Chapter 3

By 10:40 the next morning, Harper's name was still active in the system.

I went to Cole Performance before Evan had time to remove it. I used the mezzanine entrance because her authorization had been active for less than twelve hours, and I wanted to see what Evan had actually given her.

I took the stairs slowly, one hand on the rail, then stopped behind the rows of cardio rowers and storage racks.

The netting threw enough shadow to hide anyone who stood still.

Down on the main turf, the workshop had ended, but twenty people were still milling around the front desk taking photos.

Harper stood near the whiteboard, holding a clipboard, directing the desk staff like she had payroll authority.

When the last participant left, Harper dropped the clipboard and walked over to the squat rack where Evan was clearing barbells.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the upright post. "My glutes are locking up on the bottom third. Give me thirty seconds on the rack?"

Evan wiped his hands on a towel and nodded.

"Set your stance," he said.

She dropped into a rear-foot-elevated split squat.

Evan stepped behind her, placing his hands on both sides of her waist to check her pelvic tilt.

For a second, I told myself it was only part of the exercise.

Then Harper straightened.

Evan didn't move his hands.

They stayed at her waist as she caught her breath.

His palms stayed against her hips, thumbs hooked just over the waistband of her tights, steadying her as she caught her breath.

Harper didn't pull away. She leaned back slightly against his chest, laughing at something he said under his breath.

He smiled down at her--an easy, unguarded look he hadn't given me in months.

Neither of them looked up at the mezzanine.

Evan tapped her shoulder, pointed toward the back stairs, and they walked up toward the private mezzanine offices together. At his office, he swiped his keycard and held the door for her.

I stepped back behind the row of utility lockers.

When their footsteps faded, I followed the hallway toward Evan's office.

The heavy door was cracked three inches open.

Inside, paper rustled.

Earlier this week, I had left my leather design portfolio in Evan's office. I had asked him to look over the dimensions of the heavy platinum bands for my upcoming bridal collection; he understood grip widths and masculine hand proportions, and I had trusted his eye.

Through the door gap, I saw Harper standing at his desk, flipping through the vellum inserts.

She pulled out the full-color rendering of the center piece: an asymmetrical band wrapped around an uncut champagne diamond.

I had spent six weeks drafting that ring. It was scheduled for casting next month, and no client had seen it yet.

"Look at this," Harper said, tracing the pencil lines with her thumb. "When did she do this?"

"Last month," Evan said from the mini-fridge, popping the cap off an electrolyte water.

Harper tilted the page toward the window light.

"I love this," she said softly. "I don't want anything delicate. I want one that looks earned. Something strong. Not precious."

She turned, holding the sketch against her collarbone.

"Can you have this made for me?"

Evan didn't even set his bottle down.

"Yeah," he said, taking a sip. "I'll tell the bench jeweler to cast it in white gold."

Harper paused, giving him a flat, sideways glance.

"Claire won't care?"

Evan gave an easy, dismissive shrug.

"If I'm fine with it, Claire will be fine with it."

My breath stayed locked behind my teeth.

He answered as if my work belonged to him. Harper never had to ask me for anything; Evan had already decided what he could give away.

I pulled my phone from my coat, angled the camera through the seam of the door, and took two clean photos: Harper holding the sketch, and the portfolio lying open on his desk.

I turned around, took the emergency stairs one careful step at a time, and left through the side alley.

That evening, Evan came home at six carrying a brown paper bag from the bakery near our house.

"Got your seeded sourdough," he said, kicking off his boots at the door. "How's the lower back feeling?"

"Fine," I said from the kitchen counter.

"Tomorrow night is the birth class," I said quietly. "Hospital Center, room 402. Five thirty. We need to leave by five."

Evan froze midway through hanging his jacket.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Claire... about tomorrow," he said. "Harper's final interview for the regional director position is at six. She asked me to run through the platform cues with her tonight, and to be there tomorrow."

"Could one of the other trainers run through it with her?" I asked.

Evan looked down at the keys on the counter. "They know the movements. She asked for me."

He said it gently, as though that settled the question.

I folded the kitchen towel once, then again. "And you told her yes."

"She's worked hard for this, Claire. I said I'd show up."

"Our birth class has been booked for three months."

"I know." He rubbed the back of his neck. "They run it every other week. We can take the next one."

"You could tell her no," I said.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he picked up his keys.

"Not tomorrow," he said quietly.

I nodded. "Okay. Go."

His relief was small, almost hidden. "I'll make it up to you this weekend," he said. "I promise."

The moment his truck cleared the driveway, I sat down at my laptop.

I booked a nine-o'clock consultation with a family law firm two towns over, and I printed out six months of bank statements from my independent business account.