Page 242 of The Rebel Billionaire

I drop my head into my hands, starting to understand why my mother kept Brooke’s real identity from me. My protective instincts surge to the surface, yet would I have felt this way initially? Or would I have judged her?

I sit in Enzo’s home office in London and close my eyes.

I’ve done the worst thing possible. Run a search on Harper Frazer.

And there’s a lot.

The youngest daughter of Robert and Francesca Frazer. A potential accident, according to the press, considering the seven-year gap between her and her next-youngest siblings, Gabriel and Caleb. Gabriel runs a highly successful hedge fund, while his identical twin, Caleb, has redeveloped large portions of London. Then there is her eldest brother, Elijah, who is two years younger than me, and until recently, was Kris’s major competitor in Europe. Now he’s sold up and is making a name for himself as an artist, and a bloody good one, according to all the reviews. And then there’s Kat, the infamous Kathryn Frazer, ice queen and hotel mogul.

I think back to her saying she had to learn to stand up for herself with her siblings, to fight her corner. I can only imagine.

Quite the lineup in terms of direct family. Each sibling commands success and power in their own right.

But then I look at Harper.

A model student until she was seventeen.

That explains a lot.

Her CV never did tally with the woman’s abilities. Now I understand why.

My chest constricts as I read news articles about her father’s death.

Tributes paid to billionaire hotel CEO, Robert Frazer, after fatal late-night crash.

An article from seven years ago details how a drunk driver ran Robert Frazer off the road and killed him.

I inhale sharply.

More newspaper articles.

Intrusive pictures of her and her siblings at their father’s funeral. Telescopic lenses focusing on their grief. One of her twin brothers wraps Harper in his arms, as if he’s shielding her from the outside world.

More photos. Harper looks stoic, but there’s no mistaking the look of devastation in her eyes. It’s one I recognise. She had the same look the night they rushed her sister into hospital.

Next is a Harper I don’t recognise. Wild hair, wilder makeup, falling out of nightclubs in the early hours of the morning. The Rebel Frazer, the headlines call her.

Then comes her social media platform. An interview with a magazine discussing her three million-plus followers.

For a twenty-one-year-old, she had clout.

I find an old interview, and my chest expands as I listen to her championing the St Clair brand. She’s wearing one of my designs, released after I became CEO, long before she knew me. Her knowledge and insight for someone so young are outstanding; it’s like she was inside my head.

I skip articles about the sex tape scandal. Enzo briefed me when I landed. It’s not somewhere I want to go.

Finally, I find pictures of Harper on what looks like a university campus. Security is pushing her into a car. Her expression dead, as if her dreams had been snatched away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

It’s dated two weeks before we met.

Then nothing. The headlines change to “Searching for the Missing Frazer.”

Shit!

She was alone and vulnerable in a strange city, with an ongoing threat to her life… and only Sophia for support! It’s not like Mother is the maternal type, even towards us, her own children.

Self-doubt niggles deep in my chest.