Page 119 of The Truth of Us

I eyed my drink, but decided against it. With a shrug, I answer, “I feel like the simple answer is to do better than our parents, but that doesn’t even feel close enough to the right answer.”

“You've been talking to someone?” he asks, but it's more of a statement.

“I tried, but I think there should be laws against socialites becoming therapists.” Theo barks out a laugh that draws attention our way. He winks at an older gentleman who scowls at him, and I continue, saying, “I've been thinking… trying to decide…”

I trail off, and Theo fills in, “How to get Harper back?”

There's an almost soft curiosity to his tone; I shake my head, saying, “If I even deserve to try.”

Theo finishes his drink, stands and says, “You know we could figure out her favourite charities; you could support them, make you look good. Get back on her good side…”

I shake my head, interrupting his offer, “If Harper ever decides that I am worth having at her side, I want it to be honest and not because I faked my way there.”

Theo tilts his head, studying me curiously, then adds, “Okay, let me know if I can help.”

I gave him my best Elliot-charming grin. “You can forward me those articles Emily sent you.”

At that, Theo doesn’t laugh; something passes over his features I don’t understand, but he nods, knocks his knuckles on the tabletop and walks away.

An alert pings on my phone, letting me know yet another article has been posted about Harper. I don't know why I feel like I need to pay attention, like I need to be ready. But I do, so I stand, leaving my drink untouched and head home to my empty penthouse apartment.

29

HARPER

Somehow, when the media decides to make a point out of you, they start out seeming almost kind. With something polished, maybe even factual, that sounded like a journalist who still believed words could be dignified if they were the truth had written it.

The Return of Harper Montgomery: Alexander Montgomery’s Daughter Steps Into the Light

I read it while standing barefoot in my kitchen the morning after the gala, my hair still a mass of curls from the night before, a silk robe tied loosely around me, and a cup of coffee cooling untouched on the counter. For a moment, I felt nothing. Just a strange, floating sort of distance. Like the article wasn’t about me. Like Harper Montgomery was someone else entirely. A woman whose return signalled a shift in one of the most private family empires in the world. A woman described as poised, elegant, and elusive.

Elusive.

I almost laughed. That was one way to say hidden. My phone buzzed again, then again, and again. Notifications stacked faster than I could clear them. Articles. Tags. Messages from people I hadn’t spoken to in years. Requests from journalists. Unknown numbers. Emails forwarded from the foundation's office. I told myself not to click, but then after taking a sip of my forgotten coffee, I clicked. The second headline was less kind.

Where has Harper Montgomery been? Inside the Mystery of America’s Hidden Heiress.

My stomach tightened because the beginning of the article promised hard facts about where I've been and what I had been doing, but no one had contacted me from this outlet.

The third made my pulse race.

The Tragedy That Shaped the Montgomery Empire

I stopped breathing; the article thumbnail was an old photograph of my mother. Not the polished one used for foundation materials, or one of the approved images my father allowed in charity retrospectives. This one was candid, personal. Her sunglasses were pushed into her hair, one hand lifted as if she were trying to shield her face from the camera. Will was beside her, taller than I remembered, his school blazer rumpled, one arm raised.

My coffee cup slipped from my hand, hit the floor, and shattered. The sound cracked through the kitchen, and I flinched so hard my back hit the counter. For a second, I wasn’t in my townhouse.

I was small. Somewhere public with camera flashes. People shouting my name like I wasn’t just an innocent child. How? How did they get that picture?

Thomas appeared in the doorway. “Miss Montgomery?”

I tried to answer, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the broken mug, then to the phone in my hand. His expression changed, and then he was turning, saying, “I’ll get your father.”

I shook my head, or tried to; my voice came out like a croak, “I’m fine.”

The lie sounded obvious, and Thomas did not bother pretending to believe it. He disappeared, and I looked back at the phone. The page had refreshed. More articles, pictures, old headlines, lies, and pain pulled out of the ground and polished for public consumption.

What Really Happened the Day Sophie Montgomery Died?