Page 14

Harlow

Sunlight spilled across unfamiliar sheets, warming my face and pulling me from sleep.

For a moment, I drifted in that hazy space between dreams and consciousness, aware only of comfort and a lingering sense of satisfaction.

Then memory crashed in—Easton's office, scattered financial documents, his hands on my skin, my name on his lips as we'd lost ourselves in each other.

My eyes flew open.

I was in Easton's bed. Again. But this time, without the excuse of alcohol or accidental matrimony. This had been a conscious choice.

The enormity of what I'd done sent panic flooding through me.

I'd slept with the subject of my investigation.

Willingly. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly.

The ethical breach was staggering. My career, reputation, years of building credibility—all at risk.

Worse, I might have compromised the very regulatory system I'd sworn to uphold.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest, scanning for my clothes. Unlike our wedding night, I remembered exactly how they'd been removed—Easton's deft fingers, his appreciative gaze, my own impatience as I'd pulled at his belt.

The bedroom door opened, and Easton appeared with two steaming mugs, wearing only pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips. The sight of him—sleep-tousled, bare-chested, a hint of stubble darkening his jaw—momentarily derailed my rising panic.

"You're awake," he said, his voice roughened with sleep. He approached, offering one of the mugs. "Perfect timing."

I accepted the coffee, inhaling its rich aroma. "Thank you."

He settled beside me on the edge of the bed, a careful distance between us. His consideration touched me—he was giving me space, allowing me to process.

"You're overthinking," he observed, sipping from his own mug.

"Professional hazard." My attempted smile felt brittle. "I've crossed every ethical line the commission has."

"Only some of them," he corrected with a hint of the charm that had gotten us into this situation. When I didn't respond to his humor, his expression sobered. "Harlow, do you regret last night?"

The question cut through my anxiety, forcing me to examine what I truly felt beneath the professional concerns. Did I regret it? The pleasure we'd shared, the vulnerability we'd shown each other, the way he'd looked at me as if I mattered beyond my usefulness?

"I should," I admitted, meeting his eyes. "But I don't."

Something softened in his expression, relief mingled with something warmer. "Neither do I."

"But that doesn't change the complications," I continued, clutching my coffee mug like a lifeline. "I'm conducting your regulatory review. There are strict guidelines about personal involvement with subjects of investigation."

"Those guidelines exist to prevent biased oversight," he pointed out. "Has what happened between us compromised your ability to assess the Jade Petal fairly?"

I considered this carefully. "No. If anything, I'm being more thorough because I know you're watching."

"And I'm cooperating more fully than I might have otherwise," he added. "We're achieving exactly what regulation is supposed to accomplish—transparent operation and rigorous oversight."

His logic was surprisingly sound, though I doubted the commission would appreciate the nuance. "Where do we go from here?" I asked, voicing the question that had hovered between us since our first kiss.

"Professionally, we continue our investigation. We find the saboteur, secure your commission's approval, and open the Jade Petal as scheduled." He set his mug on the nightstand, turning to face me more fully. "Personally... that's more complicated."

"Because of our accidental marriage?"

"Because of what's happening between us that has nothing to do with paperwork or alcohol." His hand found mine atop the sheets, warm and solid. "This isn't just physical for me, Harlow."

The confession hung in the air between us, both terrifying and exhilarating. I opened my mouth to respond when his phone rang from the nightstand.

He checked the screen, frowning. "Torres." He answered with a clipped, "Hardwick."

I watched his expression shift from mild annoyance to sharp focus as he listened. "When?" A pause. "Lock it down. No one enters until we get there." Another pause. "Thirty minutes."

He ended the call, already rising. "Someone accessed the main server room at 5 AM. Disabled security cameras for eight minutes before the backup system engaged."

Professional urgency instantly overtook our personal moment. "Did they get anything?"

"Unknown. But they knew exactly how to navigate our secondary security protocols." He moved toward his closet with purpose. "They're getting bolder."

I slipped from the bed, gathering my clothing from where it had been discarded the previous night. "Or more desperate."

We dressed with efficient speed, the intimate conversation temporarily shelved in favor of crisis management.

