Chapter 129

Meanwhile, sharp, angry footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by Missy's furious voice cutting through the air.

"Brandon, have you lost your goddamn mind? Harper's lying in a hospital bed, and you're next door playing nursemaid to that two-faced snake?"

Missy stormed down the hallway, her heels clicking like gunfire against the polished floor.

She'd arrived at the hospital only to hear about Luna's theatrical "twisted ankle" performance at the entrance—and nearly kicked down the door to the adjacent room on the spot.

Brandon had just emerged from Luna's room, his brow furrowed, irritation flickering across his face. "Missy, don't be dramatic. She sprained her ankle. I just called a doctor for her."

"Called a doctor? What, are you an orthopedic surgeon now? Or did you suddenly sign up to be her personal nurse?" Missy shot back, her tone dripping with contempt. "Do you have Stockholm syndrome or something? Luna twists her ankle and it's a five-alarm emergency, but Harper faints from low blood sugar in her own studio and you can't be bothered?"

Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, suppressing the frustration simmering beneath his skin. "I'm heading back to Harper's room right now."

"Don't bother. You might not find yourself disgusting, but I sure as hell do." Missy shoved past him without a second glance and pushed open the door to Harper's room.

Inside, Harper had already pulled the IV needle from the back of her hand. She sat on the edge of the bed, calmly buttoning up her trench coat.

"Harper!" Missy rushed over, her heart twisting at the sight of Harper's pale but composed face. "This goddamn hospital is polluted because of him. I'm getting you transferred right now—somewhere better."

"No need." Harper fastened the belt of her coat, her tone eerily calm. "I'm fine. The IV's done. I'm checking out."

"Checking out? But the doctor said you need to stay for observation—"

"I've got a mountain of work waiting for me at Starlight Building. I don't have time to waste here." Harper picked up her handbag, her gaze clear and resolute—no trace of spite, just cold practicality.

Missy glanced back toward the door. Through the window, she could see Brandon being stopped by a nurse from the other room, likely asking him more questions about Luna.

She clenched her jaw. "Fine. I'm getting you out of here. My car's downstairs. Let's go—and let him stay here locked in his little codependent nightmare with that manipulative bitch."

The two women slipped out unnoticed, taking the elevator straight down to the underground parking garage.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Harper watched the cityscape blur past the window and exhaled a long, weary breath.

Missy muttered curses under her breath as she drove. Harper leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Brandon's so-called "concern" always came with Luna attached to it—cheap, conditional, and nauseating. She couldn't even stand to look at it anymore.

Half an hour later, Brandon finally extricated himself from Luna's endless neediness.

He pushed open the door to Harper's room—and froze.

The bed was empty. The blanket was folded neatly, as if no one had ever been there at all.

Brandon stood rooted to the spot. He walked quickly to the bed and touched the sheets. Cold.

He yanked out his phone and dialed Harper's number.

"Sorry, the person you are trying to reach is currently on another call…"

The robotic female voice was icy and indifferent.

Brandon refused to believe it. He switched to a voice call on Facebook. A glaring red exclamation mark popped up on the screen.

She'd blocked him. Completely. No room for negotiation.

Brandon's grip on his phone tightened until his knuckles turned white, veins bulging along the back of his hand.

He spun on his heel and strode out of the room. At the end of the hallway, Luna sat in a wheelchair, gazing at him with wide, pitiful eyes.

"Brandon… why did Harper leave? Did I… upset her?"

Brandon looked down at her from his full height, his gaze devoid of warmth.

"Luna, drop the act." His voice was hoarse, cutting through the air like a blade. "From now on, whether you live or die—it's none of my concern."

Without another word, he walked toward the elevator, leaving Luna frozen in place, her face drained of color.

Three days later, at Starlight Building.

Harper had recovered sufficiently and threw herself back into the collaboration with Vista Apparel.

Late in the afternoon, just before the lunch hour, Chase appeared at the studio.

He was dressed in his usual sharp, no-nonsense style—a dark utility jacket that emphasized his broad shoulders—and carried a stack of revised design sketches.

"Ms. Anderson, I've reviewed these details. Everything checks out." Chase set the papers on her desk, his voice low and efficient.

"Mr. Rodriguez is impressively efficient." Harper flipped through the sketches and nodded with satisfaction.

Chase glanced at his watch. "It's lunchtime. There's a solid private bistro nearby. Want to grab a bite? We can go over the rollout strategy while we're at it."

"Sounds good." Harper didn't hesitate. She grabbed her coat, and the two headed downstairs together.

They arrived at an upscale Western-style bistro and took a table by the window.

They'd just placed their orders when a low, cold voice cut through the air beside them.

"Harper."

Harper looked up.

Brandon stood beside the table in a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit.

His gaze locked onto Harper with laser focus, then flicked to Chase across from her. His expression darkened instantly, sharp and hostile.

"You left the hospital without telling me?" Brandon's voice was rough, laced with his habitual need for control. "You're not fully recovered. Why aren't you home resting? What the hell are you doing running around?"

Harper leaned back in her chair and took a sip of lemon water, her gaze flat and detached. "Mr. Martinez, where I go and who I eat with is none of your business."

"I'm concerned about you." Brandon braced his hands on the edge of the table, leaning in as if proximity could bridge the chasm between them.

"I don't need your concern." Harper met his eyes head-on, her stare cold as ice. "Brandon, have you forgotten? We're divorced. Please recognize your place and stop interfering in my life."

Brandon's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He glanced at Chase, and jealousy flared hot and violent in his chest, threatening to burn through what little restraint he had left.

He pulled out the empty chair beside Harper and, with shameless audacity, prepared to sit down. "Since we've run into each other, you don't mind if I join you, do you?"

Chase raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, his dark, unreadable gaze sweeping between the two of them before settling on Harper—calm, detached, and faintly amused.

Harper was about to tell Brandon to leave when a commotion erupted near the entrance.

"Brandon! What a coincidence—you're here too?"

Luna swept into the restaurant in an elegant designer dress, her arm looped through her mother Skylar White's. Behind them was her father, Albert White. The picture-perfect family trio beamed as they approached.

Luna's eyes lit up the moment she spotted Brandon. She rushed forward and clung to his sleeve.

But when her gaze landed on Harper sitting across from him, her smile froze.

"Oh. Harper's here too." Luna forced a brittle laugh, then tightened her grip on Brandon's arm possessively. "Brandon, my parents were just saying they wanted to take you out for dinner. Since we've run into each other, why don't we all grab a private room and eat together?"