Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Her black silk gown skims every curve of her body, and the blinding diamond earrings I gave her catch the passing city lights every time she turns her head.
And then of course there’s her scent. Warm vanilla and jasmine. I can see her relaxed and rejuvenated from the massage at the wellness boutique in Flatiron where I sent her earlier today.
This last day of the old year has been one long exercise in spoiling her.
Not because I think she requires luxury to be happy, but because I enjoy seeing what happens when someone who has spent most of her life taking care of everyone else is finally cared for properly.
Harper catches me looking at her now and smiles.
“What?” she asks softly.
“You’re beautiful.”
A blush rises into her cheeks, and despite the elegance of the gown and diamonds and Manhattan glitter surrounding us, that reaction remains wonderfully unchanged.
“You’ve made today really special,” she says. “The salon and the massage and…” She laughs, shaking her head. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed in my entire life.”
“Oh, come on,” I say.
“I’m serious,” she insists, turning more fully toward me now. “I didn’t realize how tense I always am until today.”
Harper carries so much external weight—Dylan, work, bills, responsibility, survival. She moves through life braced for impact and still somehow manages to remain warm and open and generous beneath it all.
I take her hand lightly in mine as the car slows.
“Well,” I say, brushing my thumb across her knuckles, “I intend to make relaxing a more regular occurrence for you.”
The Rainbow Room occupies the sixty-fifth floor of Rockefeller Center, and even after years of attending events here, the space still carries a certain grandeur impossible to replicate anywhere else in the city. The elevator opens directly into gold light and music and old New York elegance—the chandeliers, the dance floor, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan glittering beneath the winter sky.
The room is already full when we enter.
Power moves easily through spaces like this. Finance, media, politics, real estate. Power players from all walks of life—all of them wrapped in tuxedos and couture, gathered beneath one ceiling.
The second we step inside, all eyes swing not toward me but toward Harper.
“You’re a head-turner,” I murmur near her ear.
She glances up at me. “Yeah, yeah.”
I smile faintly. “You belong here more than half the people in this room.”
Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.
“Julian!”
Jon Roth barrels toward us with the confidence of a man who has spent forty years bulldozing Manhattan into whatever shape best benefits him financially. He’s in his early sixties now, silver-haired and broad through the shoulders, still carrying the swagger of a real estate magnate who knows half the skyline bears his fingerprints.
If a gleaming glass tower appeared in Midtown during the last twenty years, odds are Jon Roth had his hands on it.
Beside him glides his third wife, Vanessa, who looks like she was assembled entirely from luxury labels and expensive contempt. Hermès clutch. Versace gown. Diamonds the size of ice cubes framing a face pulled slightly too tight by modern cosmetic science.
“Happy New Year,” Jon says, clasping my hand before his eyes dart toward Harper with open curiosity. “And who is this?”
Harper tenses beside me.
“This,” I say, “is Harper Hawthorne.”
Vanessa’s gaze sweeps over Harper in one quick, assessing pass. Judgment disguised as observation.
Ordinarily, I’d ignore it. Tonight, I dislike it intensely.
But Harper, to her immense credit, simply smiles warmly and extends her hand.
“Nice to meet you both.”
Vanessa smiles politely.
Jon grins broadly. “Well, Julian, you’ve been holding out on us.”
“I wasn’t aware I owed you updates regarding my personal life.”
Jon laughs loudly while Vanessa continues studying Harper with thinly veiled interest.
“You look incredible, dear,” Vanessa says finally, though the compliment seems carefully engineered rather than sincere. “Who dressed you?”
“Julian arranged for the dress to be delivered this morning. It’s from a local boutique I love.”
Vanessa seems perturbed that rather than wear an expensive label, Harper wears what makes her comfortable.
Jon and Vanessa eventually drift away toward another cluster of billionaires pretending not to compete with each other, and immediately a new couple approaches us.
Harper leans toward me and whispers, “Why do they care what I wear? It’s weird.”
“It’s high society,” I say with a shrug. “Trust me, people will be clamoring to find out about your little boutique.”
“So weird,” she mutters, and I squeeze her hand.
The man is tall and aristocratic in that distinctly European way, balding at his crown with immaculate posture and a face that suggests generations of inherited confidence. Beside him stands his wife, equally elegant in deep emerald silk.
“Julian,” the man says warmly in a thick Italian accent. “Happy New Year, my friend.”
“Count Belladonna,” I reply with a smile as we clasp hands. “Good to see you.”
“And you.” His eyes move briefly to Harper. “Ah. Bellissima.”