Chapter 11
Harper
The next day when I return from yet another afternoon of watching practice sessions and interviewing players, I have a surprise delivery waiting in my room.
A bag with a Stripes cap, a foam finger, and a jersey boasting Number Two and Baptiste’s name printed across the back.
My chest warms as I pick up the note that comes along with it:
“So you can properly enjoy the game tomorrow. Hockey is not boring.”
I chuckle under my breath, shaking my head as I place everything neatly on my dresser for tomorrow night.
Tonight, on the other hand, I have to wear something a bit more classy.
My job taught me you can get roped into a black-tie event out of the blue, so I always pack an evening dress.
I also know from experience that I might stain the dress before I even leave the room, so I brought a backup.
I opt for a simple backless black satin dress with black stilettos.
I’m doing my makeup when my phone rings, and my grandma’s face appears on the screen.
“Hey, Grandma, how are you doing?” Our calls are a daily ritual. We usually chat in the morning, but the nursing home had the doctor visiting.
“Still alive,” she says—her usual response. “And you? Going to that gala?”
“I am. Getting ready now, actually. What did you do today?”
“Nothing interesting,” she says, then pauses. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”
My cheeks warm. “Of course it is. Baptiste is a nice guy. He’s just—”
“Not because of him,” she cuts in. “Although now you’ve got me curious. No, I’m talking about those charity galas. Always ripe for scandals.”
I pinch my lips together. I’m not going to lie—that did cross my mind when Baptiste mentioned it.
Galas are the perfect setting for loose lips and spilled secrets.
Friendly, relaxed, everyone has something to drink, and all the guests are dishing out gossip.
And don’t get me started on the restrooms: a journalist’s gold mine.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I know the rules of my probation.”
But if I literally stumble on something fishy, you best believe I’ll keep that in my back pocket for when I’m back in the field.
She seems satisfied with my answer, and we go on to chit-chat about her day—she mostly complains about the other residents, how noisy they are, and the fact that they’re always whining about the cost of life or politics—until it’s time for me to finish getting ready.
When I hang up, I rush to finish my makeup. I’m supposed to meet Baptiste in less than ten minutes. I find a bracelet, put on some lipstick, spritz myself with perfume, and head downstairs.
He’s already there waiting when the elevator doors open, and it’s like I’m hit with a gust of wind that nearly bowls me over. He’s wearing a dark green tuxedo that matches his eyes, which may as well be magnets. The way they trap me as I walk toward him is unfair.
His lips part, and he does a double take. “Wow. You look great, Harper.”
I swallow, not daring to look straight into his vortex eyes. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.
And even if I really don’t want to take it, I slip my arm into his. Forget his eyes. His whole body is one big magnet.
He has a car waiting to take us to the charity event.
“Not because I can’t drive myself,” he explains defensively as we slide into the back. “Or because I like being chauffeured around. But there’s no parking near the venue, and I thought it’d be easier—and safer—to be dropped off.”
I smile, glancing at him. “No need to justify yourself. It makes perfect sense.”
He arches his eyebrows. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Thinking that I’m some kind of spoiled celebrity, for example.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Nah, you’re good. You’ve shown me nothing but the contrary.”
“Phew,” he says exaggeratedly, sinking into his seat.
We might be joking around, but I mean it. He and his friends are far from the out-of-touch celebrities I was expecting.
The driver weaves through the streets of DC before finally stopping in front of an old white stone building, Greek-style columns towering over the entrance.
As soon as we enter the venue, a hostess greets us.
Baptiste gives his name, and we’re escorted into a large ballroom bathed in soft blue and green lights, abstract ocean-themed art projected onto the walls.
Glass sculptures shaped like waves rest on pedestals, and framed photographs of marine life line the perimeter.
In the center, long tables display items for a silent auction, each accompanied by neatly printed descriptions.
A waiter passing by gets us some drinks, and we start browsing the silent auction items.
