Eden sighed, a soft, tragic sound, and reached out as if to brush a stray hair from Harper's shoulder.

Harper recoiled violently. Her body reacted before her brain could process the movement, jerking sideways. Eden's hand was left hovering in the air.

Eden pulled her hand back, clutching it to her chest. She looked up at Bradford, her lower lip trembling. "I just feel so bad for her, Brad. Losing the trust fund must be devastating. I only wanted to comfort her."

Bradford frowned, his brows knitting together in that familiar expression of disappointment. "Don't be difficult, Harper. Eden is trying to help you."

Harper stared at him. For three years, she had thought his face was the most handsome thing she had ever seen. Now, looking at the weak set of his chin and the vacuous look in his eyes, he looked blurry. Distorted. Ugly.

Victoria checked her Patek Philippe watch. "Brad, the signing ceremony is in twenty minutes. Stop wasting time on liabilities."

Bradford nodded. He turned his back on Harper, dismissing her as easily as closing a browser tab.

Something inside Harper snapped. It wasn't a thought; it was a physical rupture in her chest. The grief evaporated, replaced by a white-hot, blinding rage.

She lunged forward. She grabbed the lapel of Bradford's expensive custom suit.

"You-" Bradford started, turning back in shock. "Are you cra-"

Harper didn't let him finish. She swung her arm, putting every ounce of her betrayal, her humiliation, and her wasted three years into the motion.

Crack.

The sound was like a gunshot in the open plaza.

Bradford's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly on his pale cheek.

"Security!" Victoria shrieked, clutching her pearls. "She assaulted my son!"

Eden covered her mouth with both hands, but Harper saw it-the glint of pure, malicious delight in her eyes.

Harper shook her hand. It stung, vibrating with pain, but it felt good. It felt real. "Consider that the severance package," she said, her voice shaking but loud. "Keep the change."

She turned and ran.

She didn't look back. She couldn't. If she looked back, she would collapse. The tears came now, hot and blinding, blurring the world into streaks of gray and yellow. She stumbled down the stone steps, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slippery with sweat and tears. She opened the ride-share app. She didn't check the destination. She didn't check the price. She just hit Confirm.

A black SUV glided to the curb right in front of her. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like onyx.

Harper assumed it was her ride. She didn't check the license plate. She yanked the back door open and threw herself inside.

The air in the car was different. It didn't smell like stale air freshener and old gum. It smelled of cedarwood, expensive leather, and sharp antiseptic.

She slammed the door shut, sealing herself in. The silence was instant and heavy.

Harper collapsed against the seat, burying her face in her hands. "Just drive," she sobbed, her voice muffled by her palms. "Please, just drive. Get me out of here."

In the driver's seat, a man in a suit looked into the rearview mirror, his eyes widening in alarm. He opened his mouth to speak.

From the shadows of the backseat, on the other side of the partition, a hand rose.

It was a pale, long-fingered hand. It made a sharp, cutting motion. Silence.

The driver closed his mouth. He nodded once, put the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb.

Harper didn't notice. She was drowning in her own misery, curled into a ball on the seat.

She didn't notice the man sitting less than two feet away from her. He was tucked into the deep corner of the cabin, blending into the shadows. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched her, his eyes dark and unreadable, observing the woman who had just hijacked his car with the detached curiosity of a scientist watching a specimen under a microscope.

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.

The bass of the house music thumped against Harper's ribcage. She slammed the shot glass onto the marble bar. The burn of the tequila was the only thing that felt real.

"Easy, tiger!" Chloe grabbed Harper's wrist before she could signal the bartender again. "That shot was fifty dollars. Fifty. Dollars."

Harper slumped onto the bar, resting her chin on her folded arms. Her eyes were glassy. "Bradford said I was a negative asset, Chlo. A negative asset."

Chloe sighed, wrapping an arm around Harper's shoulders. "You have me. And you have your... you know. Your skills."

Harper waved a finger in the air. "Shh. Zero is offline. Tonight, it's just pathetic Harper."

She spun around on the barstool, leaning her back against the counter to survey the room. The Velvet Room was dark, sexy, and filled with people who looked like they were allergic to carbohydrates.

Her gaze drifted upward to the second floor. A glass-walled balcony overlooked the dance floor. The VIP area.

The lighting up there was dim, but she recognized the silhouette immediately. The wheelchair.

He was sitting alone in the corner of the box. There were people around-men in suits, women in dresses that defied physics-but he was isolated. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, staring out at the writhing crowd below with that same detached, cold expression he'd had in the car.

"Chloe," Harper slurred, pointing a finger upward. "Look at him."

Chloe squinted. "Whoa. That's the Owner's Box. You don't get in there unless you own a country."

"He looks..." Harper tilted her head. "Lonely."

"He looks rich," Chloe corrected.

"No," Harper insisted. The alcohol was making her sentimental. It was making her project her own broken heart onto the stranger. "He's like me. Discarded. Just watching everyone else live."

An idea formed in her tequila-soaked brain. It was a terrible idea.

She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. She opened Venmo, then realized she didn't know his name. She shoved the phone back and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

"I'm going to buy him a drink," Harper announced. "Solidarity. Us broken toys need to stick together."

"Harper, no!" Chloe grabbed for her, but Harper was already moving.

She stumbled toward the stairs guarded by a man the size of a vending machine.

"Private area, Miss," the bouncer grunted, stepping in her path.

Harper blinked, her hacker brain suddenly firing through the fog of alcohol. She subtly tapped her phone against the edge of the bar's POS terminal, then looked at the bouncer's earpiece. "Your comms frequency is jamming," she said confidently, pointing to a spot behind him. "The captain on the left is trying to reach you. Sounds urgent."

The bouncer frowned, instinctively touching his ear as a burst of static hissed through it. He turned his head to check his colleague.

In that split second, Harper slipped past him like a ghost.

She wobbled up the stairs and pushed open the heavy glass door to the VIP box.

The sound of the music instantly dampened to a dull thrum. The air inside was cool. Every head in the room turned to look at her.

Jefferson looked up. He saw the girl from the car-disheveled, holding a twenty-dollar bill like a weapon. His brow furrowed.

Harper marched right up to him. She stood over his wheelchair, swaying slightly.

She slapped the wrinkled twenty dollars onto the small table beside his drink.

"Hey, handsome," she said, her words running together. "Don't be sad. Legs can be fixed. Hearts... hearts are harder."

A collective gasp went through the room. Two men in suits started to reach inside their jackets.

Jefferson raised a hand, stopping them. He looked at the bill, then up at Harper. His eyes glittered with something dangerous.

"Is this..." he said slowly, "a tip?"