"Bound By The Wrong Brother"

Groaning, Harper rolled over on the cool silk sheets as the harsh desert light sliced through the wooden blinds, stabbing directly into her eyes.

Her hand fumbled blindly for her phone on the nightstand.

The screen lit up with a new text from Sterling.

*Your dad bought the Hawaii lie. New York is quiet. Stay hidden.*

Harper let out a long, shaky breath, the tight band of anxiety around her chest loosening a fraction.

She replied with a quick thumbs-up emoji.

Dragging herself out of bed, she showered and threw on a simple linen sundress.

Downstairs, she pushed open the glass doors to the sun terrace. Fiona was sitting under a massive white umbrella, slicing a grapefruit with surgical precision.

She gestured for Harper to sit.

Harper pulled out a wicker chair, pouring herself a cup of thick, black coffee.

"So," Fiona said casually, not looking up from her fruit. "You're fighting this marriage like a woman who already has someone else in her bed."

Harper's hand jerked. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug, burning her knuckles. She quickly set the pot down, her neck flushing a deep, betraying red.

She avoided Fiona's piercing gaze. "It's... Barrett Petty," she whispered, the name an ache on her tongue.

Fiona's perfectly arched eyebrow shot up.

Harper's mind flashed back to a summer in the Hamptons, four years ago. She saw Barrett in a crisp white shirt, laughing as he fixed the dropped chain on her bicycle, the memory sending a warm, painful squeeze to her heart.

He was Sterling's older brother. The perfect, unattainable golden boy.

"You're in love with your fiancé's brother?" Fiona asked, her tone dripping with disbelief. "That is a spectacular disaster."

Harper's smile vanished. She sat up straight, her face hardening. "It doesn't matter. My feelings are irrelevant. Stopping Howard from stealing my shares is the only thing that matters."

Fiona smirked, clearly approving of the cold Manhattan pragmatism.

Before Fiona could reply, the glass sliding door was violently yanked open, the metal track screeching in protest.

Chloe stomped onto the terrace, wearing ripped black jeans and a faded vintage band tee, her dark makeup smeared aggressively around her eyes.

Fiona's face instantly tightened. "You look like you slept in a dumpster, Chloe," she snapped.

Chloe let out a loud, mocking laugh. She snatched a piece of dry toast from the silver rack and turned to leave.

"Stop right there," Fiona ordered, her voice cracking like a whip. "Where are you going?"

Chloe rolled her eyes so hard her whole head tilted back, aggressively chewing the inside of her cheek, refusing to answer.

The air on the terrace turned thick and suffocating.

Stepping directly between the two glaring women, Harper forced a bright, casual smile. "Chloe, I'm starving. Take me off the Strip for lunch."

Chloe narrowed her heavily lined eyes, staring at Harper with pure suspicion. She opened her mouth to tell Harper to go to hell.

Harper leaned in close, dropping her voice so Fiona couldn't hear. "Take me out, and I'll pay for whatever you want to do afterward. No questions asked."

Chloe stopped chewing her cheek. She looked at Harper's expensive watch, calculating the payout, then gave a curt, jerky nod.

Fiona shot Harper a look of profound relief behind Chloe's back.

Harper grabbed her purse, her stomach tightening with anticipation. Just before stepping off the terrace, her phone buzzed with an encrypted message from her New York investigator. Her eyes scanned the brief text. It contained a single address—a desolate diner off the highway where the cleaner's crew was rumored to collect weekly drops. She quickly memorized the street name and showed the screen to Chloe. "Take me exactly here," Harper ordered, her voice firm. She was finally getting out of the house, and she had a target.