Jilted At City Hall, Married A Zillionaire

The car hummed over the asphalt, the suspension so smooth it felt like they were floating. Harper's sobbing had quieted to wet, hiccuping gasps. She sniffled loudly, digging into her small clutch for a tissue, but found only a lipstick and a breath mint.

A hand extended from the shadows.

It held a square of dark gray silk.

Harper took it instinctively. "Thanks," she croaked, wiping her eyes. "This Uber service is amazing. Usually, I just get a bottle of water."

She blew her nose into the fabric. It was soft. Too soft.

She paused. Her fingers rubbed the material. This wasn't a tissue. It was heavy silk. She looked down. Embroidered in the corner with silver thread was a stylized letter M.

Harper froze. She slowly lowered the hand. She ran her other hand along the seat beneath her. It wasn't the sticky vinyl of a standard ride-share. It was buttery, perforated Nappa leather.

The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.

She snapped her head up, squinting into the dim corner of the spacious cabin.

The man was watching her. He wore a black turtleneck that swallowed the light. A cashmere blanket was draped over his legs. His face was pale, angular, and devastatingly handsome, but his eyes were cold-flat and lifeless, like the surface of a frozen lake.

Harper scrambled backward, pressing herself against the door handle. "You... Who are you? I'm calling the police!"

Before she could unlock her screen, her phone blasted a pop song. The screen lit up with the name Chloe.

Harper answered it, her hands shaking. "Chloe?"

"Babe!" Chloe's voice was loud enough to be heard without speakerphone. "Brunch is booked! Mimosas are on ice! We are celebrating you shedding that dead weight!"

Harper kept her eyes glued to the man in the corner. "Chloe," she whispered, "I didn't just shed him. I was dumped. And... I think I just carjacked someone. Or I'm being kidnapped."

The man in the corner raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched, a microscopic crack in his stoic mask.

He reached forward and pressed a button on the console. "Velvet Room," he said.

His voice was deep, resonant, and terrifyingly calm. It vibrated in Harper's chest.

"I'm not going to a club!" Harper yelled, panic rising. She slapped the window. "Let me out!"

The man turned his head fully toward her. "Miss, you jumped into my car. And you have effectively ruined my handkerchief."

Harper looked down at the snot-filled ball of silk in her hand. Her face burned.

"Velvet Room?" Chloe shrieked on the phone. "Harper! That's members only! Who are you with?"

"A... a good Samaritan?" Harper said weakly. "Or a serial killer. It's 50/50 right now."

The man closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest. "Get out when we stop," he said, dismissing her entirely.

The car fell silent. Harper shrank into her corner. The adrenaline was fading, leaving room for the misery to return. She thought about the look on Bradford's face. The way Victoria had looked at her like she was trash. And now, here she was, humiliating herself in front of a stranger who clearly cost more per hour than she would make in a lifetime.

Screw it.

"Chloe," Harper said into the phone, her voice hardening. "Meet me at the Velvet Room. Since life is screwing me, I might as well get drunk on the most expensive liquor in the city."

The car slowed to a halt in a narrow, brick-walled alleyway. It wasn't the main entrance.

The driver opened the rear door on the right side. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he walked to the trunk and retrieved a sleek, carbon-fiber wheelchair.

Harper watched, her mouth slightly open, as the driver positioned the chair. The man in the turtleneck used his arms-powerful, corded with muscle-to lift himself from the seat and into the chair with practiced, fluid efficiency.

He settled into the seat and adjusted his cuffs. He didn't look back at her.

Harper stared at the wheelchair, her fear suddenly replaced by a confusing wave of curiosity and guilt.