And I can't stop analyzing every word, every gesture, every smile.
Probably, because as much as I’ve been pushing, the woman I’m currently married to won’t let me in, let me help her.
Or return the affection I’ve already expressed.
It’s been eight days. Eight days since I told Harper I love her. And she hasn’t said it back, which begs the question…
Is she really this comfortable here?
Or is she performing?
Halfway through the main course, the conversation at our table turns to corporate loyalty and competition.
"The CulinaryVision situation is unfortunate," one board member says. "Losing that acquisition to FoodFirst's partnership—it's definitely a setback."
"We don't know for certain that the partnership is happening," another counters.
"Industry sources say it's a done deal. FoodFirst has been aggressive about stealing market share lately. I heard they even tried to plant someone inside a competitor to gather intel on acquisition plans."
Harper's fork clatters against her plate.
Every head turns to look at her.
"Sorry," she says quickly. "Butterfingers."
But her face has gone pale. And her hands are shaking.
"You alright?" I ask quietly.
"Fine. Just—excuse me. I need to use the powder room."
She stands, her napkin falling to the floor, and walks away with slightly too much speed to be casual.
I watch her go, and the doubt crystallizes into something sharper.
Plant someone inside a competitor. Gather intel on acquisition plans.
No.
No, that's insane. Harper wouldn't?—
But she's been stressed about money. She mentioned her father's medical bills. She was desperate enough to?—
Stop. You're being paranoid. She's probably just overwhelmed by the pressure of tonight.
I force myself to finish dinner, to make polite conversation, to ignore the way my mind is racing through every interaction Harper and I have had, looking for signs I missed.
By the time dessert is served, Harper still hasn't returned.
I excuse myself and head toward the powder rooms.
The hallway outside the ballroom is quiet, elegant, lined with expensive art and fresh flowers. I find the women's powder room and knock gently on the door.
"Occupied," Harper's voice calls out.
"It's me."
Silence.
