Chapter 35: The Echoes of Before

Harper stepped into the penthouse Friday evening, the city's twilight casting long shadows across the hardwood, her body still humming from last night's chaos with Zane Carver. The memory of his hands pinning her to the kitchen island, pasta water splashing as he thrust into her, her screams mingling with the hiss of burning sauce—it lingered like a pulse, a heat that hadn't fully faded through a day of sketches and client revisions. Her navy blazer hung loose over her gray sweater, jeans scuffed from the subway, and she kicked off her ankle boots by the door, the cool floor a balm against her tired feet, her muscles taut from hours hunched over her desk.The space was quiet—no jazz yet, just the faint hum of Manhattan beyond the windows, the walnut table gleaming under pendant lights, flowers drooping in their vase, a silent testament to their Sunday wreckage. She dropped her bag on the sectional, her hair loose and tangled from the wind, her mind buzzing with the week's grind—work pulling them back into orbit after their stolen days, a rhythm they were still mastering. Zane wasn't home yet, his empire often claiming him past dusk, and she exhaled, sharp and unsteady, craving the anchor only he could provide after a day apart.She padded to the kitchen, the matte-black island a sleek expanse under her palms—still faintly scratched from their Thursday frenzy, a ghost of their chaos etched into the marble. She poured a glass of Pinot Noir—deep, ruby-red, a match for the bruise on her neck, tender from his latest mark—and sipped, the wine sliding down her throat, rich and warm, loosening the day's knots. Leaning against the counter, she traced the edge of the glass with her fingertip, the cool crystal grounding her, her thoughts drifting to him—his smirk, his touch, the life they were carving out in this penthouse, messy and real.The elevator dinged at 6:52 p.m., and she straightened, expecting Zane—his suit rumpled, his voice rough with the day—but the doors opened on a stranger. A woman stepped out—tall, wiry, her auburn hair pulled into a messy bun, her green eyes sharp and familiar, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder. She wore a faded denim jacket, black leggings, boots scuffed at the toes, and her grin was instant—wide, crooked, a blast from Harper's past that stopped her cold."Jess?" Harper's voice cracked, the wine glass clinking as she set it down, her pulse jumping as recognition hit—Jessica Tate, her college roommate, her confidante through Ryan's betrayal, a ghost she hadn't seen in years. "What the hell—how'd you get up here?""Charm," Jess replied, her laugh sharp and warm, crossing the hardwood with a swagger Harper remembered from late-night dorm talks. "Convinced the doorman I'm family—said I had a surprise. Missed you, Quinn."Harper blinked, her chest tightening—surprise warring with a flicker of unease—and she stepped forward, pulling Jess into a hug, the denim rough against her sweater, Jess's arms wiry but strong, smelling faintly of paint and cigarettes, a scent that yanked her back to sophomore year. "Missed you too," she said, softer, pulling back to study her—lines around her eyes now, a new piercing in her nose, the same restless energy that had once dragged Harper out of heartbreak. "Why now?""Passing through—gallery thing in SoHo tomorrow." Jess dropped her tote on the sectional, her gaze sweeping the penthouse—walnut table, silk sheets visible through the bedroom door, the terrace beyond the glass. "Holy shit, Harp—this is you now? Fucking penthouse?""Ours," Harper corrected, her smile tight, her hand brushing the island—a reflex, a claim on the space she shared with Zane. "Me and Zane—moved in last week.""Zane?" Jess's brow arched, her grin widening, teasing as she flopped onto the sectional, kicking her boots up on the coffee table—a casual sprawl that grated Harper's nerves, a clash with the order she'd built here. "The asshole with a shelf? You locked that down?""Yeah." Harper laughed, dry and sharp, grabbing another glass, pouring wine for Jess—her hands steady despite the unease curling in her gut, a whisper of old wounds Jess carried like a shadow. "He's more than shelves now."The elevator dinged again at 7:08 p.m., and Zane stepped out—barefoot, dark suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loose, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, his gray eyes glinting with fatigue and warmth as they landed on Harper. His smirk flickered, then faltered, catching Jess's sprawl—boots on his table, wine in her hand—and he