Chapter 3

The days flew by in a blur of back-to-back paid gigs between Ethan and me.

I grew terrifyingly good at playing Clara.

When he took me to her favorite art galleries, I could recite the exact critiques she had once penned for the paintings.

When he took me to her favorite Italian bistros, I could rattle off her favorite orders without ever glancing at the menu.

I even learned the exact way she brewed traditional loose-leaf tea, steeping a calming pot for him during the nights insomnia kept him awake.

Every flawless performance yielded another generous wire transfer from Ethan.

My bank account balance skyrocketed, and my dad's health steadily improved day by day.

I genuinely thought we would carry on this mutually beneficial business arrangement indefinitely.

Until the anniversary of Clara's death rolled around.

It was a drizzly, gray afternoon, and the entire penthouse was suffocated by a crushing weight of gloom.

Ethan hadn't left his study all day, locking himself inside and drinking heavily.

Late that evening, he summoned me in.

The room was unlit, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the rain-streaked windows. The air was thick with the scent of high-end bourbon and profound sorrow.

"Tell me about our college days," he said, slumped on the plush carpet with his back against the sofa, his voice utterly ragged.

This fell under my standard retainer duties, so I didn't push back.

I sat down beside him on the floor and began softly reciting the stories I had drilled into my memory from the files.

From our first encounter in the university library, to the first time we held hands walking along the quad under the autumn leaves.

I spoke with complete immersion, as if I had truly lived through those memories myself.

As the story unfolded, I felt a sudden weight on my shoulder.

Ethan had leaned over, his head coming to rest against my collarbone, his breath hot and laced with whiskey.

"Clara..." he murmured the name, his voice thick with raw agony and longing.

My whole body went rigid.

In all the months since signing that contract, this was the closest we had ever been.

Through the thin fabric of my blouse, I could feel the heat radiating off him and the distinct tremor shaking his broad shoulders.

"Clara... I miss you so much."

The words hit my chest like a lead weight.

In that singular moment, I wasn't Harper Cole, nor was I a shadow of Clara Price.

I was just an ordinary girl being leaned on by a broken, grieving man.

I didn't pull away. I didn't say a word.

I don't know how much time passed, but suddenly, I felt a cold dampness on my cheek.

I raised a hand to touch it. Tears.

I'm... crying?

Why the hell am I crying?

Was it pity for this wealthy man trapped in his grief? Was it sorrow for the young woman who died too soon?

Or... was it for myself?

The study was dead quiet, save for the patter of rain against the glass and our mingled breathing.

"I'm sorry," Ethan suddenly pulled back, sitting upright as his signature detachment snapped back into place. "I lost control."

He stood up and flicked on the overhead switch.

Under the harsh, fluorescent glare, I saw his red-rimmed eyes, though his spine remained rigidly straight.

"Tonight..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Thank you."

I lowered my head, wiped my tears clean, and looked up at him with a textbook corporate smile.

"Don't mention it, Mr. Vance. According to my price list, crying on cue runs three thousand a pop. Seeing as you were emotionally compromised tonight, I cried proactively on your behalf. I'll give you a buddy discount—call it two grand."

"Also, using my shoulder as a support falls under physical contact services. First-time promotional rate: five thousand."

"That brings the total to seven thousand dollars. Would you like to settle that now, or should I tack it onto the end-of-the-month invoice?"

Ethan’s frame visibly jolted.

He stared at me in absolute disbelief, looking at me as though I were some kind of cold-blooded monster.

The sorrow and vulnerability in his gaze were instantly wiped clean, replaced by a bitter cocktail of rage and profound disappointment.

"Harper," he spat my name, syllable by deliberate syllable. "Do you even have a heart?"

I smiled, broader and brighter than I ever had while playing Clara.

"A heart?" I shot back.

"Mr. Vance, your hundred grand a month bought my acting skills, not my heart. My heart is far too expensive. You can't afford it."

With that, I stood up, smoothed down the folds of my dress, and gave him an elegant, professional bow.

"If you have no further requests, I’m going to bed. I'll have Leo forward the invoice in the morning."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, every step steady and composed.

The second the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I slumped against the cold hallway wall, my chest squeezing so hard it felt like an invisible fist was crushing the air from my lungs.

You did the right thing, Harper.

You're an exceptional contractor. A brilliant actress.

Don't you dare fall for the role.

He’s your client, not your Prince Charming.

Every show eventually has its final curtain call.