"Listen to me very carefully, Sloane," Harper whispered, her tone laced with deadly seriousness.

Sloane gasped sharply on the other end, her gossip radar fully activated.

"Sterling didn't dump me. He's not even in Hawaii," Harper lied smoothly, not blinking. "He suffered a massive overdose."

"Oh my god," Sloane breathed.

"He's in a lockdown rehab facility," Harper continued, her voice tight. "The Bright family is spending millions to bury this so the stock prices don't tank."

"What is he on?" Sloane demanded, her voice vibrating with greedy excitement.

"I'm not discussing details," Harper said flatly. "If this leaks, my father will know it was you."

She knew Sloane. The threat wouldn't stop her; it would only make the secret more valuable.

Sloane promised absolute silence and quickly hung up.

Harper stared at the black screen, a cold smile touching her lips. That rumor would consume Manhattan by dinner time.

Tossing the phone onto the table, she picked up her water glass. As she lifted it, her eyes caught a reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser.

The curved metal distorted the image, but it was clear enough.

A man in a black suit was standing in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. One of the guards from the parking lot.

He was standing perfectly still, his body angled toward Harper's booth, staring directly at the back of her head.

Harper's blood turned to ice. The cold glass slipped slightly in her sweaty grip.

He was close enough. He definitely heard her talking about the Bright family and the stock prices.

In the reflection, the guard turned his back and walked away.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Harper's neck, her pulse pounding violently in her ears.

Chloe waved a hand in front of Harper's face. "Hello? You look like you're going to throw up."

Harper forced a rigid smile. "The AC is just blowing right on my neck."

She grabbed her menu and held it up high, using it as a shield, peeking over the laminated edge to track the guard.

He walked straight to the dark booth in the back, leaning down to whisper directly into the ear of the towering man.

The boss didn't move a single muscle. He didn't look up. He just continued to stare at his black coffee.

The waitress suddenly appeared, slamming two massive, greasy cheeseburgers onto the table. The smell of charred meat hit Harper's nose, making her stomach churn violently.

Chloe grabbed her burger and took a massive bite, completely oblivious to the lethal tension in the room.

Harper stabbed her fork into a french fry. She couldn't hide now. She had to know if the man in the back was the cleaner.

The massive man in the back booth shifted, turning his head slightly to listen to another guard.

Outside, a massive chrome delivery truck rumbled past the diner's front window. The harsh desert sun bounced violently off the truck's polished side panel, slicing a blinding beam of light through the dim, smoky air of the diner.

It struck the man in the back booth, illuminating the left side of his face.

Harper's breath stopped dead in her throat.

A thick, jagged, faded scar stretched from the base of his neck, disappearing up under his jawline.

Her heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs with terrifying force. Her fingers went numb.

The stainless steel fork slipped from her grasp, hitting the ceramic plate with a loud, sharp clatter.

Chloe jumped, nearly dropping her burger. "Jesus, what is your problem?"

Harper couldn't hear her.

Her hands dove into her Birkin, tearing through the contents until she pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling so badly she mistyped her passcode twice.

She opened the hidden folder, pulling up the grainy photo she had stolen from her father's safe.

She zoomed in on the man's neck until the pixels blurred. She looked up at the man in the booth, then down at the screen. The image on her phone was blurry, but the combination was undeniable: the same custom watch, the same brutal jawline, and now, a jagged scar exactly where a deep shadow had fallen in the photograph. It had to be him.

A violent mixture of pure terror and electric adrenaline exploded in her bloodstream.

This was him. The cleaner. The man who knew where the bastard son was.

Harper wiped her slick, sweating palms against the expensive silk of her dress.

She pushed herself up from the booth, her knees shaking so badly they nearly knocked her water glass over.

"I need to use the restroom," Harper said, her voice cracking and hoarse.

Chloe didn't even look up from her phone screen.

Harper stepped out of the booth, standing in the center of the narrow aisle. She sucked in a lungful of greasy air, forcing her spine to straighten.

Her heels clicked loudly against the black-and-white checkered linoleum.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound echoed over the low hum of the diner.

As she closed the distance, the outer ring of guards instantly sensed the shift in the room. Their broad shoulders tensed. Three of them casually, smoothly slipped their right hands inside their suit jackets.

Harper ignored the lethal threat.

She stopped exactly three feet away from the edge of his table, staring down at the top of his dark head.

He was still looking down at his coffee.

Slowly, deliberately, the man lifted his chin.

The man finally raised his eyes to meet hers—pitch black, bottomless, and entirely devoid of human warmth.

Harper felt all the oxygen leave her lungs, as if a predator had just locked its jaws around her throat. Her stomach plummeted.

Forcing her trembling legs forward, she took a half-step.

Instantly, a heavy-set guard stepped into her path, a solid wall of muscle completely blocking her view of the boss.

"Back off, lady," the massive guard growled, his voice a low, vibrating threat that rattled in her chest.

Harper refused to look at him, her eyes pinned on the man sitting behind him. "We need to talk," she said, her voice tight but loud enough to carry.

The boss didn't blink. Not a single muscle in his face moved. He slowly lifted his cheap ceramic mug and took a sip of black coffee.

He was treating her like she didn't exist.

The absolute, chilling dismissal burned Harper's skin like acid. A hot flush of humiliation and rage shot up her neck.

She shoved her hand against the guard's solid chest in a futile attempt to push past him.

The guard's eyes darkened. He whipped his hand out, clamping his thick fingers around Harper's slender wrist.

He squeezed.

A sharp, blinding pain shot up Harper's arm. She gasped, her bones grinding together under his crushing grip.

Just as she thought her wrist would snap, the boss lazily raised his left index finger.

The guard instantly released her, stepping back as if burned.

Harper cradled her throbbing wrist against her chest, her skin already turning red. She glared at the man in the booth.

"I am Harper Bright," she spat, throwing her family name like a weapon.

The man's face remained carved from stone.

He slowly raised his left arm, staring at his custom silver watch for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he tilted his head slightly toward his men.

It was a silent command.

The guards moved in unison, the heavy fabric of their suits rustling ominously.

Harper planted her feet, refusing to move.

The boss stood up. He was massive, easily six-foot-four, his broad shoulders blocking out the diner lights. Harper was instantly swallowed by his shadow. She smelled the dark, heavy scent of expensive tobacco mixed with a cold, sterile scent like ozone after a lightning strike, utterly devoid of warmth.

He didn't look at her. He turned his body sideways and stepped smoothly past, his arm brushing the air inches from her face.

Panic seized Harper's chest. If he walked out that door, she lost her only lead. She spun around and lunged, but a wall of heavy-set guards instantly closed the gap, their broad shoulders an impenetrable barrier. She couldn't reach him. She planted her feet, hissing through her teeth, her voice cutting through the diner.

"I know about your meeting with Howard Bright in Manhattan!"