Chapter 126

Chapter 126

After moving into her new place, Harper's life finally settled into the kind of peace she'd been craving.

Her days fell into a simple rhythm—commuting between the apartment and the studio, brewing herself a cup of coffee during quiet moments, sketching designs by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The feeling of being in complete control of her own life made her feel alive again in a way she hadn't in years.

But the calm didn't last long.

Three days later, on a quiet afternoon, Harper was reviewing next month's financial statements when her phone buzzed on the desk.

The nursing home's number flashed across the screen.

She picked up immediately. "Grandpa, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." Luke's voice came through the line, weighted with a heaviness she didn't like. "Harper, I need you to come to the old Martinez estate."

Harper's pen stilled in her hand.

"What's wrong?"

"Brandon saw the divorce papers you signed." Her grandfather let out a weary sigh. "He's furious. Refuses to sign. He's at the estate right now throwing a fit, and it's getting ugly. You need to come deal with this face-to-face."

 

The Maybach pulled up in the circular driveway of the Martinez estate.

Harper stepped out into the biting cold, the wind whipping at the hem of her trench coat.

She didn't hesitate. She walked straight toward the main house.

Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. The only sound was the steady ticking of the grandfather clock.

Brandon sat slumped on the sofa, shoulders hunched.

He was still wearing yesterday's shirt, collar open, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with exhaustion.

The divorce agreement—thin, harmless-looking—had been crumpled into a ball and thrown onto the coffee table.

At the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor, Brandon's head snapped up.

He shot to his feet and crossed the room in three long strides.

Without a word, he pulled her into his arms.

His grip was crushing, desperate, as if he could physically absorb her back into his life through sheer force of will.

"Harper." He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I won't sign. I don't agree to this. We can start over. Please."

Harper didn't struggle. She simply lowered her gaze to the crumpled paper on the table.

She felt nothing. No anger. No pity. Just a faint, detached sense of absurdity.

"Brandon, let go." Her voice was calm, businesslike.

He only held on tighter.

Harper placed her hands flat against his chest and shoved him back hard enough to break his grip.

She stepped away, putting distance between them, and met his eyes head-on. "You've seen the agreement. I'm not taking anything. I'm walking away with nothing. If you don't sign today, my lawyer will file a petition with the court first thing tomorrow morning."

Brandon froze, his pupils contracting sharply.

"And when that happens, the entire city will know that the CEO of the Martinez Group is embroiled in a messy public divorce." Harper's tone didn't waver. Every word was surgical. "The scandal will drag the company down with you. You're a businessman. You know which option serves you best."

"You'd rather drag this into court—ruin the Martinez Group's reputation—than give me one chance?" Brandon stared at her, desperation clawing at the edges of his voice.

"Yes." Harper didn't hesitate.

"Brandon, that's enough."

A heavy sigh echoed from the top of the staircase.

Margaret appeared at the landing, leaning on her cane as a maid helped her down the steps.

She looked at Brandon—stubborn, unraveling—and shook her head with quiet resignation.

"Grandma." Brandon's voice cracked.

"It's over, Brandon." Margaret made her way to the sofa, glancing at Harper's cold, unyielding expression. She knew. The girl's heart was dead. Turning back to her grandson, she spoke gently but firmly. "Harper's made her decision. The more you fight this, the more pathetic you look. You owed her three years. The least you can do now is let her go with dignity. Sign the papers. Stop making this harder than it needs to be."

Brandon looked at his grandmother. Then back at Harper.

There was no hatred in her eyes. Just absolute indifference.

And in that moment, he finally understood. No matter what he did, the door had already closed.

He walked to the coffee table and smoothed out the crumpled agreement with trembling hands.

He picked up the pen. His knuckles went white.

The tip pressed so hard against the paper it tore through the surface.

He signed his name.

Harper took the document, checked the signature, and slipped it into her bag.

"Goodbye." She turned and walked out.

She didn't look back.

 

The day the divorce was finalized, Rosewood City saw its first snowfall of winter.

Harper didn't miss a beat. She threw herself back into work at Starlight Building.

Over the next few weeks, she operated like a machine that didn't know how to stop.

Reviewing fabrics. Overseeing fittings. Leading international video calls.

She turned down every unnecessary social event—especially the ones where Brandon might be in attendance. For those, she sent Robert in her place.

Rosewood City's elite circles weren't that big, but if you were deliberate about it, two people could live like strangers.

Harper poured everything into the upcoming seasonal collection. Starlight Building's sales were climbing fast.

 

Saturday afternoon, Harper arrived at Abigail's estate with a portfolio of preliminary designs.

The living room was warm and lively. The heat was cranked up, and a small gathering of well-dressed women sat around the coffee table.

When Abigail spotted Harper, she waved her over with a smile. "Harper, come sit."

She turned to the other women. "This is the designer I told you about—Harper Anderson, founder of Starlight Building. She personally designed all three of my gowns."

The women had only been polite at first, but after flipping through Harper's lookbook, genuine admiration flickered in their eyes.

Harper's designs weren't about excess. They were sharp, clean, and devastatingly well-tailored—exactly what women at this level of wealth and taste wanted.

In under two hours, Harper walked away with four custom orders.

By evening, the gathering was winding down.

Harper packed up her materials and prepared to leave.

"The snow's really coming down out there. You won't be able to catch a ride in this neighborhood." Abigail glanced out the window, then called up the stairs. "Chase, grab a coat. Drive Harper home for me."

Chase appeared at the top of the staircase moments later. He wore a black cashmere overcoat, his posture sharp and controlled, his presence commanding without effort.

"Let's go."

 

The SUV glided smoothly through the snow-covered streets.

No music played. Just the low hum of the heater.

They talked shop—progress on the Vista Apparel partnership, production timelines. Professional. Comfortable.

The car pulled up outside Harper's building.

"Thanks, Mr. Rodriguez." Harper pushed open the door and stepped out.

The pavement was slick with ice. Her heel caught the frozen surface, and her body pitched sideways.

Chase was out of the car in a heartbeat. His hand shot out and caught her elbow, steadying her before she could fall.