Christ.
As if summoned by the thought, another notification appears.
This time from Babushka herself.
A calendar invite.
DINNER — SUNDAY 6PM. Do not embarrass me.
Perfect.
Rachel glances up. “Work emergency?”
“Family,” I mutter.
“Mm. So—emergency.”
I pocket the phone just as?—
A knock.
Rachel straightens. “Finally. Come in.”
The door opens and Harper steps inside, giving me that punched-in-the-solar-plexus sensation again.
Carrying a laptop and notebook, she’s wearing a pale cream blouse, dark pencil skirt and minimal makeup that does absolutely nothing to dim how startlingly expressive her face is.
Her toffee-colored hair is pulled back—just enough to expose the line of her neck, the stray chestnut curls escaping near her jaw.
She looks like she slept four hours and powered through on sheer will, sarcasm, and caffeine.
She also looks like she doesn’t want to be here.
“Morning,” she says, golden eyes focused ahead.
"Harper, great to have you. Please take a seat.” Rachel gestures to the chair beside me.
Harper hesitates for half a second, then sits down, maintaining a careful distance between us.
The air shifts immediately, even as her perfume—a warm floral scent—reaches around my throat and squeezes.
Rachel clears her throat. "Okay. Let's get started. Harper, you've read the document?"
"Yes."
"Questions?"
"Several."
"Good. That means you were paying attention." Rachel pulls up a presentation on the screen behind her. "Here's the situation: You two are legally married. The internet knows. TMZ knows. Your families know. And Richard Francis is apparently out of his Vegas jail cell and raging.”
I sit up straighter. "What?"
"Patricia Franklin called me at seven AM. Someone leaked the story to her." Rachel's voice is sharp. “Apparently, Richard claims you should have been better company in Vegas. He’s apparently pissed about it.’”
"Christ."
"My thoughts exactly."
