The guest room bathroom was cold. The heating vent was blocked. Harper splashed water on her face, trying to calm her racing heart.
She needed a towel.
She opened the vanity cabinet under the sink. It was cluttered with travel-sized shampoos and old cleaning supplies. She pushed aside a bottle of bleach.
Her hand brushed against something soft. Something silk.
She frowned. She reached in and pulled it out.
It was a pair of stockings. Black, sheer, with an intricate lace top.
Harper stared at them. They weren't hers. She bought her hosiery at department stores in bulk. These were Wolford. She recognized the pattern. They cost more than her weekly grocery budget.
They hadn't been hidden carefully. They were shoved into the corner of the cabinet, caught on the drain pipe, as if someone had stripped them off in a hurry and kicked them out of sight. A hasty, passionate removal.
She brought them closer to her face.
The scent hit her instantly. Black Opium.
And beneath the perfume... something muskier. Something undeniable.
Mia.
Mia had been here. In her home. In her guest bathroom.
Harper visualized it. Archer working late. Mia coming over "to drop off files." The two of them sneaking into the guest room so they wouldn't mess up the master bed-or maybe just for the thrill of it.
Harper felt her stomach heave. She dropped the stockings into the sink and retched. Nothing came up but acid.
She gripped the porcelain, her knuckles white. This was her sanctuary. This was the one place she thought was safe. And they had defiled it.
She looked at the stockings again. They looked like a snake coiled in the white sink.
Rage, pure and blinding, took over.
She yanked open the drawer. Nail clippers. Tweezers. Scissors.
She grabbed the scissors. They were small, sharp, surgical steel.
She picked up the stockings. She didn't just want to throw them away. She wanted to destroy them. She wanted to destroy her.
She started cutting.
Snip. The lace tore.
Snip. The silk shredded.
She hacked at the fabric, breathing hard, her teeth gritted. Every cut was for a lie. Every cut was for a missed dinner. Every cut was for "dead fish."
She was sobbing now, silent, heaving sobs that shook her whole body. The black fabric fell into the sink in ribbons, like dead leaves.
