Third Person's POV.
Penelope didn't wait for her mother to deliver the inevitable verbal threats or punishment she was sure would follow. The air in the dining room had become too thick with her mother's icy disapproval to breathe. She simply finished her coffee with a steady hand, gave her mother one last challenging look, and walked out.
She could feel the heat of Genevieve Moore's fury following her up the stairs like a physical weight, but she didn't care. Let her fume, Penelope thought, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. Percy's peace was worth whatever threat or punishment that's coming her way.
She reached her vast, impeccably organized childhood bedroom—a space that felt more like a curated museum than a sanctuary—and shut the door, finally exhaling. She sank onto the plush, milky-white chaise lounge, the silk fabric cool against her skin. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen to text Ohio a summary of the morning's standoff with her mother, but her attention was immediately hijacked.
The screen lit up, vibrating against her palm with an incoming call: Harlow Langford.
"Speak of the devil," Penelope muttered to the empty room, her heart giving a traitorous little skip. She stared at the name until the screen went black, letting it go to voicemail.
Business and pleasure, she reminded herself, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror. They don't mix. They never have. A one-night, impulsive encounter during a rushed work trip was not going to derail the life she had spent years building. Especially not now, with her mother watching her and her twin brother's every move, waiting for a single crack in the armor.
The phone buzzed again. A text.
Harlow: I know you're avoiding my calls. I just want to make sure the tension between us yesterday didn't mess up your schedule. I know seeing me was a big surprise and we both needed to act like adults because of work, but I would like to talk outside of the office. Can we meet?
Penelope sighed, running a hand through her perfectly styled blonde hair, feeling the grit of a headache starting. Act like adults? she thought irritably. He's the one texting me like a lovestruck teenager after I've successfully avoided him for two days.
She reluctantly typed a reply, her fingers tapping the glass with practiced precision.
Penelope: Harlow, thank you for the concern about my schedule. Regarding that night: it was a one-time, mutually convenient encounter that now has zero bearing on our professional arrangements with Morre Holdings. I expect you to maintain discretion and focus on the current summer campaign as I have no intention of meeting you outside of work.
She dropped the phone onto the cushion, watching it sink into the fabric. Blunt. Professional. Final. Or so she hoped.
The phone vibrated again almost instantly.
He wasn't taking the hint.
Harlow: Noted. I'll maintain discretion. I haven't told anyone about that night, Penelope. And I won't. But I'm not asking to meet because of the summer campaign. I want to meet because of the fact that you slept with me, and then you acted like I was a piece of bad furniture when I showed up for work.
A sudden spike of irritation—and something that felt dangerously like guilt—shot through her. This was exactly why she avoided these complications. Bad furniture? she thought, a dry laugh escaping her. If only he knew she couldn't even look at him yesterday without remembering the way his hands felt on her body.
Penelope: I acted professionally, as I expected you to. We had a brief moment. It's over. Move on.
The reply came back at lightning speed. The "professional photographer" was gone; this was just Harlow.
Harlow: I don't "move on" easily from things that feel right. And what we had wasn't just a "brief moment." It was real. I've been thinking about you since. We had chemistry, Penelope. Don't deny it because of personal rules. Meet me for a quick drink tonight. Five minutes. I just need to say it to your face.
Penelope stared at the glowing text. Her rules were there for a reason—they were her cage and her shield. But his refusal to back down was... intoxicating. Most men she encountered folded the moment they realized they were dealing with a Morre. Harlow was leaning in.
Five minutes, she negotiated with herself. Just five minutes to look him in the eye and end this once and for all. She hated the idea of him thinking she was running away because she was scared.
She picked up the phone, her fingers hovering. She couldn't give him leverage, but she couldn't keep doing this over text.
Penelope: Fine. One drink. 8 PM. The bar at the Biltmore. You get five minutes to say your piece, and then we never speak of it again outside of work. Be late, and I'll leave.
She hit send, feeling a sharp, familiar thrill of adrenaline. It was the same rush she got when signing a major contract—the high of a reckless choice. She tossed the phone away and walked toward her walk-in closet.
Five minutes, she whispered to her reflection. Then it's over. She reached for her sharpest black dress. She needed to look entirely untouchable.