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.

The guest room bathroom was cold. The heating vent was blocked. Harper splashed water on her face, trying to calm her racing heart.

She needed a towel.

She opened the vanity cabinet under the sink. It was cluttered with travel-sized shampoos and old cleaning supplies. She pushed aside a bottle of bleach.

Her hand brushed against something soft. Something silk.

She frowned. She reached in and pulled it out.

It was a pair of stockings. Black, sheer, with an intricate lace top.

Harper stared at them. They weren't hers. She bought her hosiery at department stores in bulk. These were Wolford. She recognized the pattern. They cost more than her weekly grocery budget.

They hadn't been hidden carefully. They were shoved into the corner of the cabinet, caught on the drain pipe, as if someone had stripped them off in a hurry and kicked them out of sight. A hasty, passionate removal.

She brought them closer to her face.

The scent hit her instantly. Black Opium.

And beneath the perfume... something muskier. Something undeniable.

Mia.

Mia had been here. In her home. In her guest bathroom.

Harper visualized it. Archer working late. Mia coming over "to drop off files." The two of them sneaking into the guest room so they wouldn't mess up the master bed-or maybe just for the thrill of it.

Harper felt her stomach heave. She dropped the stockings into the sink and retched. Nothing came up but acid.

She gripped the porcelain, her knuckles white. This was her sanctuary. This was the one place she thought was safe. And they had defiled it.

She looked at the stockings again. They looked like a snake coiled in the white sink.

Rage, pure and blinding, took over.

She yanked open the drawer. Nail clippers. Tweezers. Scissors.

She grabbed the scissors. They were small, sharp, surgical steel.

She picked up the stockings. She didn't just want to throw them away. She wanted to destroy them. She wanted to destroy her.

She started cutting.

Snip. The lace tore.

Snip. The silk shredded.

She hacked at the fabric, breathing hard, her teeth gritted. Every cut was for a lie. Every cut was for a missed dinner. Every cut was for "dead fish."

She was sobbing now, silent, heaving sobs that shook her whole body. The black fabric fell into the sink in ribbons, like dead leaves.