Chapter 133

Chapter 133


Harper let out a cold laugh. "I'm not interested."

With that, she turned on her heel and retreated to the guest bedroom without a backward glance.

Brandon stared at her retreating figure, a wave of helplessness crashing over him.

 

The next morning, pale sunlight pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, carving harsh geometric shadows across the hardwood floor.

The soft clatter of cutlery against porcelain drifted from the kitchen.

Harper emerged from the guest bedroom dressed in a crisp business suit, the air thick with the aroma of freshly ground coffee and buttered bacon sizzling in the pan.

Brandon stood behind the kitchen island, wearing charcoal gray slacks and a white dress shirt with sleeves carelessly rolled to his elbows, exposing toned forearms.

He plated the bacon and toast with meticulous care, sliding the dish across the marble counter.

"Eat breakfast." He pulled out a chair, his gaze locked onto her with unsettling intensity.

Harper didn't even glance at the food. She walked straight to the espresso machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee.

"Harper, you didn't eat anything last night. Your stomach can't take this." Brandon's brow furrowed as he picked up the plate and crossed to her.

He speared a small piece of blueberry-jam-smeared toast with a silver fork and lifted it directly to her lips.

His posture was submissive, every movement screaming appeasement.

Harper took half a step back, dodging his hand.

"I have hands of my own." Her tone was glacial as she snatched the fork from him and took a perfunctory bite.

A smear of blueberry jam clung to the corner of her mouth. Brandon's eyes darkened, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly.

He raised his hand, his warm fingertips moving toward her lips with invasive determination.

"Hold still. You've got jam on you." His voice was low and rough, his gaze so heated it felt like he wanted to devour her whole.

Harper turned her head. His fingertips grasped at empty air.

She grabbed a napkin, wiped the corner of her mouth with brutal efficiency, and tossed the crumpled paper into the trash with perfect aim. Every movement was mechanical, guarded.

"I'm running late." She set down her coffee cup, grabbed her bag, and headed for the foyer.

The door slammed shut with a resounding bang, leaving Brandon alone with a table full of cooling breakfast. His outstretched hand slowly clenched into a fist, knuckles bone-white.

 

Over the following week, Brandon stationed himself outside Starlight Building every single day.

On the first day, he waited in the lobby for three hours. The receptionist politely informed him that Harper had already left through the underground garage.

On the second day, he parked his car at the garage exit. Harper rode out with Robert, slipping away through the back service entrance.

It was an exhausting game of cat and mouse.

Harper didn't answer his calls. She didn't reply to his messages.

Brandon's patience eroded with each failed attempt, replaced by an increasingly obsessive need to possess her.

He was accustomed to controlling everything. And now, Harper was the only variable that had slipped beyond his orbit.

 

Friday evening, Starlight Building underground garage.

Harper had just reached her car when a towering shadow fell over her.

Brandon braced one hand against the car door, completely blocking her escape route.

His eyes were bloodshot, his suit jacket draped over his forearm, his entire demeanor radiating exhaustion and barely restrained mania.

"You've been avoiding me for a week. Have you cooled off yet?" His voice was hoarse as he stared her down.

"Move." Harper's expression was blank.

"No." Brandon grabbed her wrist with crushing force. "Come have dinner with me. You've been living off sandwiches for three days straight. Are you trying to destroy your health?"

"Brandon, do you not understand English?" Harper struggled against his grip.

"Apparently not." He yanked open the passenger door of the Maybach and half-pushed, half-lifted her inside, then locked the doors immediately.

Harper watched coldly as he circled around to the driver's seat. "What the hell do you want?"

"Dinner." He started the engine and peeled out of the garage with a sharp press of the accelerator.

The air inside the car turned glacial.

Just then, Brandon's phone on the center console began vibrating violently.

The screen lit up. It was Luna, flooding his Facebook Messenger.

Message after message, relentless.

Finally, a video popped up.

The thumbnail was jarring—a white bathtub, water stained crimson, and a bleeding wrist.

Harper glanced at it, one eyebrow arching slightly.

So Luna had escalated to wrist-slitting to force Brandon's hand.

She turned to look at him, curious what excuse he'd manufacture this time to play hero.

Brandon's gaze flicked across the screen. His eyes turned to ice—cold, emotionless stone.

He picked up the phone. He didn't open the video. He didn't even reply. He simply powered it off.

Then he flipped it face-down into the storage compartment with brisk finality, no hesitation whatsoever.

"You're not going to save her?" Harper found it almost laughable. "She slit her wrists for you."

"She won't die." Brandon kept his eyes on the road, his tone devoid of emotion. "The Whites have a private physician. Whether she lives or dies has nothing to do with me anymore."

He turned his head, meeting her gaze with scorching intensity. "Right now, you're the only person I care about."

Harper looked away, staring out the window.

Her heart remained utterly unmoved.

 

By early November, the seasonal collection from Starlight Building's collaboration with Vista Apparel officially launched.

Harper had masterfully fused minimalist tailoring with classical embroidered detailing. The campaign photos went viral the moment they hit social media.

Initially, the buzz was confined to domestic fashion circles. Within days, it exploded overseas.

Several top-tier international designers reposted Starlight Building's ready-to-wear images on Instagram and Twitter.

"Stunning craftsmanship. A flawless marriage of two styles. This designer is a genius," wrote the former creative director of a major luxury house on his personal account.

Praise poured in from every corner of the industry. Overnight, Harper's name became synonymous with rising talent in international fashion.

Starlight Building's order volume skyrocketed. Even a few elite concept stores reached out with collaboration proposals.

Harper had become an overnight sensation.

She was drowning in work—cross-border video conferences, production capacity negotiations, vetting potential partners. Her schedule was relentless.

But professional success filled every void in her life. She radiated a vitality she'd never possessed before.

Free from the gilded cage of the Martinez family, she finally stood beneath a spotlight that was entirely her own.

 

Wednesday afternoon, Harper received an email from her alma mater.

The sender was her former mentor, now the dean of one of the most prestigious design academies in the country.

The message was warm and sincere, inviting her to deliver a keynote speech at next month's alumni gala as a distinguished graduate.

Harper stared at the university crest on the screen and leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

This was the ultimate validation of her abilities. Without hesitation, she accepted the invitation.

 

As the weekend approached, Harper finally cleared the backlog of rush orders.