Harper stood frozen, her hands clutching the lapels of the stranger's charcoal gray suit. The fabric was soft, cashmere blend. She realized with a jolt of horror that she was standing in a public hallway, barefoot, wearing a wedding dress, crying, clinging to a man she didn't know.
She tried to step back, but her right ankle gave way. A sharp bolt of pain shot up her leg.
"Ah!" She winced, stumbling.
The man moved instantly, not to grab her, but to offer his forearm like a railing. "Lean on me," he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion.
"I... I think I twisted it," Harper stammered. She tried to wipe her eyes, smearing mascara across her cheek. "I'm sorry. I wasn't looking."
Behind the man, three other men in suits had stopped. They didn't gawk. They didn't whisper. With military precision, they turned their backs to the scene, forming a human wall that shielded Harper from the view of the elevators and the lobby. It was a gesture of supreme discretion.
The tall man didn't kneel. That would be a scene. Instead, he looked down at her foot with a clinical, assessing gaze.
"It's swelling," he observed, his voice calm amidst her storm. He signaled to one of the men without looking away from Harper. "Call the salon manager. Tell her to bring flats. Immediately."
The elevator doors behind them chimed. Ding.
"Harper!"
The voice was breathless and angry. Harper flinched.
Archer came storming out of the elevator. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked like a man who had run from a car. Or a hotel room.
He saw them. Harper in the dress, the stranger standing guard beside her.
"What the hell is going on?" Archer shouted. He marched toward them, his face flushing red. "Harper, why are you out here? You're barefoot!"
The stranger stood up straighter, if that was possible.
He unfolded his height until he was looming over Archer. He stepped in front of Harper, blocking Archer's path. It was a subtle movement, but it was aggressive. A shield.
"She's hurt," the stranger said. His voice dropped an octave. It was cold now. Dangerous.
Archer stopped, taken aback by the wall of man in front of him. "Excuse me? Who are you? Get away from my fiancée."
He reached around the stranger to grab Harper's arm. "Harper, come here. You're making a scene."
The stranger didn't shove Archer. He just shifted his weight, putting his shoulder between Archer's hand and Harper's arm. Archer grabbed empty air.
"I said," the stranger repeated, enunciating every syllable, "she is hurt."
Harper peered around the broad back of the man protecting her. She looked at Archer. She saw the sweat on his forehead. And then she saw it.
On the collar of his white shirt. It wasn't a smudge. It was a deliberate mark. A perfect kiss print in bright red lipstick on the inside of his collar, visible only because his tie was askew. Mia's shade.
She felt the nausea return.
The stranger seemed to sense her distress. He glanced back at her, just for a second. His eyes softened. "Do you want to go with him?"
The question hung in the air. It was the first time anyone had asked her what she wanted in a long time.
Archer scoffed. "Of course she's coming with me. We have a wedding to plan. Harper, stop acting like a child and get in the car."
Child. Manageable. Dead fish.
Harper looked at the stranger's back. It was straight, unyielding.
"He's right," Harper said, her voice hollow. "I have to go."
She didn't want to cause a fight. Not here. Not now. She was too tired.
The stranger looked at her. He held her gaze for a long beat. He looked disappointed. Not angry, just... sad.
"Very well," he said. He stepped aside.
But as he did, he turned his cold gaze back to Archer. "Walk her. Don't drag her."
