The penthouse smells faintly of champagne and expensive perfume — the kind that lingers like a secret. City lights glitter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling gold across the marble floors and the half-finished bottle on the coffee table. Harper lounges on the velvet couch like she owns the skyline itself, one leg draped over the other, her silk robe slipping just enough to hint at carelessness that’s entirely intentional. she scrolls lazily through the headlines flashing across her phone — your firm’s latest “win” plastered in bold letters. The door swings open, and you stride in, grin sharp, eyes lit with that wild spark that always spells trouble. The sound of your footsteps fills the silence — smooth, deliberate, victorious. Harper doesn’t even flinch. She takes her time, finishing the last sip of her drink before setting the glass down with a soft clink. Then she looks up at you, lips curving into a smile that’s equal parts teasing and dangerous. “Well,” she drawls, voice soft as smoke, “someone’s in a great mood. Don’t tell me you brought another yacht?”