’s right, baby; you like it when I fold you in half and fuck you so hard no one else will ever measure up.”
Oliver immediately noticed, “What is that pretty blush for Harper?”
I wrapped my coat around me tighter and looked away from Oliver, still hearing Elliot, “I love when your skin turns red from where my hands have been, from watching your orgasm build. You blush so perfectly...”
I must have made a sound, because Oliver touched my arm, pulling my attention back to him; his expression changed to one of concern. "Sorry."
I blinked. "For what?"
"I think I stepped on a memory." The honesty of it nearly undid me.
I laughed, a little shakily. I could have brushed it off or lied, but I said, "You did."
He nodded. "Okay."
That was all. No questions or pressure. Just okay.
We started walking. Snow crunched beneath our boots.
"You still want coffee?" he asked.
"Desperately," I replied with a shiver.
Oliver pulled me to his side as we made our way to a cafe. A woman full-out scowled at me when she saw Oliver wrap his arm around me.
When we got to the cafe, Oliver found us a seat at the window, and the sun felt so nice on my face without the winter chill that I took off my jacket and made myself comfortable.
I must have been lost in thought, my eyes closed, face tilted up to the sun shining through the window, because suddenly Oliver was beside me, his warm hand settled on a portion of bare skin on my back.
He placed our coffees on the elevated table in front of me, and then his phone.
As he sat down, I noticed the picture on his screen.
"What is that?"
Oliver chuckled, saying, "The lighting was perfect."
I laughed, but still felt… I don’t know. Uncomfortable? My hair was in a messy knot at the back of my neck; I was in a wrap-around yoga top and tights, no makeup, no armour. And I trusted Oliver, but I was so used to hiding that it was still my first reaction to want to protect myself.
"Delete it."
"No," he said, but didn’t take the phone away.
So if I wanted to, I could have grabbed his phone and deleted the picture myself.
Instead, I sipped my coffee and studied it; parts of my hair that escaped my bun had curled around the edges of my face.
My skin looked almost tanned in the sunshine's glow, and I looked… Happy? Relaxed, maybe, or content.
We talked for a while, and then Oliver asked, "Can I post it?"
I laughed. "Are you trying to make every single woman on the internet hate me?"
He grinned. "No." Then he looked at me, a soft look on his face. “Trust me, anyone who knows you could never hate you.” He studied my face before adding, “I know for you it’s more than just a picture, Harper, but think of it as a small step forward.”
I looked at the picture one more time, and then smiled and said, "Okay."
And that became our new routine: Oliver would meet me after Yoga, we would walk, or go for coffee, or sometimes lunch, and he continued to take candid pictures of me; he called it desensitization… but somehow it felt more like coming back to life.