Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Check your email. Now. -A friend

Harper frowned, switching to her inbox. There was a new message at the top with no sender name, only a subject line:

RE: LV Classified.

With trembling fingers, she opened the email.

The harsh reality blurred before her eyes. 

She looked at tons of messages. The deal had already taken a certain path, so why did her father trap her in this project, which she wanted to escape like a plague?

“When will it end?” She laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the small office.

She wanted to close her eyes with relief, but all she got was another sip of despair. She stood and paced to the window. 

The city sprawled below, nonchalant. The glass was cool against her forehead as she pressed it against her skin, while her mental world was crumbling.

Has Ivan seen this email too? Was he out here, plotting? While she drowned in her father’s schemes?

The memory of their clash, her taunting him about Oliver, burned. 

“Was I the cause of this?”

She froze, the question slicing through her defenses. Why had she picked him? His presence had left her rattled, but his absence was worse, while his brother… Oliver, why did he sound so sincere this morning?

Harper sank into her chair, and the flashbacks were burning in her mind.

"Excuse me? This is artisanal brewing."

"If by artisanal you mean catastrophic, then yes, absolutely."

"I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of making coffee. I choose not to."

“The classic Owen. It's not that I can't, I don't want to. Does this strategy usually work?

Harper laughed, swatting at the male’s arm as a man reached around her to fix whatever disaster she'd created with the espresso machine.

"Mystery is overrated. I prefer transparency."

"How boring of you."

"How refreshing of me, you mean." 

"Better than your strategy of actually being competent. Where's the mystery in that?"

"Some of us don't need to hide behind family drama."

"You don't have to hide from me." He handed her a properly made cup. 

"Don't I?"

"Then I guess we'll find out together." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

"You know what your problem is?" she said, moving closer to him.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"Your problem is that you think everyone is as good as you are."

"And your problem is that you think everyone is not as clever as you are."

"I don't think that. I know that."

A man laughing, the sound rich and warm. "God, you're naive."

"God, you're arrogant."

"We're perfect for each other."

"We're terrible for each other."

"Same thing."

"Smooth talker."

“I learned from the best."

Harper blinked, feeling the loss of that warmth like a physical ache. 

She could not recognize herself in those memories anymore. It felt unreal that those had been different times, when she'd believed in transparency and trust and all the things men around her had destroyed.

A knock at the door jolted her. Clara peeked in, her smile faltering. “Ms. Owen? You okay?”

Harper forced a nod, her voice tight. “Just… thinking.”

Clara hesitated, glancing at the tablet. “There’s talk going around. People heard you and Mr. Vernon arguing yesterday. It’s… getting attention.”

Harper’s stomach dropped as the possible press leak was creeping closer. Their clashes, steeped in family secrets, could be tomorrow’s headline if Clara’s gossip reached the wrong ears.

“Keep it quiet,” Harper said sharply.

Clara nodded, retreating, but the damage was done. The office felt more like a trap with every second, and shadows became potential eavesdroppers. 

The first wave hit without warning. The tightness began in her chest, a band of iron slowly constricting around her lungs. 

Harper's breathing became shallow, and each inhale was a struggle against invisible weight pressing down on her ribcage. 

The office walls seemed to shift, growing closer, the pristine white paint darkening at the edges of her vision like spilled ink bleeding across paper.

“Not now. Not here.”

But anxiety didn't follow schedules or convenient timing. Harper knew it was a predator that struck when she was at the edge. Harper gripped her desk, and her vision flickered, casting shades before her.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the hum of the air conditioning. The sound was so loud she was certain everyone could hear it.

This frantic, rabbit-fast rhythm was announcing her weakness to the world. The fluorescent lights above flickered, alternating harsh brightness and deep shadow. Maybe it was her vision, fragmenting like a broken mirror.

Breathe. Just breathe.

It felt impossible, as if her lungs had forgotten their purpose. Each attempt to draw air resulted in nothing more than a shallow gasp.

Colors began to drain from the room. The darkness was filling her peripheral sight, moving slowly, and it threatened to swallow everything.

Harper stood abruptly, the chair rolling backward. Sometimes movement helped her body to focus on something besides the panic eating her alive from the inside. 

This time, she only felt dizziness grow worse. The floor tilted beneath her feet, and she had to grasp the desk again to keep from falling.

The office now felt like a coffin of glass and steel. She could see Ivan's empty chair across from her, and even that simple sight sent another wave of terror through her. 

What would he think when he returned? Would he see through her facade to the pathetic, broken creature beneath?

“Get out. Get out. GET OUT.”

The thought screamed through her mind, and for a moment she wondered if she'd spoken aloud. She needed air, space. 

Her legs felt like liquid, unsteady and unreliable, but somehow she managed to propel herself toward the door.

The hallway stretched before her like a tunnel. The walls seemed to pulse with each beat of her heart. 

"Ms. Owen?... You okay?..."

Faces passed. The mouths moved, perhaps offering greetings or questions, but their voices were muffled, distant, as if she were hearing them from underwater.

The thought hit her. 

“Everyone knew. Everyone was watching.”

Like she was a spectacle, a cautionary tale playing out in real time for their entertainment.

Her vision darkened further, the edges closing in like curtains being drawn. 

The building's EXIT signs glowed red through the haze to escape. She followed them blindly down the stairs.

By the time the doors opened to the lobby, Harper felt like she was drowning in her own skin, every nerve ending alive with electric panic.

The city air slapped her face, allowing her a single, precious breath. 

But then the familiar sounds of traffic and voices rushed in, and the panic returned with renewed force. 

Harper walked without destination, her feet following her muscle memory from another lifetime. The streets blurred past in shades of gray and black. People moved around her like ghosts, their faces indistinct, their purposes meaningless.

It wasn't until she felt the familiar roughness of steel beneath her palms that she realized where her unconscious mind had led her. 

“No. No, not again.”

The bridge. 

She ended up on this bridge again.

The river cruelly raged below, like there were no years or days in between. The wind whipped her hair across her face, carrying the scent of exhaust fumes. Four years ahead, she’ll be here again. 

“You’re no good…” Harper looked down, trying to see herself in those waves.

The anxiety transformed, shifting into something deeper, more primal. This was existential fear.

“Despite everything…”

Despite her second chance, she remained trapped in the same destruction.

The river stayed indifferent to her presence. Traffic honked in the distance, the same sounds that had surrounded her final moments in that other life. 

Everything was muffled by the strange peace that came with absolute surrender. Car horns became whispers, footsteps became echoes.

The time seemed to collapse, and Harper felt like her past and future were blending. 

"I'm so tired," she whispered to the night. "I'm so fucking tired of being Henry Owen's daughter."

She bent her head.

“Why did I get a second chance?”

The question hung in the air, leaving her tears on her cheeks a curse.

The night was approaching the natural end of another day in a life, and the last sun rays were about to fade away. The darkness at the edges of her vision had nothing to do with anxiety now. 

The city lights began to flicker on around her, creating a constellation of artificial stars, while she heard some murmuring. The words came from behind her, distant at first, almost swallowed by the city. 

Harper's grip tightened on the railing. She couldn't turn around, wouldn't turn around. Whoever her cruel fate had brought here now, she couldn't face them. 

‘..arper… Harper!’ She heard her name within all this noise around now, clearly .

Footsteps approached, cautious but determined, the sound of expensive shoes against wet pavement. Harper's breath hitched. 

The hand reached out to her.