Page 140 of The Rebel Billionaire

“Good,” Pen says. “It just means you need to stay strong, at least for a while longer. Can you do that?”

I rub my breastbone. “Yes,” I tell her. “But Pen, why?”

“Why did they kill him?” she asks. “I think the files may be the key… H, I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but this is a breakthrough,” Pen says, although I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince.

“You hear that, my darling? You’ll be able to come home,” Mum says, her voice catching.

“I do, Mum, and please don’t worry about me. I’m safe here. I have the team opposite and with fashion week coming up, St Clair is locked down like Fort Knox.”

“Harps,” Pen says again.

“Yes,” I say, releasing a shaky breath.

“If you have any issues or concerns, you pull the ripcord, you understand me?”

“I will, that I can promise you.”

“We’re here if you need to chat,” Elijah says. “Any time of day or night. We understand this is a lot to take in, and I’m sorry we had to tell you over the phone, but we didn’t want you finding out second-hand should there be a leak.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Not that I’m paying much attention to the news back home. I need to live in the here and now, and that’s New York.

When the call ends, I sit staring at the phone in my hand.

Does knowing the truth make it any better? He was still out that night because of me…

* * *

Dad!

I jerk awake, a sharp pain lancing through my neck. The skin on my face feels stretched and my eyes are gritty from crying myself to sleep on the sofa.

My face crumples as I choke down another sob.

Shit, haven’t I shed enough tears?

Fresh tears begin to fall, and I wipe them away with the sleeve of my PJs.

Clearly not.

I fall back, goosebumps forming as my sweat-soaked skin dries in the early morning air.

I cover my eyes with my forearm, and my mind returns to my nightmare. Of sitting locked in a bathroom, waiting for Dad, waiting and waiting, but he never comes.

It wasn’t a tragic accident. He wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time, run off the road by a drunk driver, as was reported.

He was murdered.

My chest constricts, and my throat closes. It’s like that night all over again, only this time, Dad isn’t oblivious to what’s happening. He knows they’re there to kill him. He’s scared, hurting and alone.

I drop my head between my knees, closing my eyes and counting my inhales and exhales the way my psychologist taught me. Severe panic attacks were frequent in the early days.

It’s not your fault, Harper.

That’s what she kept saying, what they all kept saying.

But I know the truth.

I swallow against the pain clogging my throat.