Chapter 4

Who woke up this early just to ruin someone’s morning?

After Harlow got back from Calista’s kindergarten, she started calling attorneys again.

To avoid Cillian Emerson, she deliberately skipped every divorce attorney connected to Halewood. But after making one call after another, she discovered that every reputable firm in Crestport had the same miraculous scheduling disease.

No availability.

Not for her.

Fair enough. Felix Lowell’s father was the mayor. Powerful. Connected. No attorney with sense would offend the Lowell family over one divorce fee.

Harlow spent the entire day on the phone. By evening, she finally reached a female attorney at Kepler & Associates named Delilah Vale. Ms. Vale said she was willing to take her divorce case.

They agreed to meet that evening at Westbrook Tea House. Ms. Vale chose the place herself, saying it would be quiet.

Harlow left Calista with Rowan Wilder, then took a cab to the appointment.

When she arrived, Delilah Vale was already there.

“Ms. Gideon, I’m sure the trip was tiring. Have some tea first. Warm yourself up.” Delilah Vale smiled gently, all soft manners and easy warmth.

She lifted a small ceramic teapot and poured amber-red tea into Harlow’s cup.

“Thank you.”

Harlow held the cup but did not drink right away. Only after Delilah Vale drained her own cup did Harlow take a small sip.

They exchanged a few polite words, then moved into the case.

After hearing the basics of Harlow’s marriage to Felix Lowell, Delilah asked, “You said your husband assaulted you. Do you have direct evidence? Surveillance footage? Witnesses?”

Harlow shook her head. “No.”

This was the first time Felix had hit her. She had not known in advance that he would do it, so of course she had not set up a camera like she was producing a true-crime documentary.

“I don’t have direct evidence, but I did call the police. There’s a report.”

Delilah looked through the police record. “Your husband wasn’t there when the officers arrived?”

“No. He knew I was calling them, so he ran.”

“Then this may be difficult.” Delilah’s expression was professional, but her tone stayed warm. “A police response record can prove you called for help, but it may not be enough on its own to prove domestic violence. Does your husband have any history of violence? Any threatening messages? Photos of injuries from before?”

“No.”

Harlow’s grip closed hard around the cup.

Felix had always been nasty, but his cruelty had come in careful doses before. Cold words. Public humiliation disguised as jokes. Refusing to touch her unless he wanted something. Locking her out of rooms, cutting off access, making her ask for money that had once been hers.

He had only started swinging his fists after the Gideon family collapsed completely.

Delilah nodded as if she understood. “Then we’ll need to build the case from other angles. The financial abuse, the marital breakdown, the child’s living arrangements, your safety concerns. We’ll need documentation.”

“I can prepare whatever you need.”

Harlow said it steadily, but the room had begun to feel too warm.

The tea sat heavy in her stomach. A strange numbness crept up from her fingertips, slow at first, then faster, as if her body had been unplugged from itself one nerve at a time.

The cup slipped from her hand.

Porcelain hit the floor and shattered.

Delilah did not move.

Harlow tried to stand, but her knees buckled. The world tilted. Her shoulder knocked against the chair, then her body slid down, the back of her head striking the hard armrest.

It did not hurt much.

The numbness was swallowing everything too quickly.

Before darkness took her completely, she saw Delilah standing over her, looking down with none of that gentle smile left on her face.

Only indifference.

The clean, flat indifference of a completed task.

“Yes, I confirmed it,” Delilah said into her phone, her voice carrying a faint eagerness now. “She has no evidence of domestic violence. As instructed, she’s down.”

Harlow understood then.

This woman had been sent by Felix Lowell.

When Harlow opened her eyes again, she was in a room she did not recognize.

Her head throbbed. Her eyelids felt weighted, and it took a long while before the blurred shapes in front of her sharpened into walls, furniture, light.

The room was enormous.

A massive oil painting hung above the headboard. The ceiling was plain and high, with recessed lighting hidden along the edges, all of it currently off. A simple chandelier dropped from the center, its metal frame catching the cold glow leaking from the bathroom.

Heavy charcoal curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the outside world so completely she could not tell whether it was day or night.

Harlow pushed herself upright.

The blanket slid from her shoulders.

She stilled.

She was naked.

The clothes she had been wearing had been stripped off and tossed carelessly onto the floor.

For one suspended second, terror hollowed out her chest.

Then she looked down.

The sheets were still smooth. Aside from the headache, there was no other discomfort in her body.

No.

Nothing had happened.

Not that.

Harlow bent forward, reaching for the clothes on the floor, just as a soft click sounded at the door.

Someone was coming in.

Her heart shot into her throat. She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it tightly around herself, staring toward the entrance.

The person who stepped inside was backlit, but she could make out a tall, straight male figure. As he came closer, his features sharpened: deep-set eyes, cold brows, a striking face stripped of warmth.

Cillian Emerson.

Harlow stared at him.

This was Cillian’s room?

The person who drugged her had clearly been working for Felix. So how had she ended up in Cillian Emerson’s room?

None of this made sense.

Cillian wore a dark, perfectly tailored overcoat over a crisp suit. He came in while removing the coat, tossing it onto the sofa, then glanced toward the bed.

The moment he saw Harlow, his brows pulled together.

“What are you doing here?”

His eyes locked on her.

Harlow was wrapped in his blanket, her long hair messy, only the pale lines of her shoulders visible. On the carpet lay her sweater, jeans, and, worse, a pale set of underwear, lying near his polished shoes like two fallen petals.

His throat moved.

He looked away and, very deliberately, stepped to the side.

“Harlow Gideon.” He said her name one word at a time, his voice cold enough to freeze the air between them. “What game are you playing?”

“I don’t know how I got here either. The last thing I remember is being drugged.”

“Drugged?”

“Yes. Can you help me with something?”

“No.” Cillian cut her off with righteous speed, his voice ice-sharp. “Don’t even dream about it. I don’t sleep with married women.”

Sleep?

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