Chapter 1 - The Seven O’Clock Wraith
The gray sedan was waiting by the curb when Harper pushed open the heavy iron door of her apartment building at exactly seven o’clock.
It wasn't a standard taxi, nor was it some flashy sports car that screamed local kingpin. It was a matte-black Town Car with tinted windows so dark they absorbed the pale morning light like a sponge. As she stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, the rear door glided open with a soft, expensive click, revealing a cool, leather-scented interior that felt entirely detached from the grimy, oil-streaked avenue.
Inside sat Vincent Romano.
He hadn't shifted position since she first glimpsed him through the glass. He wore another immaculate charcoal suit, a silver silk tie knotted with geometric precision against his stark white collar. He didn't look at her as she slid across the leather seat and pulled the heavy door shut, sealing out the damp city air.
“You’re punctual,” Vincent said, his voice a low gravel rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.
“I don't like being late,” Harper replied, her fingers white-knuckled as she clutched her battered canvas purse to her chest. She glanced out the tinted window as the car pulled away from the curb with effortless, silent acceleration. “Where are we going? The courthouse isn't open for another hour.”
“We’re making two stops before the courthouse,” Vincent answered, finally turning his head to look at her. His gray eyes were cold, calculating, and entirely unreadable. “First, a federal clerk’s office where my legal team has expedited an emergency marriage license waiver. Second, a boutique on Fifth Avenue. You cannot walk into a family courtroom looking like you just pulled a twelve-hour shift at a diner.”
Harper bristled, her exhaustion suddenly flaring into defensive pride. “There was nothing wrong with what I wore—”
“It has bleach stains on the hem, Harper,” Vincent interrupted, his tone flat, final, and devoid of mockery. “If you want to convince a cynical family court judge that I am a reformed, domesticated pillar of the community, your clothes cannot suggest we met behind a dumpster. We are selling a narrative. Details matter.”
Harper opened her mouth to snap back at him, to remind him that she was doing this out of sheer desperation while he was treating her life like a corporate branding exercise. But the memory of the legal notice folded in her pocket—and the mental image of her uncle Richard waiting at the courthouse steps with his greedy, outstretched hands—choked the words back down her throat.
May you like
She turned her face toward the glass, watching the dreary storefronts blur into gray streaks as the car hurtled toward the center of the city.
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