Chapter 1 - Harper Come Here Under The Chandeliers
The dining room was too loud to be quiet and too quiet to feel normal. Glasses clinked at the white-clothed tables, candlelight shook inside the little glass holders, and through the tall windows the city glowed cold and blue against the warm chandeliers. I could feel every chair behind me. Every set of eyes that wasn't looking had still found me.
He hadn't raised his voice. That was the worst part. He'd just turned in his red leather chair, his black blazer pulling across his shoulders, and said it low enough that I had to step closer to hear it over the room.
My name is Harper. I was twenty-four and three tables behind on a night I couldn't afford to lose.
It was almost nine and I was still on the floor with makeup caked over the purple on my cheeks and around my left eye. I had told myself the dim light would hide it. It didn't. When I set his water down, a busboy moved fast behind me with a tray and I jerked before I could stop myself. My shoulder hit the stem of a wine glass. It didn't fall. The sound it made against the white tablecloth was small, but he saw it.
He looked up at me, calm and still, gold chain catching the candlelight. "Harper, come here."
I stepped in beside his table. The menu folder lay dark and closed next to the candle. He didn't stand. He reached up with his right hand, the tattoos dark across his knuckles, and took my chin between his thumb and fingers. Gentle, but I couldn't move. His thumb stopped just short of the bruise on my cheekbone, close enough that the heat of it made my eyes water. I could hear my own breathing. I kept my hands locked on the edge of my apron so they wouldn't shake where everyone could see them.
"Why do you flinch when people walk behind you?" he asked, quiet, his eyes fixed on the mark around my left eye.
The room tilted a little. A woman two tables over stopped mid-sentence. I felt the server behind the bar look away fast. My throat went dry.
"I I just tripped. Bad shoes," I said.
He didn't blink. He didn't let go. His thumb hovered there, not pressing, just holding my face steady while my eyes darted toward the windows and back. "Don't lie to me."
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"Please, don't make a scene," I whispered. My apron string cut into my waist where I'd tied it too tight that morning. I could smell the candle wax and red wine and his cologne. I wanted to pull back and refill someone's water and disappear into the kitchen noise, but his hand kept me there, and every second kept us in the middle of that warm light while the rest of the restaurant watched.
His voice dropped even lower. "Who did this to you?"
