Chapter 53 Chapter 52
Harper POV
The lecture hall feels too small.
Too warm. Too loud. Too full of people who have no idea my entire nervous system is still in recovery mode.
I take my seat in the second row like I always do, notebook out, pen aligned, posture straight. If I look normal enough, maybe I’ll feel normal.
I don’t.
I can feel him before I see him.
That awareness hits first—like my skin has learned a new language overnight and now it only speaks Logan.
The chair three rows back scrapes.
My shoulders tense.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t need to.
I know it’s him.
Class starts. Professor Keene launches into something about market elasticity, and I write it down like my life depends on it. My handwriting is a little sharper than usual. My jaw is a little tighter.
I tell myself I don’t care that he’s behind me.
Another lie.
For fifty minutes, I pretend he’s not there.
I almost succeed.
When class ends, the room erupts into the usual chaos—bags zipping, chairs scraping, people already half in conversation before they even stand.
I’m shoving my notebook into my bag when I hear it.
“Harper.”
Not loud. Not gentle.
Careful.
I freeze for half a second before I straighten and turn.
He’s standing in the aisle, backpack over one shoulder, eyes searching my face like he’s trying to read a language I’ve stopped translating for him.
“What?” I ask.
His mouth tightens. “You left pretty fast yesterday.”
“Busy day,” I say flatly.
He studies me. “You’re being weird.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Instead, I say, “Don’t forget we have the final meeting with the sponsors for the auction tomorrow at four. The itinerary’s in your email.”
There. Professional. Clean. Safe.
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Harper—”
“I’m serious,” I say. “They’re flying in. We need to be aligned.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Then what did you mean?”
“You,” he says. “You’re… different.”
I meet his eyes. “No. I’m not.”
He frowns. “Yes, you are.”
I cross my arms. “I’m just being myself.”
He stares at me for a long second. “No, you’re not.”
Something in my chest finally snaps.
“Oh?” I say, sharp. “Then what am I supposed to be?”
He hesitates.
That’s all it takes.
I laugh, short and humorless. “Let me guess. How do the puck bunnies act after sleeping with you, Logan? Is that what you’re waiting for?”
His eyes widen. “That’s not—”
“Do I bat my eyelashes?” I cut in. “Flash my tits? Laugh at all your jokes and pretend I don’t notice when you start pulling away?”
“Harper—”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cold and shaking in equal measure. “I can’t bring myself down to that level.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“I have respect for myself, Logan,” I say. “Maybe that’s what feels so unfamiliar to you.”
A couple of people nearby glance over. I don’t care.
He looks like I slapped him.
“Is that what you think this is?” he asks quietly. “That you’re just… another one?”
I hold his gaze. “Your behavior makes a very compelling case.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says.
“Then what did you mean?” I shoot back. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you got what you wanted and now you’re trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”
His voice drops. “That’s not true.”
“Then act like it,” I say.
Silence stretches between us.
He looks like he wants to say something. Like he’s fighting with himself.
He doesn’t win.
People start moving around us, flowing past, and suddenly we’re just two people standing in the aisle of a lecture hall, stuck in something neither of us knows how to fix.
“I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything,” he says finally.
“You didn’t have to,” I reply. “Your distance did that for you.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not good at this.”
“I noticed.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t—”
He stops himself.
My heart stutters.
Doesn’t what?
Doesn’t care?
Doesn’t regret it?
Doesn’t want me?
I don’t wait to find out.
“This isn’t a conversation about your emotional skill set,” I say. “This is about the fact that we’re adults, and we have a job to do together. So let’s do that. Professionally.”
“And personally?” he asks.
I look at him for a long moment.
Then I say, “There is no personally right now.”
His expression hardens. “That’s not what last night felt like.”
“That was a mistake,” I say before I can stop myself.
The word lands between us like a grenade.
His face closes off.
“Is that what you think?” he asks.
I swallow. “I think… it complicated things that didn’t need to be complicated.”
“So you regret it.”
I don’t answer right away.
I can’t.
Because the truth is too messy.
“I regret,” I say carefully, “that I expected more from you.”
That one hits.
I can see it.
He straightens, something defensive sliding back into place. “You don’t get to decide what I’m capable of.”
“And you don’t get to decide how I’m allowed to react to being treated like an afterthought,” I shoot back.
We stand there, staring at each other, both breathing a little too hard.
Finally, I step back.
“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Conference room B,” I say. “Don’t be late.”
Then I walk past him.
My legs don’t start shaking until I’m halfway down the hall.
I don’t look back.
I won’t give him that.
The rest of the day feels like walking around with a bruise on the inside of my chest.
Every little thing presses on it.
By the time I get back to the house, I’m exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix.
Lila’s on the couch with her laptop when I come in. She looks up, reads my face instantly.
“Bad?”
“Define bad.”
She closes her laptop. “Logan bad?”
“Yes.”
She winces. “What happened?”
“We had a… conversation.”
“That sounds like a fight.”
“It was a fight,” I admit.
She scoots over and pats the couch. I sit.
“He thinks I’m being weird,” I say.
“And?”
“And I told him I’m just being myself.”
She snorts. “That’s always a lie.”
I huff a laugh despite myself. “I might have… said some things.”
“Like?”
“Like how do the puck bunnies act after sleeping with him,” I say dryly. “And whether he wanted me to start performing.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Good for you.”
“I also told him I have respect for myself.”
She smiles. “Excellent.”
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “I hate this.”
“Because you still care.”
“Yes.”
She bumps my shoulder. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
“I don’t want to be his conquest,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to be something he explains away.”
“You’re not,” she says firmly.
“Then he needs to start acting like it.”
That night, I open my laptop and go over the auction agenda again.
Every line item. Every minute accounted for.
Control. Order. Predictability.
Things I understand.
People are harder.
And Logan Shaw?
He’s a variable I should have never let into the equation.
Tomorrow, we’ll sit in a room and smile for donors and pretend everything is fine.
And I will not—
absolutely will not—
let him see how much he’s already changed things.