Chapter 49 The Pride Of Justice
Harper's POV,
Monica's conference room smelled like expensive leather and the kind of coffee that costs twelve dollars a cup. I sat with my hands folded on the table, watching three lawyers in suits that probably cost more than my first car shuffle papers and avoid eye contact.
Brianna's lead attorney, a woman named Patricia with a severe bob and reading glasses on a chain, cleared her throat. "Ms. Sinclair, my clients are prepared to offer $800,000 to settle all claims. No NDA. You maintain full rights to discuss the case publicly."
I looked at Monica. She'd told me to let her do the talking, but $800,000 was a number that made my brain short-circuit.
"That's lower than our counter," Monica said smoothly. "We asked for $1.2million."
"And that number was unrealistic given the circumstances." Patricia slid a folder across the table. "Ms. Cross is twenty-six years old, seven months pregnant, and facing her own financial difficulties following her father's legal troubles. Eight hundred thousand is more than generous."
"Generous." Monica laughed, sharp and cold. "Your client's father tried to send Harper to prison using a corrupted DA's office. Generous would be two million and a public apology."
"My client isn't responsible for her father's actions—"
"Your client is the one who filed the lawsuit that started this whole mess. She slapped Harper first, then weaponized the legal system when Harper defended herself." Monica leaned forward. "So let's not pretend Brianna Cross is some innocent victim here."
I watched the lawyers argue numbers and liability and comparative fault, their voices blending into background noise. $800,000. That was more money than I'd made in the past three years combined. That was a down payment on the clinic I'd always dreamed about. That was security.
But it also felt like putting a price on three months of hell.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Crew. I glanced at the screen under the table.
Having a bad morning. Cravings are really bad. Sorry.
My stomach twisted. He was at an NA meeting right now—his second one since getting out of rehab. I'd dropped him off an hour ago, promising I'd pick him up after this meeting ended.
Do you need me to come get you early? I typed back.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.
No. Finish your meeting. I'm okay. Just wanted you to know.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket and forced myself to focus on Patricia, who was now explaining why eight hundred thousand was actually the ceiling, not the floor.
"Furthermore," Patricia continued, "my client would like to add a personal component to this settlement. She'd like to meet with Ms. Sinclair directly. To apologize."
Monica and I both looked up.
"Absolutely not," Monica said immediately.
"Why not?" I asked.
Monica turned to me, lowering her voice. "Because it's a trap. They want you emotional and sympathetic so you'll take a lower number."
"Or maybe she actually wants to apologize." I looked at Patricia. "Is she here?"
"She's waiting outside, yes. But Ms. Sinclair, you're under no obligation—"
"I'll talk to her."
Monica grabbed my arm. "Harper. Don't do this. You don't owe her anything."
"I know. But I want to hear what she has to say." I stood up. "Five minutes. That's it."
Patricia nodded and left the conference room. Monica looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"This is a mistake," she said.
"Probably. But I'm doing it anyway."
The door opened and Brianna walked in.
I hadn't seen her in person since the engagement party six weeks ago, when she'd publicly accused me of trying to ruin her wedding. She looked different now, smaller somehow, despite being visibly pregnant. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she wasn't wearing makeup. She looked tired. Scared.
Human.
"Hi," she said quietly, standing near the door like she might need to run.
"Hi."
We stared at each other for a long moment. Monica excused herself, probably so she wouldn't be a witness to whatever disasters I was about to agree to, leaving us alone.
Brianna sat down across from me, her hands resting on her stomach. "I'm sorry. For everything. I know that doesn't fix anything, but I need you to know I'm genuinely sorry."
"Okay."
"I was awful to you. I slapped you and then I let my father—" Her voice cracked. "I didn't know what he was doing. I swear I didn't know about the DA or Richard Moss or any of it until the news broke. But I should have known. I should have questioned why everything was happening so fast."
I didn't say anything. I just waited.
"My whole life, my dad fixed my problems. I never had to deal with consequences because he'd just throw money at things until they went away." She wiped her eyes. "And I thought that's how life worked for everyone. That if you had enough money, you could just make uncomfortable things disappear. But watching him get arrested, watching everything fall apart... I realize now how fucked up that is. How fucked up I am."
"You're not fucked up," I said, surprising myself. "You're just... privileged. And you never had to learn that actions have consequences because someone always caught you before you hit the ground."
"Well, I'm hitting the ground now." She laughed bitterly. "Joel left me. Moved out two days ago. Said he can't do this anymore, that he made a mistake, that he never should have proposed." She looked at me. "He still loves you. You know that, right?"
"That's his problem, not mine."
"Yeah." She was quiet for a moment. "I'm going to be a single mom. Twenty-six years old, no real job skills, living off settlement money from my dad's lawsuits because all his assets are frozen. This baby is coming in two months and I have no idea what I'm doing."
I should have felt triumphant. This was everything I'd wanted when I'd agreed to fake-date Crew three months ago, Joel miserable, Brianna's perfect life falling apart, proof that I'd won.
But sitting across from her, watching her cry into her hands, I just felt tired.
"You'll figure it out," I said. "Being scared doesn't mean you'll be a bad mom. It just means you're aware enough to know it's hard."
She looked up, surprised. "You're being nice to me."
"I'm not being nice. I'm being honest." I stood up. "I accept the eight hundred thousand. Tell your lawyers to draw up the paperwork."
"Really?"
"Really. But Brianna?" I paused at the door. "Get therapy. Real therapy. Not Instagram wellness coaches or celebrity life consultants. Actual therapy. Because your kid deserves a mom who's done the work to not repeat her father's mistakes."
She nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you. For not being cruel. You could have been cruel."
"Yeah, well. Being hurt doesn't mean I have to be mean." I opened the door. "Good luck with the baby."
I walked out before she could respond, before I could second-guess myself, before the weight of being the bigger person could crush me.
Monica was waiting in the hallway. "Well?"
"Eight hundred thousand. Draw it up."
"Harper—"
"I know it's less than we wanted. But it's enough. And I'm done fighting." I pulled out my phone. Crew had texted again.
Meeting's over. I'm okay. Take your time.
I wasn't okay though. My hands were shaking and my chest felt tight and I needed to get out of this building before I started crying in a law office hallway.
"I need to go," I told Monica. "Crew needs me."
"He texted you during the negotiation, didn't he?" She smiled slightly. "Go. I'll handle the paperwork. You handled enough today."
I was halfway to my car when my phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, but something made me pick up.
"Harper Sinclair?"
"Yes?"
"This is Dr. Rahman from Seattle Grace Hospital. I'm calling about Crew Lawson. He's asked me to contact you. He's... he's had a medical emergency. Can you come to the hospital?"
The world tilted sideways.
"What happened?"
"He collapsed at an NA meeting. We're running tests now, but we need you here as soon as possible."
I was already running.