Chapter 3: The Smoked Glass

The waiter led them through a door Harper hadn't noticed, then a narrow back hall, then straight through the roar of the kitchen. Steam rose from the pots, flames leapt, and knives flashed. Valentina strutted through like she owned that too, and as she passed the line, she called out to a broad-shouldered chef with forearms covered in tattoos. "Looking good, Marco!"

He grinned and tipped his chin.

"Of course you know the chef," Harper muttered.

"Of course I do."

They ended up in a small, dim room with a low sofa, a bar cart, and a long panel of smoked glass on one wall. Through the glass, she could make out a private dining room, dark wood and candles, a long table set for ten.

"Val." Harper's voice came out smaller than she wanted. "What are we doing here?"

"Patience, babe."

"Val."

"A friend of mine owns this place. He texted me. He says Myles is coming here tonight. Soon."

Harper's stomach dropped. It didn't flip. It dropped, like missing the water entirely and hitting the concrete.

"He said it was a client dinner," she whispered.

"I know." Valentina's hand found hers and squeezed. "That's why you need to see it. I'm not telling you what to do. I just think you deserve the truth."

Harper wanted to leave. Every instinct told her to turn around, drive home, put the halibut back on the stove, and keep pretending. But her feet stayed planted. Three years. Three years of excuses, of not now, of I'm so stressed. She needed to know.

So she sat, and she waited.

The door to the private room opened.

Three women walked in first, glossy, glittering, dressed in the kind of dresses that cost a fortune and left nothing to the imagination. High-class escorts, if Harper had to guess, and she did. Each one hung on the arm of a man she recognized. Myles's friends. The same men who'd toasted at her engagement party. Two more men followed, Derek and Owen, each with a woman on his arm.

Harper's heart pounded so loud she could hear it.

Then Myles walked in.

Her Myles. The man who'd cried in the pool. The man who'd begged her to quit because he couldn't live without her.

He was tipsy, his tie loose, his smile lazy and reckless, a smile she hadn't seen in months. And tucked under his arm, tight and possessive, was a blonde in a glittering sequined dress.

A dress that barely covered anything.

And draped over her shoulders was a charcoal blazer. His charcoal blazer. The one Harper had picked out and paid for herself, standing in a department store, imagining how handsome he'd look in it.

The blonde laughed, tipped her head back, and Myles kissed her neck.

Harper didn't breathe. She didn't blink. Behind the smoked glass, a quiet, cold clarity washed over her, like diving into water so freezing it burns.

The cage door hadn't just opened.

It had been unlocked for a long time. And the man who built it was standing in the room, laughing.