Yet as we moved around each other in the morning routine—him passing me a spare toothbrush, me borrowing his comb, both of us navigating the space as if we'd done it for years—I was struck by how natural it felt.

How right, despite every rational reason it shouldn't be.

"We should keep this private," I said as we prepared to leave. "At least until after the licensing approval."

He nodded, understanding immediately. "Agreed. The fewer complications right now, the better."

Yet as he helped me straighten my collar, his fingers lingering against my neck, I knew we'd already crossed too many lines to find our way back to simple professionalism. Whatever was growing between us had taken root too deeply to simply uproot when convenient.

***

By mid-afternoon, I'd returned to my condo for a change of clothes and a moment to gather my thoughts. The server breach had yielded few clues—the intruder had been careful, but their intimate knowledge of Jade Petal security systems further confirmed our suspicion of an inside job.

Before leaving Easton's penthouse, I'd done something impulsive. I'd asked him for my wedding ring.

"Why?" he'd asked, brows lifting in surprise.

I hadn't been entirely sure myself. "Evidence," I'd claimed. "Just in case."

He'd retrieved it from the kitchen drawer where he'd stashed both rings that first morning, studying it for a moment before placing it in my palm. The cheap metal had left a greenish mark on his finger. "Just in case," he'd echoed, his expression unreadable.

Now the tarnishing chapel-provided band sat in my dresser drawer, nestled among my winter scarves.

I told myself it was merely a precaution—potential evidence for whatever legal proceedings lay ahead.

Even as I thought it, I recognized how ridiculous the excuse sounded.

What legal proceeding would require a cheap ring that was already turning my finger green?

But acknowledging the real reason I wanted it felt too dangerous to contemplate.

I was reviewing security logs on my tablet when insistent knocking startled me. Three sharp raps, a pause, then two more—Giselle's signature pattern since childhood.

"Coming!" I called, hastily shoving the tablet under a cushion as if hiding contraband.

I opened the door to find my sister looking fresh in an artist's smock over distressed jeans, paint spattering her hands. Her hair twisted into a messy bun with a paintbrush stuck through it—classic Giselle, creating beauty while embodying beautiful chaos.

"Two days, Harlow," she announced, striding past me. "Two days of unanswered texts since you went to that gala. I was starting to think you'd been abducted by aliens." She turned, studying me with narrowed eyes. "Or that your casino mogul had whisked you away somewhere."

"I've been busy with the investigation," I said, closing the door. "Things are... complicated."

"Complicated?" She raised an eyebrow. "Last time we spoke, you were just attending his gala. What happened after that? Are you in trouble? Is the casino in violation? Details, please."

I moved toward the kitchen, desperate for coffee and distance. "There's been a security breach at the Jade Petal. Possible corporate sabotage. I've been working around the clock."

"Around the clock," she echoed, following me. "At the casino? Or somewhere else?"

My hand jerked, nearly spilling coffee grounds across the counter. Her intuition had always been unnervingly accurate.

"Oh my God," she gasped, reading my expression. "You slept with him, didn't you? You actually slept with the casino guy. The one who shut you down. The one you were just 'professionally investigating' two days ago."

"Giselle!"

"You did!" She hopped onto a barstool, leaning forward with gleeful interest. "Harlow Clarke, Ice Queen of Gaming Regulation, finally thawed by a handsome hotelier. I knew that gala wasn't just professional. This is delicious."

"It's not—" I started, then stopped, recognizing the futility of lying to my sister. She'd always been able to read me like one of her art books. "Yes. Last night. It was a mistake."

"A mistake," she repeated, grinning now. "So when you didn't answer my texts asking how the gala went, it was because things went really well? Sure doesn't look like you regret it."

I abandoned my coffee preparations, turning to face her. "It's complicated, Gis. He's the subject of my investigation. There are ethical considerations—"

"Is he married? Engaged? Your boss?" she interrupted, ticking options off on her paint-stained fingers.

"No, but—"

"Then the complications are professional, not moral." She waved dismissively. "You're a grown woman who had consensual sex with an attractive, available man. The apocalypse remains unscheduled."

"The horror is that I could lose my job, my career, everything I've worked for," I shot back.

"Because of one night?" She snorted. "Seems extreme."