Each is more impressive than the next. There’s a week-long stay on a research vessel, some art pieces, a signed guitar from a famous musician, a yacht, or a private helicopter tour of the coast. Next up are a custom surfboard painted by a local artist, theater tickets to the new Auston Buckley and Carolina Stance show, and a luxury weekend at an eco-resort overlooking the Pacific.
“I’m guessing the season tickets are yours?” I ask, glancing at Baptiste.
“I’m so transparent, aren’t I?” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, every time one of us goes to a charity event, we try to pitch in.”
“Do you also bid?”
“Absolutely. And I rarely go home empty-handed. I’m starting to accumulate a lot of art pieces and ancient books, though,” he says with a chuckle. “Even if I’ve already donated some of the pieces to other foundations.”
“Aren’t you the generous one,” I say, studying him. And, well—there’s something hopelessly sexy in a selfless man. At least he’s doing some good with his money.
He shoots me a grin. “So, what should we bid on? Your pick.”
I tap my finger on my lips. “Um. I think a yacht would look great in your backyard.”
He laughs hard, the sound warm and unrestrained, drawing a few glances. “How do you know I even have a backyard?”
“Oh, you definitely have a backyard.”
He pauses, then coughs out a laugh. “Okay, I have a backyard, but definitely not one big enough to host a freaking yacht! There’s no water, for starters.”
“Okay, fine. Helicopter tour?”
He cocks his head, eyes trained on me. “I thought you were afraid of heights.”
“We’re shopping for you,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“We’re shopping for both of us,” he says. “Since you’re here with me, you get to enjoy it as well if I win.”
I suck in my lips, my heart thumping a few beats faster. We barely know each other. We’ve established that we’re not even friends. What is he doing?
His cheeks redden. “I’m kidding, Harper. Just an indecisive man looking for help, that’s all.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but I play along, because it’s what makes the most sense. “Well, if it were me, I’d pick the eco-resort,” I say casually. “A vacation is always nice.”
He nods. “Good thinking. I rarely bid on those. I don’t exactly have a lot of time on my hands, but I’ll make an exception.”
Grabbing one of the pens on the table, he writes down his bid. And I can’t help but notice the ridiculous number of zeroes he’s adding to the end of it.
A clamor erupts near the door, and everyone directs their attention there. From what I can tell, some new guests have arrived, but I can’t see them from where we’re standing.
“Oh, it’s Veronica Lancelot,” a woman in a red dress gushes next to me.
“The reality star? From The New Housewives of New York?” her friend replies, and they both hustle toward the source of the commotion.
I’ve never heard of that particular reality “star,” but the mention of that franchise brings the sting of bile to my throat.
“What’s up?” Baptiste wonders aloud, straightening slightly and scanning the room.
“Some airhead starlet just arrived,” I say, my tone dripping with disdain.
He shrugs. “Yeah, there’s always a bunch of celebrities at these things. At least they bring some press to the event.”
“Let’s go get something to eat,” I say, eager to change the subject.
Making our way to the buffet, we shuffle down the large table draped in white linen and decorated with seashell centerpieces, and I stack my plate high.
The choice of cocktail food is overwhelming—mini crab cakes, oysters on ice, tuna tartare, delicate pastries, and of course lobster served three different ways.
We find an empty high table and eat standing side by side, shoulders nearly touching. We start talking about the charity hosting the gala and the other ones he supports. He also sees a few people he knows and introduces me.
“I need to go to the girls’ room,” I say after a while. We’ve been eating and drinking for the past two hours, and honestly, I don’t know how I’ve managed to hold off for this long. “I’ll be right back.”
I worm myself through the sea of expensive tuxes and dresses, inhaling so much perfume and cologne, my head starts to spin.
I linger in the stall, hoping to hear some interesting chit-chat, but the only women who stop in are immersed in a dull discussion about who wore what and who looked better at the last gala.
I wash my hands, reapply some lipstick, and step out of the ladies’ room.
As I’m walking back down the corridor, an uneasy feeling creeps up my spine. Like someone is watching me.
I turn my head to the right. That’s when I see him, lurking a few feet away. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a red bow tie.
