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.

With a twist of the ignition key, the rusted Ford Mustang roared to life, its engine block shaking the entire chassis.

Harper grabbed the overhead safety handle as the tires squealed against the hot pavement. The car shot out of the gates and onto the sun-baked Nevada interstate.

Chloe immediately cranked the stereo dial to the maximum. Heavy indie rock blasted through the blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards beneath Harper's feet.

Her ears ringing from the sheer volume, Harper reached over and turned the dial down just enough to stop her eardrums from bleeding.

"I like your jacket," Harper yelled over the music, pointing to Chloe's distressed leather moto jacket.

Chloe glanced sideways, the rigid tension in her jaw relaxing slightly.

"I'm taking you to a real diner," Chloe shouted back. "No tourists. Just locals."

"Perfect," Harper said, her eyes scanning the barren desert landscape, tracking the street signs to ensure they were heading toward the coordinates her investigator had sent.

The Mustang swerved sharply, kicking up a massive cloud of yellow dust as they pulled into a desolate, gravel parking lot. A flickering, broken neon sign buzzed loudly above a squat, retro diner.

Pushing her door open, Harper’s heels crunched loudly against the loose gravel. The midday heat hit her instantly, causing a thin layer of sweat to break out across her collarbones.

Suddenly, a low, synchronized hum vibrated through the ground.

Harper turned her head toward the highway. Three massive, heavily modified matte-black Cadillac Escalades rolled into the lot, moving in a tight, aggressive tactical formation. They parked in a way that completely blocked the exit, their blacked-out, bulletproof windows radiating pure menace.

The doors of all three SUVs opened simultaneously. Over a dozen massive men in dark suits poured out, their eyes scanning the perimeter.

Chloe's face drained of color. She grabbed Harper's arm, her nails digging in. "Don't look at them," she hissed, her voice trembling. "That's the local syndicate. Absolute psychos. Bad news."

Harper frowned, rubbing her arm where Chloe had pinched her.

The rear door of the lead Escalade was pulled open by a guard. A towering, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the blinding sun.

He had his back to Harper.

He slowly raised his left hand to adjust the cuff of his custom black dress shirt. The harsh sunlight caught the metal on his wrist.

It was a highly distinct, custom silver watch.

Harper's lungs seized, the air vanishing from her chest. It was the exact same watch from the grainy photograph in her father's file.

The man, flanked by his guards, began walking toward the diner entrance with heavy, measured steps.

Chloe yanked Harper's arm again, trying to drag her toward the door before the men got there. Harper stumbled, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the man's broad back.

Just before he disappeared inside, Harper quickly memorized the Nevada license plate of the lead SUV.

Her heart hammered violently against her ribs as she pushed open the heavy glass door of the diner, stepping directly into the lion's den.

The tarnished brass bell above the diner door clanged, and a wall of freezing air conditioning hit Harper’s face, raising goosebumps on her arms. The air inside smelled aggressively of stale bacon grease and burnt coffee.

Chloe marched quickly down the narrow aisle, keeping her head down, and slid into a cracked, cherry-red vinyl booth by the front window.

Harper slid in opposite her, deliberately positioning herself for a clear, unobstructed view of the entrance and the main walkway.

An exhausted waitress tossed two sticky, laminated menus onto the table and walked away without a word.

Suddenly, the phone inside Harper's bag began to vibrate with a high-pitched, frantic buzz.

She pulled it out. The screen flashed the name of her ultimate rival in the New York social scene: Sloane Vaughn.

Harper clenched her jaw, suppressing a strong urge to throw the phone against the wall.

"Who is it?" Chloe asked, talking around a plastic straw.

"The biggest parasite in Manhattan," Harper muttered.

She pressed the green button, bringing the phone to her ear.

"Harper!" Sloane's shrill, artificially sweet voice pierced her eardrum. Harper pulled the phone an inch away from her head.

"I'm at the polo club in the Hamptons," Sloane bragged loudly. "It's absolutely gorgeous today."

Harper picked up her glass of ice water, gripping it tightly. "Fascinating, Sloane."

"You'll never guess who just bought me a glass of champagne," Sloane purred. "Barrett Petty."

A sharp, physical ache splintered behind Harper's ribs. Her fingers tightened around the glass until her knuckles ached, her throat closing up with sudden, violent jealousy.

She forced herself to take a breath, letting out a light, breathy laugh that sounded perfectly careless. "Barrett always did have a soft spot for charity cases," she mocked.

The line went dead silent for a second. When Sloane spoke again, the fake sweetness was gone, replaced by venom. "Where are you, Harper? Everyone says you got dumped by Sterling and ran away to hide."

Harper realized her mother's social circle was already leaking poison.

She leaned back against the sticky vinyl seat, her mind racing. Her eyes darted over the top of her menu, scanning the back of the diner. The men in black suits had completely taken over the rear section, forming a human wall around the dark corner booth. The towering man was sitting in the deepest shadow, his face still hidden from view.

Harper forced her attention back to the phone. She needed to shut Sloane up, permanently.

She dropped her voice into a low, conspiratorial whisper.