Too Late Mr. Sterling: You Lost Me

Harper stood in the shower for forty minutes. She scrubbed her skin until it was red. She wanted to wash off the feeling of the fitting room, the smell of the Uber, the memory of the photos.

But mostly, she wanted to wash off the ghost of Archer's touch.

She dried off and put on her most unappealing pajamas-flannel, buttoned to the neck. She wrapped a robe tightly around herself.

When she walked into the bedroom, Archer was already in bed. He was lying on his back, scrolling on his phone. He was wearing only his boxer briefs.

He looked up as she entered. His eyes raked over her flannel pajamas with distaste.

"You're wearing that?" he asked. "I thought... maybe we could make up properly."

He patted the mattress beside him.

Harper walked to the other side of the bed and climbed in, staying as close to the edge as possible. "I'm tired, Archer."

"You're always tired lately," he grumbled. He tossed his phone onto the nightstand and rolled toward her.

He draped an arm over her waist. His hand was heavy. His fingers started to walk up her ribcage.

"Come on," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck. It smelled of toothpaste and stale scotch. "Let me make you feel better."

His hand moved lower, toward her hip.

Harper flinched. A violent, involuntary spasm. Her body was rejecting him. It wasn't just mental anymore; it was physiological.

"Don't," she said, grabbing his wrist.

"Don't what?" His voice hardened. "Touch my fiancée?"

"I said no."

"Why? Because of him? Because of Van Der Bilt?" Archer's insecurity flared instantly into anger. "Did you like him touching you? Is that it?"

"You're disgusting," Harper spat. She sat up, pushing him away.

"I'm disgusting? I'm the one paying for this apartment! I'm the one paying for that dress you left crumpled on the floor!" He sat up, looming over her. "You owe me, Harper."

You owe me.

That was it. The transaction.

"I don't owe you my body," Harper said, her voice shaking.

Archer sneered. "Whatever. Go sleep in the guest room then. If you're going to act like a roommate, you can sleep like one."

Harper didn't wait. She grabbed her pillow and bolted.

She ran down the hall to the guest room. She locked the door. Then she dragged the heavy armchair and wedged it under the handle.

She slid down to the floor, her back against the door, and buried her face in her knees. She didn't cry. She was past crying. She was just cold.