Harper's new apartment in Manhattan was a shoebox, but it had a window. That was the selling point.
She stood before the glass pane now. She had turned it into a war room. Using a dry-erase marker, she had drawn a complex web of names and connections.
Kenneth Miller at the top. NewGen Health in the center.
She drew a line to Arthur Vanderbilt. Then a dotted line to Julian Sterling.
She tapped the glass where Julian's name was written.
"Who are you really?" she whispered.
Her phone rang. It was Julian.
"Dinner," he said. No hello.
"I thought it was coffee," Harper replied, leaning against the window sill.
"Inflation," Julian said. "Tonight. Seven. Le Bernardin."
Harper nearly dropped the phone. Le Bernardin required reservations months in advance. It was a power move. He was showing her that rules didn't apply to him.
"I have the interview tomorrow," she said. "I should be prepping."
"You need to eat. And you need to know who you're dealing with. Consider this... reconnaissance."
"Fine," Harper said. "I'll be there."
"I'll send a car."
"No," Harper said quickly. She looked around her apartment. The peeling paint. The water stain on the ceiling. She didn't want his driver seeing this. She didn't want Julian knowing how close to the edge she really was. "I'll meet you there."
"Stubborn," Julian said. She could hear the smile in his voice. It made her skin prickle.
"Independent," she corrected.
She hung up.
She looked at her reflection in the window. She was wearing sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. She couldn't wear this to Le Bernardin. She couldn't wear her interview suit-it was too stiff, too corporate.
She needed armor that looked like elegance.
She checked her bank account. The number was pitiful. The move, the medical bills for Rose... she was bleeding cash. Buying a new designer dress was impossible. Even a rental was a stretch.
But she knew places. Old places.
She grabbed her coat and headed to a vintage consignment shop in the East Village she had found online. It was dusty and smelled of mothballs, but the rack in the back held treasure.
Harper spent an hour sifting through silk and velvet. She checked seams for fraying. She checked linings for stains. She negotiated with the owner, a tough woman with electric blue glasses, pointing out a missing button and a loose hem.
"Forty dollars," Harper said firmly. "And I'll fix the hem myself."
"Fine," the woman grunted. "Take it."
It was a black slip dress from the 90s. Simple. Devastating. It looked like liquid night.
Harper walked out with the dress in a plastic bag, feeling a surge of victory. She had secured the asset under budget.
Back at the apartment, she hung the dress on the back of the door. She sat on her futon and opened the NewGen annual report again.
She memorized EBITDA margins. She memorized debt-to-equity ratios.
She would not be the girl who got lucky. She would be the girl who knew more than anyone else in the room.
Julian was in his dressing room. He was tying a tie. He rejected three before settling on a deep crimson one.
"You're nervous," he told his reflection.
"Shut up," he answered.
He checked his watch. Six hours until dinner.
He felt like a teenager. And he hated it.
