She's shivering now—from cold or fear or both.
"I was desperate! My father's medical bills were?—"
"So this was about money."
"No! I mean—yes, she offered money, but I didn't take it. I chose you over the money. I chose us."
The fountain behind her keeps running, water cascading down, impossibly beautiful against the ugliness of this conversation.
"You chose us." I step closer. "When, Harper? When did you choose us? Because from these emails, it looks like you were still considering her offer until Thanksgiving."
"I told her no before Thanksgiving. On the catamaran. The night you asked me to be your girlfriend?—"
"You're telling me that the night I asked you to be mine, you were still getting offers from FoodFirst to spy on me?"
"Yes, but I said no! I blocked her number. I deleted the emails. I chose you!"
"You chose me after how long? After how much deliberation?"
The question hangs between us, suspended in the cold air.
Harper's face crumples. "Victor, please. Let me explain. Let me tell you everything?—"
"Everything? Now you want to tell me everything? After Patricia Franklin had to show me screenshots because you couldn't bring yourself to be honest with me?"
"I was going to tell you?—"
"WHEN?"
My voice echoes off the glass ceiling, loud enough to make her flinch.
I lower my voice, but the damage is done.
"When were you going to tell me, Harper? Before or after you destroyed my company, my career? Everything I bust my ass to build?
"I would never?—"
"Wouldn't you? Because right now, the board thinks you're a threat. And these emails? They prove them right."
Harper is crying openly now, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the mist from the fountain.
And part of me—the part that still loves her, that still wants to believe this is all a misunderstanding—wants to pull her into my arms and tell her it's okay.
But the other part—the part that remembers Isabelle, that remembers betrayal, that knows better than to trust anyone—won't let me.
"You're just like her," I say quietly.
Harper looks up, mascara running. "What?"
"Isabelle. You're just like Isabelle. You saw an opportunity and you took it. The only difference is you're better at the performance. Better at making me believe it's real."
The words are designed to wound, and they do.
Harper's hand comes up, and for a second I think she's going to hit me.
Instead, she drops it.
"I love you," she whispers, voice barely audible over the rain. "I love you, and I made a mistake, but I chose you. Doesn't that count for anything?"
