Archer bristled, puffing out his chest. "I don't need parenting advice from a stranger."

Just then, the glass doors of the bridal salon burst open. The manager, a woman who usually moved with glacial dignity, was running. She was pale.

She practically skidded to a halt in front of the group. She ignored Harper. She ignored Archer. She bowed her head deeply toward the stranger.

"Mr. Van Der Bilt," she gasped. "I had no idea you were in the building. We would have cleared the elevators."

The name landed like a grenade.

Van Der Bilt.

Julian Van Der Bilt.

Harper froze. Everyone in New York knew the name. Old money. The kind of money that built the city. The kind of money that owned the bank Archer was begging for a loan.

Archer's arrogance vanished instantly. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating in sheer terror. He looked from the manager to the tall man, his face draining of color.

"Mr... Mr. Van Der Bilt?" Archer stammered, his voice cracking. "I... I apologize. I didn't expect... I mean, it's an honor. I'm Archer Sterling. Sterling Ventures. We have a proposal on your desk..."

He extended his hand, desperate, fawning.

Julian didn't look at the hand. He looked at Archer's face with bored contempt.

"I know who you are," Julian said softly. "You're the man who leaves a lady injured and unattended in a public hallway."

Archer pulled his hand back as if burned. He laughed nervously. "Ah, well, business calls. You know how it is. The grind."

"I know business," Julian said. His eyes flicked to the lipstick mark on Archer's collar. "And I know that isn't it."

Archer's hand flew to his neck, instinctively covering the stain. His eyes darted around in panic.

Julian turned to the manager. "Ms. Quinn has injured her ankle. Bring her a pair of flats. New ones. Put it on my account."

"Yes, sir. Immediately." The manager vanished.

Julian turned back to Harper. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a card. It wasn't flashy. It was a thick, ivory cardstock with a subtle texture, the kind that whispered of centuries of wealth. There was no logo, no company name. Just "Julian Van Der Bilt" and a number embossed in charcoal ink.

"If you need anything," he said, handing it to her. "Anything at all."

Harper took the card. Her fingers brushed his. His skin was warm.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Why would she need anything?" Archer interjected, his voice shrill with jealousy and fear. "I take care of her."

Julian looked at Archer one last time. It was the look a lion gives a particularly annoying fly.

"Do you?" Julian asked.

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked toward the elevators, his entourage falling into step behind him. The doors closed, cutting off the sight of his broad shoulders.

Archer stared at the closed doors. He was trembling.

He whipped around to Harper, his fear turning instantly into aggression. "How do you know him?" he hissed. "Did you plan this? Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the biggest investor in the city?"

Harper looked down at the ivory card in her hand. The letters caught the light.

Julian Van Der Bilt.

"I don't know him," Harper said, clutching the card tight enough to bend the corner. "But he treated me with more respect in five minutes than you have in five years."

"Respect?" Archer laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. "He's a shark, Harper. He eats people like us. Don't get ideas. You're out of your league."

Harper looked at her fiancé. "Maybe," she said. "Or maybe I'm just in the wrong league."

The ride home was suffocating. Archer's Porsche Cayenne was parked at the curb. The valet held the door open.

As soon as the door cracked, the scent hit her.

Black Opium. Heavy, sweet, cloying.

Harper paused. She had smelled this before. Dozens of times. On Archer's jacket, in the car, even on her own throw pillows. Archer always said it was the detailing spray, or the new air freshener, or a client's perfume. Harper had believed him. She had forced herself to believe him. But now, with the veil lifted, the scent didn't smell like vanilla or cleaner. It smelled like Mia.

Harper stopped on the sidewalk. Rain soaked her hair, plastering it to her skull. She was wearing the flats the manager had brought out, her wedding dress bundled awkwardly under her black coat.

"Get in," Archer snapped from the driver's seat. "You're getting wet."

"It smells like her," Harper said. She didn't mean to say it out loud.

"What?" Archer looked panicked. "It smells like... the car wash. New air freshener. Vanilla."

"It smells like a brothel," Harper said.

Archer slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "Get. In. The. Car."

Harper shook her head. "No. I'm taking a cab."

She slammed the door before he could argue. She turned and hailed a yellow taxi, diving into the backseat.

When she got back to the penthouse, she stripped off the wedding dress and threw it in the corner of the guest room. She didn't hang it up. She hoped it wrinkled. She hoped it rotted.

She sat on the sofa in the dark, holding Julian's card. She traced the lettering with her thumb.

An hour later, the front door opened.

Archer walked in. He was holding a massive bouquet of flowers. Red roses. Dozens of them.

He put on his "apology face." The puppy dog eyes. The slump of the shoulders.

"Babe," he said softly. "I'm sorry about today. I was stressed. The meeting... it was intense. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

He thrust the flowers at her.

Harper stared at them.

"I'm allergic to roses," she said flatly. "The pollen makes my throat close up. We've been together seven years, Archer."

Archer froze. He looked at the flowers, then at her. "Right. Right. I... I forgot. I just saw red and thought of love."

"You saw red and thought of damage control," Harper said.

Archer dropped the act. He tossed the flowers onto the coffee table. Water from the stems spilled onto the expensive art book.

"Look, Harper. Julian Van Der Bilt gave you his card. That's... that's an opportunity. If we can get an in with him, if you can just talk to him, smooth things over..."

"You want me to use the man who humiliated you to help you?"

"It's business, Harper! You don't understand these things. It's about leverage." He sat next to her, reaching for her hand. "Do this for me? For us? Imagine the life we'll have if Van Der Bilt backs the IPO."

He was using her. Again. He didn't care that another man had held her. He only cared about the man's wallet.

Harper pulled her hand away. "I'm going to bed."

"Harper!"

She walked away, leaving him with the roses that made her sick.

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.