The Mediterranean sun was a lie. Harper Ellis squinted at it from the back of the taxi, a brilliant, cheerful gold that felt like it was personally mocking her. It promised warmth and ease, concepts as foreign to her now as the winding streets of Monaco rising before her.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh for the third time in five minutes. She didn't need to look to know it was the office. The vibration matched the low, constant hum of exhaustion in her bones. Thirty-six hours ago, she'd been in a New York conference room, the air thick with stale coffee and desperation, closing a merger that felt less like a victory and more like a trench warfare survival. Her boss, Vivienne, had pressed the first-class ticket into her hand with a look that brooked no argument. "You're vibrating with fatigue, Harper. You're no good to me like this. Go. Sleep. Pretend you have a life for seventy-two hours."
So here she was. Running away and or being sent away. The distinction felt blurry.
"Hôtel de Paris, madame," the driver announced, pulling under the iconic stone portico. The building was a confection of Belle Époque grandeur, all creamy stone and gleaming gold trim. It screamed old money and effortless luxury, two things Harper, despite her Armani suit and Prada heels, knew she had earned through blood, sweat, and a lifetime of meticulous planning.
A porter materialized, taking her single carry-on—she was efficient even in escape. The lobby was a symphony of marble, crystal, and the soft murmur of a dozen different languages. The air smelled of gardenias and immense wealth. Harper adjusted her sunglasses, a shield against the opulence. She didn't belong here. She was a strategist, a problem solver, and a woman who built fortresses of logic. This place was built on whimsy and inherited yachts.
Her room was, predictably, flawless. A suite overlooking the harbor, where millions of dollars' worth of floating white sculptures bobbed lazily. She dropped her bag and walked to the window, pressing her palms against the cool glass. The view was a postcard, but all she saw was the ghost of her own reflection—a pale woman with dark chestnut hair pulled into a ruthlessly neat knot, hazel eyes shadowed, a mouth that had forgotten how to relax into a smile.
It had been three years since she'd taken time for herself; that wasn't a calculated long weekend since the implosion. The memory arrived uninvited, sharp as broken glass: coming home early to the apartment she'd painstakingly furnished, finding the note on the kitchen island next to his discarded engagement ring. Harper, I'm sorry. I need something… easier. You're a force of nature, but I can't breathe. Mark.
She'd stood there, holding the stupid, square-cut diamond, feeling not heartbreak, but a profound, chilling humiliation. He'd left her for a junior analyst from his tennis club. Someone easier. The lesson had been branded into her soul: love made you vulnerable. Vulnerability led to abandonment. Professional success, however, was a fortress with no back doors.
Her phone lit up again, but this time it was a FaceTime call. The name 'Chloe' flashed with a photo of her best friend grinning, a champagne flute in hand. Harper felt the first genuine flicker of warmth all day. She accepted the call.
"Tell me you're not already working," Chloe's voice, a warm Texas drawl that no amount of New York living had erased, filled the silent room. Her face appeared on screen, platinum blonde pixie cut artfully messy, brown eyes sparkling with concern and mischief.
"I'm not working," Harper said, her voice rough from disuse. "I'm… decompressing."
Chloe snorted. "You're standing in a hotel room staring at a wall. I can see the 'to-do' list spinning behind your eyes. What's the view?"
Harper flipped the camera. The Monaco harbor sprawled out, a glittering jewel box under the azure sky.
A low whistle came through the speaker. "Okay, okay. Vivienne has decent taste in exile locations. Now listen to me, Harper Eleanor Ellis. You're going to take a bath in that inevitable marble tub, and you are going to order something obscenely expensive from room service that you don't have to expense. And then tonight, you are going to put on that knockout emerald dress you bought for the Gala last year and never wore, and you are going to go downstairs to that charity casino thing."
Harper blinked. "The gala? Chloe, no. That's a room full of strangers playing at being James Bond. I'd rather read the Titan project brief."
"The brief can wait!" Chloe insisted, her face earnest. "That's the whole point! For seventy-two hours, you are not the brilliant, relentless Harper Ellis of Sterling & Cross. You are a mysterious, beautiful woman in Monaco. No one knows you. No one knows you can dissect a balance sheet faster than they can order champagne. They'll just see you. The you that existed before Mark the Moron, before eighty-hour weeks. Let someone see you, Harper. Just for a night."
"See me and what? Talk about the weather? The performance of their hedge fund?"
"Flirt!" Chloe exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "Make terrible, wonderful decisions! Lose some money at roulette! Get kissed by a stranger with an unplaceable accent! Remember fun? It's that thing you used to have before you became a corporate warrior queen."
"Fun is a strategic liability," Harper muttered, but the words lacked their usual conviction. The emerald dress… she had loved that dress. She'd bought it imagining a different life, one with laughter and parties and a partner who looked at her like she was the only thing in the room. She'd never worn it.
"Your liability is turning into a gorgeous robot," Chloe said softly, her teasing fading. "Please. For me. Do one thing that isn't on a plan. Let loose. Just once."
Harper looked from her friend's pleading face to the harbor, to the perfect, lonely room. The exhaustion wasn't just in her body; it was in her soul. The fortress was empty. "One drink," she said finally, the words feeling foreign. "I'll go down for one drink."
"Yes!" Chloe pumped a fist. "Channel your inner Bond Girl! Call me tomorrow. I want details of your scandalous behavior."
They hung up. The silence rushed back in, but it felt different now. Charged with a possibility that made her nerves hum. She ran a bath, as instructed, sinking into lavender-scented steam until her muscles unclenched. She ordered lobster and a glass of crisp Sancerre, eating on the terrace as the sun dipped, painting the sky in hues of peach and violet. And then, with a heart pounding like she was heading into a boardroom showdown, she stood before the mirror.
The emerald gown was a revelation. Silk jersey that draped and clung in equal measure, the color making her hazel eyes look almost green, her skin glowed. She left her hair down, the chestnut waves falling past her shoulders, a small act of rebellion against her usual tight knot. A swipe of red lipstick, diamond studs in her ears, her mother's, the only truly valuable thing she owned and she was as ready as she'd ever be.
She barely recognized the woman in the mirror. She looked… soft. Alluring. Like someone who knew how to have fun.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she met her own gaze. "Just one night," she whispered to her reflection, the words a vow and a plea. "No names. No past. No future. No consequences."
Grabbing a simple black clutch, she turned off the light and stepped out of her room, heading for the elevator, for the gala, for the unknown. The heels of her shoes tapped a steady, rhythmic promise on the marble floor.