I reach out and brush Mason’s hair back from his forehead, grounding myself in something real.
This is why I said yes, I remind myself. Not Aiden. Not the past. This.
Still, my mind betrays me.
I think about the way Aiden looked at Mason in the bar—shock, then something like grief. The shock I get, but why grief? It’s been six years since I saw him last. Maybe he has a kid, and the mom won’t let him see them. Maybe he discovered his sterile, like his apartment.
Carlie was absolutely right about that part.
Whatever it is, it struck him deeply. There’s no denying that. Six years ago, I let myself believe one night could mean something. I let myself imagine a version of my life where I was chosen instead of second-guessed. That morning broke something in me I didn’t even know how to name yet.
I married David not because I loved him the most—but because he stayed. Because he didn’t hesitate. Because certainty felt like love when I was tired of uncertainty. He chose me, so I said yes.
That didn’t end well.
I shift onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, pulse ticking too fast. Being here feels like stepping back into a version of myself I worked hard to outgrow. The girl who wanted Aiden. The woman who took his rejection and turned it inward.
I am not that girl anymore. I’m a mother. A business owner. Someone who built stability from nothing.
This is temporary. I’ll make other plans in the light of day.
I turn onto my side once more, facing the door, listening to the quiet. Nothing has changed. Not when it comes to being drawn to that man. And that terrifies me.
I give up on sleep sometime after two. The floor is cool under my feet. I pause at the door, listening. The penthouse is silent in that way expensive places often are—no creaks, no voices, just a low, distant hum of the city filtered through glass. I tell myself I’m just getting water. That I’ll be quick. That I won’t run into him.
I should know better.
The kitchen lights are dimmed low when I step out, a soft glow washing over stone countertops and clean lines. I move quietly, grab a glass, fill it at the sink, then just stand there for a second with my hands wrapped around it.
Breathe, Harper. Get a grip.
This was a mistake. We have to get out of here tomorrow.
Or I will make a much bigger mistake.
AIDEN
Having Harper Lane in my space is exquisite torture.
I built this penthouse to be quiet. Not peaceful—quiet. Controlled. Predictable. A place where nothing surprises me and no one expects more than I can give. I chose concrete and glass and clean lines because they don’t burn easily. And because they’re cold.
Every room is intentional. No clutter. No softness. No evidence of a life lived emotionally instead of functionally. Sharp reminders of who I am.
It’s always worked. Until tonight.
I lie on my back in my bed, hands folded over my stomach, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers if I look hard enough. The city’s reflection crawls slowly across the concrete above me—headlights, neon, traffic signals bleeding together into dull streaks of light. The hours while away without much notice.
My body is wrecked. Adrenaline crash. Smoke still lingering in my lungs. Muscles tight from command and control. I should be out cold.
Instead, I’m wide awake.
Down the hall. In my guest room. Breathing my air. Walking across my floors. Existing inside the boundaries I built to keep the world out.
Harper is here. How could I possibly sleep?
My home is too well insulated to hear her, but my mind wanders to what she might be up to. Pacing the guest room floorboards. The faint rustle of sheets. A drawer sliding open, then closed again. A pause. A sigh—long and tired and unmistakably hers.
I don’t remember deciding to fantasize about her. My body just does. Like some part of me never stopped tracking her presence, never stopped knowing exactly where she is in a room.
