Chapter 3: "The Contract Says I Should Be Good to You"

Harper's POV

One month. Thirty days of playing the dutiful girlfriend.

Honestly? It's easier than I expected. And way harder.

Easy because Adrian is the textbook definition of a perfect gentleman. We share a bed now, but there's always this invisible line down the middle that neither of us crosses. He wakes up first every morning and gives me space to get dressed in private. No awkward half-naked encounters, no lingering stares. Professional. Distant. Safe.

Hard because I'm starting to get comfortable. Too comfortable. I catch myself looking forward to mornings when I wake up and he's already sitting by the window reading the paper, sunlight cutting across his profile. He remembers I take two sugars in my coffee without me having to say it twice. Last Thursday, he showed up at my makeshift office with a matcha latte, my favorite, right when I was drowning in spreadsheets for an upcoming event.

I should've just said thanks and moved on. Instead, I opened my big mouth.

"You don't have to keep doing this stuff," I tell him, gesturing at the latte. "Nobody's watching right now."

He sets the cup down on my desk, and those gray-blue eyes lock onto mine. "My grandfather has surveillance all over this place. You never know who's watching."

Oh. Right. Surveillance cameras. This is all part of the performance. The attentiveness, the coffee, the little gestures. All calculated. All fake.

I swallow and nod, suddenly feeling stupid. "Got it."

There's this beat of silence where neither of us moves. Then I remember something I've been meaning to ask.

"Has Damian found anything? About Ash?"

Something flickers across Adrian's face. It's so quick I almost miss it, like a shadow passing over water. Then it's gone.

"He's still working on it," Adrian says, his tone flat again. "These things take time. It's been ten years."

That afternoon, Damian shows up at my office carrying a bouquet of white roses.

"Harper." He's all smiles, his suit perfectly tailored, hair perfectly styled. "How's everything going?"

"Fine," I say, taking the flowers even though I don't know what to do with them. "You really didn't need to bring these."

"Just wanted to check in." He settles into the chair across from my desk like he owns the place. "How are things with Adrian? Is he treating you well?"

"Yeah, of course. He's very... considerate."

"Good." Damian leans back, studying me. "About Ash. I'm still digging, but it's tricky. Ash could be a nickname, you know? Do you remember anything else? Anything specific?"

I shake my head, frustration bubbling up. "Just the bracelet. And I think his eyes were light colored? Maybe blue or gray? I don't know, I was seventeen. A lot of it's fuzzy now."

"That's okay. I'll keep looking." He stands, smoothing down his jacket. "And Harper, if you ever need anything, or if Adrian isn't holding up his end of the deal, you can always come to me. I'm here."

After he leaves, I sit there staring at the roses on my desk. Damian's a good guy. Helpful. Kind. So why does his kindness make my skin crawl just a little bit?

Saturday night rolls around, and it's the annual Blackwell family charity gala. I spend three hours getting ready, doing my hair and makeup, squeezing myself into the designer gown Adrian had delivered to the manor. It's gorgeous, all midnight blue silk that hugs my curves and flows to the floor.

When I walk down the main staircase, Adrian's waiting in the entrance hall. He's wearing a black tuxedo that fits him like it was made on his body, which it probably was. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread.

But when he sees me, he stops. Just for a second. His eyes go wide, lips parting slightly.

Then the mask slams back down.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice carefully neutral.

Heat floods my cheeks. "Thanks. You look good too."

God, could I be more awkward?

The hotel is swarming with photographers when we arrive. Adrian's arm slides around my waist as we step out of the car, pulling me close.

"Smile," he murmurs against my ear.

Camera flashes explode around us like fireworks. I plaster on my best fake smile and try not to trip in these torture devices masquerading as heels.

Inside the ballroom, it's a sea of designer gowns and expensive jewelry. Politicians, business moguls, socialites. Everyone dripping with money and power. I feel like a fraud in a borrowed dress, playing a part I'm not qualified for.

"Relax," Adrian says quietly, his thumb stroking a small circle against my hip. "You're doing great."

Halfway through dinner, they start the auction. Luxury watches, paintings, vintage wine. Then a necklace appears on the screen, a delicate platinum chain with a sapphire pendant surrounded by tiny diamonds. Simple. Elegant. Stunning.

"That's gorgeous," I whisper without thinking.

Adrian glances at it. "You like it?"

"Just saying. Not like I could ever afford something like that."

The auctioneer starts the bidding. "Opening at ten thousand dollars."

"Fifteen thousand," someone calls out.

"Twenty thousand."

Then I hear Damian's voice from across the room. "Thirty thousand."

I turn and spot him at another table, looking right at me with this smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Fifty thousand."

That's Adrian. His voice is calm, almost bored, but his hand tightens on my waist.

I lean in close. "What are you doing? It's just a necklace."

"Sixty thousand," Damian counters, still staring at us.

"One hundred thousand."

The entire ballroom goes silent. Every head swivels in our direction.

The auctioneer lifts his gavel. "One hundred thousand going once, going twice... sold!"

I gape at Adrian. "Are you insane? That's a hundred thousand dollars!"

"You said you liked it."

"Yeah, but I didn't mean you should actually buy it!"

"It's just money."

Just money. Like that's a normal thing to say.

Back at the manor, I'm still ranting about the stupid necklace while Adrian unlocks the bedroom door.

"You really shouldn't have spent that much. It's ridiculous."

He doesn't answer. Just walks over to where the jewelry box sits on the dresser and opens it. The sapphire glints under the lamplight.

"Turn around," he says.

I do, still running my mouth. "I mean, I appreciate the gesture, but a hundred grand is—"

His fingers brush the back of my neck. Every word dies in my throat. The necklace settles against my collarbone, cold metal against warm skin. His fingertips linger at my nape for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, and goosebumps race down my spine.

"Done," he says, and his voice sounds rougher than usual.

I turn to face him, my hand coming up to touch the pendant. "Why? Is this really just about the contract?"

For a moment, something raw flashes in those gray eyes. Something that makes my pulse skip.

"The contract says I should be good to you," he finally says.

"The contract doesn't say you need to drop six figures on jewelry."

He takes a step back, putting distance between us. "Get some sleep. My grandfather's coming for lunch tomorrow."

Then he disappears into the bathroom, leaving me standing there alone.

I touch the necklace again, feeling the smooth stone under my fingertips. My heart's beating too fast, hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Why is it getting harder and harder to remember this is just business?