The man I put behind bars six years ago.
The man I once trusted. The man I once loved.
But that love has nothing on the hatred I feel toward him now.
My blood turns to ice, and my stilettos are momentarily frozen to the floor. The chatter and ambient music fades, until all I can hear is my own heartbeat. He’s looking at me, pinning me with his gaze—but not the way Baptiste did earlier. No. Victor Pike’s eyes are cold. Soulless.
I close my eyes, hoping he was just a cologne-induced hallucination, but when I open them again, he’s still standing in front of me, playing with the obnoxious ring on his finger.
Why is he even here? He has over a year left on his sentence. And if he was released, why wasn’t I notified? As a key witness, I was supposed to be kept in the loop.
He stalks toward me, and as much as I want to bolt, my feet are still planted to the floor.
“Early release on good behavior, Harp,” he says with a grin, as though reading my mind.
My lips pinch. I always hated that nickname. Now that I think about it, he probably gave it to me for that very reason. Because he was playing me.
And just like that, my fear melts away. Anger takes over.
He wears a crooked grin. “Surprised to see me, huh?”
I manage to inhale a sharp breath and plaster a smile on my face. “Not really, Victor. I was informed of your release.”
I know I can’t show him any sign of weakness. I refuse to give him even an ounce of power.
“Besides,” I continue, “charities have always been your playground. I see prison hasn’t changed you one bit.”
“Oh, but it has,” he says quietly. “I learned a lot of things there, Harp. Things you can’t learn in real life.” He leans against the wall. “So, what are you doing here?”
“None of your business,” I reply dryly. “But I’ll admit, seeing you at an event like this is pretty unexpected. Last I heard, you didn’t have two dimes to rub together. Didn’t the FBI seize all your assets?”
His face pales. “No need to be nasty, Harp. I paid my dues.”
“But did you?” I say calmly. “Because if I remember correctly, the feds weren’t able to prove some of the schemes you were running.”
He saunters a single step closer. We’re almost touching now, but I don’t flinch.
“You stay away from me, Harp,” he says under his breath. “I was nice the first time. This time, the gloves are off.”
“This time?” I whisper. “What are you hiding, Victor? Already back at work?”
The room bursts into applause before he can reply, and I follow the attention of the other guests. Everyone is watching the small platform where a red-haired woman is standing.
Her smile is bright. “I’m now going to announce the winners of the silent auction.”
“I mean it,” Victor mutters. “Stay away from me.”
With that, he disappears into the crowd.
The woman keeps talking, but I’m not able to hear another word. I hurry back into the ladies’ room and lean against the wall, panting. The cold tile on my back grounds me, clears my head. That’s when I notice a woman staring at me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, clearly concerned.
“Oh yeah.” I fake a laugh. “I’m fine. I just thought I had some mayonnaise on my dress.”
Her shoulders relax. “I know the feeling. Happened to me once before. I still have nightmares about it. Enjoy your night.”
“You too.”
She closes the door behind her, and I stagger over to the sink. Wetting my hands, I slap my face with cold water to help me focus.
A million things are whirling in my head right now. But rising above all the chaos is the feeling that I did stumble on a scandal. From the one person I didn’t expect to see. The way he talked to me, threatened me—that only tells me there is something going on. Something big.
I clutch the sink, eyes screwed shut. But I can’t go after him now. I have to show my boss I can follow directions, or my career will be over.
After one last look in the mirror, I slink out of the restrooms.
“There you are!” Baptiste says, and I jump in surprise.
“Gosh, you scared me,” I say, pressing a hand on my racing heart.
“Sorry,” he says softly. “You were gone a while, and I saw you talking with that lanky guy. Seemed serious. What was that about?”
I pause, my pulse hammering in my ears. Then I shake my head, forcing a smile. “Oh, just someone I used to know.”
His face darkens with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” I bubble out a laugh. “Why wouldn’t I be? Oh! Listen—they’re announcing the winner of the resort vacation.”
Before he can reply, I walk toward the makeshift stage, hoping my legs won’t give out beneath me.