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.

The scissors slipped.

In her frenzy, Harper's hand jerked. The blade sliced across the pad of her index finger.

"Ah!" She gasped, dropping the scissors.

Blood welled up instantly, bright red against the black silk and white porcelain. It dripped down, mingling with the shredded remains of Mia's expensive lingerie.

The pain was sharp, clarifying. It cut through the fog of her rage.

She stared at her blood. It was real. She was real.

She wasn't a ghost. She wasn't a dead fish. She was a woman who was bleeding.

She turned on the faucet, thrusting her finger under the cold water. The water swirled pink down the drain.

She looked at the mess in the sink. She couldn't leave it there. She grabbed a handful of toilet paper and scooped up the wet, bloody, shredded nylon. She shoved it deep into the bottom of the trash can, burying it under used tissues.

She wrapped her finger in tissue, holding it tight to stop the bleeding.

She walked back into the guest bedroom. The room was dark, lit only by the streetlights outside.

She saw Julian's card on the nightstand where she had left it.

If you need anything.

Harper looked at the door blocked by the armchair. She looked at the bloody tissue on her finger.

She picked up her phone. Her fingers were trembling, but her resolve was iron.

She dialed the number.

It rang once. Twice.

"This is Van Der Bilt."

His voice was deep, alert, despite the late hour. Professional, yet guarded.

Harper swallowed the lump in her throat. She leaned against the window, pressing her forehead to the cold glass, looking out at the city that felt like a prison.

"It's Harper Quinn," she said, her voice raspy.

There was a beat of silence. A shift in the atmosphere on the other end of the line. "Ms. Quinn."

"That offer for help..." Harper started, her courage wavering.

"Yes?" The word was immediate. Urgent.

"Does it include getting me out of here?"

There was a pause. A heavy silence on the line. Then, the sound of movement. Sheets rustling. Feet hitting the floor.

"Where are you?" Julian asked. "Tell me the address."

Harper gave him the address. It felt like giving him a key to her shame.

"Pack a bag," Julian commanded. His voice was a lifeline in the dark. "Don't wake him. Just pack. I'm in the city. I was finishing up some business nearby."

"Nearby?"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Meet me on the corner. Don't let him see you leave."

Harper's breath hitched. "Why?"

"Because," Julian said, his voice dropping to a whisper that shivered down her spine. "You deserve a clean exit."