Balcony Confessions
1067 Words
Alexander
Control had always been my strongest weapon.
Until Harper Quinn walked into my life and started dismantling it piece by piece.
It began the morning after the gala. The press coverage was overwhelming—flattering headlines, stock prices climbing, my board conveniently silent. By every measurable metric, the plan was a success.
And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She was supposed to be a means to an end—an ally, a performance partner, a name to fix beside mine until the dust settled.
But she was… inconvenient. Sharp where others were soft, fearless where most people shrank. She had no idea how much her defiance fascinated me.
“Mr. Cole?” Emily’s voice broke my thoughts. She stood in the doorway, tablet in hand. “Miss Quinn is waiting in the car for the meeting.”
I nodded and followed her down to the lobby, suppressing the irritation that came from realizing I was late—for once—because of distraction.
When I reached the car, Harper was already inside, scrolling through her phone. She looked different today—hair loose, minimal makeup, an oversized blazer over her dress. Effortlessly beautiful, though she’d never believe it.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up.
I smirked. “You’re early.”
“Maybe I value punctuality.”
“Or maybe you’re just eager to see me.”
She glanced at me then, one eyebrow raised. “In your dreams, Cole.”
I liked the way she said my name—like it was something she didn’t want to taste but couldn’t quite spit out.
The meeting with the board went as expected. Polished smiles, practiced questions, veiled threats. Harper sat beside me, perfectly poised, answering when addressed, laughing at my terrible attempts at charm. She played the fiancée role flawlessly.
Too flawlessly.
Halfway through, I noticed the way one of the directors—Matthews, sixty, fond of expensive cigars and younger women—was watching her. His gaze lingered too long, too low. My jaw tightened.
“Beautiful couple,” Matthews said when the meeting adjourned. “You’ve done well for yourself, Alexander.”
I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I’m aware.”
When he turned that oily charm toward Harper, taking her hand a little too eagerly, something inside me snapped tight.
“She’s not a prop,” I said sharply. “Don’t touch her.”
The room went still.
Harper blinked at me, startled, but Matthews only laughed. “Protective, are we? Can’t blame you.”
I didn’t bother replying. My hand found the small of her back as I guided her out of the conference room. It was instinctive, possessive, wrong—and I knew it.
Outside, she pulled away. “What the hell was that?”
“He was being inappropriate.”
“He was being polite,” she said, glaring. “You can’t growl at every man who breathes near me.”
“I don’t growl.”
“Oh, you do,” she said. “Very alpha, very caveman. Next time you’ll be dragging me by my hair?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I said dryly.
Her eyes flashed, but there was a spark of something else too—amusement. “You need to relax, Alexander. This is pretend, remember? No one’s actually yours.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
I opened the car door for her, jaw tight. “Noted.”
Back at the penthouse, I tried to drown the irritation in work. It didn’t help that Harper’s laugh carried through the walls like sunlight—she was on the phone with her sister, telling her about the gala. The warmth in her voice made something in me ache.
I’d forgotten what real affection sounded like.
My father had taught me early that love was leverage. My mother had believed him until it killed her. I’d sworn I would never make that mistake.
And yet here I was, standing outside the guest room like a fool, listening to Harper talk about how fake our life together was—how absurd it all seemed—and wanting her to sound less happy about it.
When she hung up, I knocked once and stepped inside.
She looked up from her laptop, startled. “You ever heard of knocking twice?”
“I didn’t plan on staying.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to thank you for today.”
She blinked. “For what? Pretending to be the perfect fiancée while you stared daggers at your board?”
“For making them believe it.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “And what about you? Did you believe it?”
I met her gaze. “I don’t believe in fairytales.”
“Of course not. You’re too busy writing contracts.”
I should have walked away. Instead, I took a step closer. “You think I’m heartless.”
“I think you’re scared,” she said softly.
That stopped me cold. “Of what?”
“Of being human.”
For a moment, the air between us felt charged, unsteady. Her words dug deeper than I wanted to admit.
She stood then, closing the laptop. “I’m going to bed.”
“Running away?”
“Sleeping. Some of us need it.”
As she brushed past me, her shoulder grazed mine—a small touch, but enough to leave a trail of heat in its wake. I turned as she reached the door.
“Harper.”
She paused.
“You’re wrong,” I said quietly. “I’m not scared of being human. I’m scared of forgetting what it costs.”
She didn’t answer. But I saw the way her breath hitched before she slipped out.
Later that night, I found myself on the balcony again, staring at the city. The same view I’d had for years, suddenly different.
I told myself I was just managing a situation. Protecting an investment.
But when I caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass—standing in the hallway, watching me before she realized I’d noticed—something inside me shifted.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe I was scared.
Not of her.
But of what she made me feel.
Because for the first time in years, control didn’t feel like strength.
It felt like suffocation.
- Writer
