FOUR | Hadley

It starts with a doorman.

Because of course it does.

He's tall, built like a tree trunk, and wearing a navy uniform that probably costs more than my monthly rent. He gives me a once-over—blonde hair, oversized sunglasses, borrowed Louis Vuitton duffel—and then says, in the most bored voice I've ever heard, "Welcome back, Miss Bennett."

I manage a nod, terrified one wrong blink will shatter the illusion and this man will tackle me to the pavement like I'm an imposter trying to rob a penthouse. Which, if we're being technical, is exactly what's happening.

Still. I channel my inner Harper—head high, voice soft and smooth like champagne sliding down the side of a glass.

"Thanks, Tony," I say.

I don't actually know his name. I'm just hoping he looks like a Tony.

Luckily, he doesn't correct me. Just opens the door, escorts me through a marble-slick lobby that smells like new money and old secrets, and hands me off to a private elevator that whisks me to the top floor with a soft ding.

Guess Harper don't know his name either. Typical Harper behavior.

And then I'm in the penthouse.

Holy. Shit.

It's not a place. It's a movie set. Glossy floors. Ceilings higher than my student loan interest rate. A wall of windows that practically scream I'm richer than God. There's a sculpture in the corner that might be art or might be a sex toy-honestly, it could go either way.

I toe off my heels and tiptoe through Harper's kingdom, careful not to touch anything. There are framed Vogue covers on the wall, designer heels lined up like soldiers, a kitchen so clean it looks untouched by human hands. Which tracks, because Harper doesn't even know how to use a toaster.

I'm halfway through trying to figure out how the espresso machine works (read: sobbing internally while pressing buttons like a Neanderthal) when the front door swings open.

And in walks the devil in a tailored suit.

I know it's him.

I don't know know—it's not like Harper gave me a cheat sheet—but the moment I see him, I just know. It's the way the room shifts. The air changes. My instincts rear back like an animal sensing a predator. Every nerve in my body goes that's him.

Tall. Broad. Dark hair. Jaw like he chews granite for breakfast. Wearing a navy suit that probably cost the same as a semester at Columbia. He carries laptop under one arm and the kind of bone-deep disdain that can't be faked.

Matthew, I think.

Matthew the ex.

Matthew the HOT billionaire.

Matthew, the one person Harper explicitly told me not to talk to.

Which would be great advice—if he didn't look directly at me and say, "Nice of you to show up, Harper. I was starting to think you'd bail on this, too."

Okay. No pressure. Just breathe. Smile. Be Harper.

I lift my chin and give him a carefully practiced, perfectly curated, Harper Bennett smile. The kind that says I'm above this but also maybe dangerously unhinged.

"I live here, remember?" I say, light, breathy.

That was very Harper. She can be proud.

He doesn't smile back.

Instead, he stalks toward the kitchen island, drops his laptop with a thunk, and eyes me like I'm a suspicious package.

"We're meeting the fundraiser committee tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. Don't be late."

My brain short-circuits.

Fundraiser?

I thought this event was about a gala. Or a party. Or like, a fashion thing. A champagne-sipping, photo-op, influencer fluff-fest.

"You remember what you agreed to, right?" he adds, voice cool as iced coffee. "Or is selective amnesia the new branding strategy?"

I scramble. "Of course I remember."

He waits.

I panic.

Then I bluff.

"It's...for charity," I say carefully, buying time. "The children?"

He stares.

My smile twitches.

Jesus take the wheel.

He crosses his arms. The movement is slow, deliberate, and oddly terrifying. Like a panther about to pounce.

"The Jones Foundation Gala," he says slowly, like he's testing me. "For underprivileged STEM students. You agreed to co-chair it. After you bailed on the original press launch."

Right. Sure. That sounds like a thing Harper would do. Bail, apologize with expensive flowers, post a cryptic I*******m story about burnout, and reschedule for maximum PR redemption.

"Right," I say again. "The STEM kids. So important."

Lame Hardly move.

He just looks at me.

Not in that way people look at celebrities or models or even exes. He looks at me like I'm a code he's trying to crack. A corrupted file.

Something about that stare makes my skin itch.

"I'm surprised you remember," he says.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Stupid question.

"Because you barely looked me in the eye at our last meeting. And now, suddenly, you're all... perky."

I blink. "Perky?"

"Polished. Peppy." He tilts his head. "You're not usually a fan of early meetings, charity events, or children."

I laugh. It's awkward and high-pitched and very much not Harper-coded. It's the weird Hadley hiccup-nervous laugh.

He narrows his eyes.

Abort, abort, abort.

"Well, people change," I say lamely.

"You don't."

Okay, rude.

He circles the island, stopping just a few feet from me now. Too close. He smells good—expensive, masculine, like cedar and spreadsheets and probably heartbreak. His gaze flicks to my hair, then my mouth, then back up to my eyes.

He's staring again. Like I'm a stranger wearing a familiar face.

"What game are you playing now?" he asks quietly.

Harper's IPad with never-ending list of how to be her isn't helpful to find a response to that.

I swallow hard.

Because this?

This feels a hell of a lot like checkmate.