Chapter 2

Harper's POV

Deep in an old, rundown alley in South Brooklyn.

Wearing rubber gloves, I was scrubbing down a grease-stained stainless-steel prep table with everything I had.

This was a tiny diner I had just leased. It wasn't big—barely three hundred square feet, with peeling paint on the walls—but the rent was cheap.

My phone rested on the windowsill, streaming the midday news.

"...Breaking news: professional dancer Natalie Miller, who has remained in a vegetative state for three years following a severe car crash, miraculously woke up this afternoon. Sources report that Charles Vance, CEO of Vance Enterprises, has already rushed to the hospital..."

My hands froze on the table.

Murky water dripped from the rag, sending ripples through the dirty water in the bucket.

I glanced at the screen just in time to see Charles sprinting into the hospital building. He was moving in such a frantic hurry that his tie was skewed and his dress shirt sleeves were shoved up his forearms. In all our three years together, I had never seen him lose his composure like that.

So, when a man truly loved someone, he didn't care about keeping up appearances.

And because he didn't love me, he could maintain the cruelest elegance and cold detachment every time he tore me down.

I took a deep breath. My lungs filled with the distinct smell of grease and dust lingering in the old alley.

I locked my phone screen, rinsed the rag clean, and went back to scrubbing the stubborn grime off the steel. With every stroke, it felt like I was scraping away a layer of whatever was left in my heart, until the surface reflected my sweat-drenched face.

That evening, Charles came home.

It was the first time in six months that he had stepped through our front door before nine at night.

I was sitting on the living room sofa, labeling cardboard boxes with a black marker. Hearing the door open, I didn't look up, only quietly capped the pen.

I assumed he was here to ask for a divorce. Now that his leading lady was back, an extra like me should have exited the stage long ago.

Charles walked over to the coffee table and looked down at me from above.

Faint red veins still webbed his eyes, but his expression had already hardened back into his usual aloof arrogance. He tossed a manila folder onto the glass table with a sharp slap.

"Natalie just woke up. The doctor says she needs absolute quiet. A hospital environment isn't suited for long-term recovery," Charles said in a frigid tone, as if delivering a corporate directive. "This house is closest to the hospital and her rehabilitation center."

I looked at the folder and remained silent.

"Move out tomorrow," Charles continued, his tone brook no argument. "Move into the old townhouse up in North Bronx. Vacate the master bedroom for her."

I looked up, meeting that handsome yet heartless face. My heart was already dead, but the sheer absurdity of it still hit me.

Kicking out your current wife to give the marital home to your ex-girlfriend to recover—only a man arrogant to his very core like Charles Vance could do something like this.

"What about the divorce?" My voice was quiet, stripped of anger, carrying nothing more than pure curiosity.

Charles's brows instantly knotted into a tight scowl. He glared at me as if he had just heard a pathetic joke.

"A divorce?" He sneered, his eyes brimming with disgust. "Natalie just woke up. Her body is still frail. If I file for divorce right now, what will the press say about her? How will the public view her? Are you trying to get the whole world to brand her as a homewrecking mistress?"

In his mind, everything I did was a calculated scheme. If I brought up divorce, it had to be a tactic to manipulate him, or a vicious attempt to kick Natalie while she was down.