Close Quarters
1203 Words
Harper
The first thing I noticed was silence.
Not the kind that comes from peace, but the thick, expensive kind — the kind that fills places too big for one person.
I blinked at the high ceiling above me, at the faint morning light filtering through the curtains of the guest suite in Alexander Cole’s penthouse. For a few blissful seconds, I forgot where I was. Then the memories came rushing back — the flashing cameras, the fake smiles, the weight of his hand on my waist as the world watched us play the perfect couple.
I groaned and buried my face in the pillow.
What had I gotten myself into?
I was supposed to be writing exposés, not acting out fairytales for billionaires with image problems. But one look at my phone — twenty unread messages, three missed calls from my editor, and a dozen notifications from gossip sites — reminded me that this was no longer a secret arrangement.
Alexander Cole and his new fiancée, journalist Harper Quinn, steal the spotlight at last night’s gala.
Who is Harper Quinn? Inside the life of the woman who tamed New York’s most elusive billionaire.
Tamed.
Please. I could barely stand him.
I pushed out of bed and grabbed the robe hanging over the chair. The penthouse was so pristine it felt sterile, every surface gleaming, every object positioned like it had been part of a photo shoot. I padded toward the kitchen, following the faint scent of coffee.
And there he was — Alexander — dressed in another immaculate suit, reading something on his tablet like it was whispering state secrets. His tie was already knotted, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable.
Of course he was fully dressed before eight. Men like him probably had meetings with the stock market before breakfast.
“Good morning,” he said, without looking up.
“I wasn’t aware robots said good morning,” I muttered, heading for the coffee pot.
“Only the polite ones.”
I poured myself a mug and leaned against the counter. “So, congratulations. You fooled them all. Every gossip blog, every camera, everyone believes you’ve suddenly decided to settle down.”
His mouth curved slightly — that half-smile that always felt like a test. “You played your part well.”
“Thanks. I try my best at lying to millions of people.”
“Think of it as acting.”
“Acting implies talent. I’m surviving.”
He set down his tablet and looked up at me then — really looked. There was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite name. Not warmth, but not indifference either.
“Last night went perfectly,” he said. “The board is already responding positively. Our engagement will be officially announced in the company press release this afternoon.”
“Our engagement,” I repeated flatly. “Right.”
I sipped my coffee and met his gaze. “Tell me something, Alexander — what happens when this is over? When your board votes, when your merger is safe, when you don’t need me anymore?”
He didn’t blink. “You’ll get your payment. You’ll walk away. Simple.”
“Simple,” I echoed. “You make everything sound like a transaction.”
“It is one,” he said quietly. “You knew that when you signed.”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. I hated that he was right — and even more that part of me wanted it to mean more than money.
I set my mug down too hard, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Cole. You’re officially the least romantic fiancé in history.”
His mouth twitched. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”
“I’m sure.”
I started to leave, but he said my name — not sharply, not like a command, but soft.
“Harper.”
I turned.
He hesitated. For a man who seemed carved from marble, hesitation looked foreign on him. “You did well last night. Better than I expected.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that your version of a compliment?”
“It’s the only one you’ll get this week.”
“Duly noted.”
And then — I swear — he almost smiled.
Almost.
By midday, I was beginning to understand what life in Alexander’s orbit really meant: control disguised as courtesy.
His assistant, Emily, handed me a packed schedule. “Mr. Cole would like you to be available for lunch with the board chair tomorrow. And the press photo shoot Friday. Also, he’s asked for your approval on the honeymoon destination list.”
I blinked. “Honeymoon?”
She gave me a practiced smile. “Optics, Miss Quinn. Appearances of authenticity.”
Appearances of authenticity. That was the entire theme of my life now.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The city glittered below, endless and alive, while I lay in a penthouse that didn’t feel remotely like mine. I got up, slipped into a sweater, and wandered toward the balcony.
The air was crisp, the sound of traffic muted by distance.
I thought I was alone — until the door slid open behind me.
“You’re awake,” Alexander said, stepping out, hands in his pockets. The night made him look softer somehow, less composed.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Too quiet.”
He leaned against the railing beside me. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I doubt that.”
We stood in silence for a while, the kind that wasn’t awkward but dangerous — the kind that made you aware of how close you were to someone you shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
I could feel him watching me. The city lights caught the sharp edges of his face, the faint stubble that ruined his perfect image just enough to make him human.
“You hate this,” he said finally. “All of it.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I’m used to pretending.”
There was something in his tone that made me turn toward him. “Is that what you do all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “Because being real has consequences.”
For a moment, neither of us said anything. I should’ve walked away, gone back inside, put some distance between us. But instead, I found myself whispering, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
His eyes found mine — gray, intense, unreadable. “That’s the problem,” he murmured. “With you, I can’t.”
My breath caught.
For one terrifying second, I thought he was going to kiss me. His hand lifted slightly, fingers brushing my jaw — feather-light, barely there.
Then he stepped back, the mask snapping into place again.
“Goodnight, Harper,” he said, voice low. “We have a busy week ahead.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I stood there long after he’d left, my heart hammering like I’d just run a marathon.
Because the worst part wasn’t that he almost kissed me.
It was that I wanted him to.
- Writer