paused, his bag dropping by the door, his stride slowing as he crossed to them, a question in his tilt of head."Carver," Harper said, her voice steady, stepping to his side—her hand brushing his arm, a subtle tether as she nodded at Jess. "This is Jess—college friend. Surprise visit.""Jess." Zane's voice was low, rough, his hand settling on Harper's lower back—possessive, grounding—as he studied the newcomer, his smirk returning, cautious but warm. "Heard about you—roommate, right?""Guilty." Jess grinned, standing, offering a hand—her grip firm, her eyes flicking between them, sharp and assessing. "Heard about you too—shelf guy turned tycoon. Nice digs.""Thanks." Zane shook her hand, his fingers lingering on Harper's back, tracing a slow circle—a spark that steadied her, a silent claim in the tension. "Wine?""Got it," Jess said, lifting her glass, sinking back onto the sectional—boots off now, a concession that eased Harper's nerves, though her sprawl still filled the space, a reminder of old chaos Harper had left behind.They settled—Harper beside Zane on the sectional, Jess across from them, wine flowing, the jazz humming low as talk turned to college days—art classes, late-night rants, Ryan's betrayal a shadow Jess danced around, her laugh sharp as she recounted Harper sobbing over cheap vodka, sketching through the pain. Zane listened, his hand resting on Harper's knee—steady, warm, his thumb brushing her jeans in idle strokes, a quiet anchor as the past spilled into their present."You were a mess," Jess said, her grin softening, her eyes on Harper—gentle now, a flicker of the friend who'd pulled her through. "But tough—always sketching, always fighting. This—" She gestured to the penthouse, to Zane—"Suits you."Harper's throat tightened, Jess's words hitting deep—truth wrapped in nostalgia—and she leaned into Zane, her shoulder brushing his, feeling his warmth seep through her sweater. "Took a while," she said, her voice low, her hand sliding to his—lacing their fingers, feeling the calluses on his palms, a tether in the moment. "But yeah."Zane squeezed her hand, his smirk softening, his gaze flicking to Jess—curious, not threatened, a man secure in what they'd built. "She's still a fighter," he said, his voice rough, warm, his thumb brushing her knuckles—a spark that flickered, banked but alive. "Keeps me in line.""Someone has to," Jess teased, sipping her wine, her laugh easing the air, though her eyes lingered on Harper—searching, a hint of old worry Harper recognized, a ghost of the girl who'd seen her break.They talked—hours stretching, wine bottles emptying—Jess's gallery tales clashing with Zane's empire quips, Harper weaving between them, her laughter real but edged, the past a quiet hum beneath their banter. By 10:17 p.m., Jess yawned, stretching—her jacket slipping, revealing a tattoo on her wrist, a bird Harper had drawn years ago—and stood, grabbing her tote, her grin crooked as she headed for the elevator."Crash here?" Harper offered, rising, her hand still in Zane's—a reflex, a need to hold on as Jess's presence stirred old dust."Nah—hotel's booked. Early start." Jess hugged her, quick and tight, her voice low against Harper's ear. "You're good, Harp. He's good for you." She pulled back, nodding at Zane—respect there, a silent approval—and stepped into the elevator, the doors closing on her silhouette, leaving silence in her wake.Harper exhaled, sharp and slow, sinking back onto the sectional—her legs curling under her, her sweater slipping off one shoulder, baring the bruise Zane had left, a mark that felt heavier now. He shifted, pulling her closer—his arm wrapping around her, her head resting on his chest, his heartbeat a steady thud under her ear, a rhythm that chased the unease away."She's right," he said, his voice low, rough, his hand sliding to her jaw—tilting her face to his, his thumb brushing her lip, tracing its curve with a tenderness that made her breath catch. "I'm good for you.""Asshole," she muttered, her laugh shaky, her hand flattening against his chest—feeling his warmth through the shirt, grounding her in the quiet. "You're smug.""Earned it." His lips quirked, a ghost of his smirk, and he kissed her forehead—soft, lingering, a seal on their night—his breath warm against her skin, his hand steady on her neck, holding her there. "You okay? She stirred shit up.""Yeah." Her voice softened, her fingers curling into his shirt—a reflex, a claim on him as Jess's echo faded. "Just—old me, old mess. Ryan stuff. She saw me through it.""Fuck Ryan." His hand tightened, possessive but gentle, his eyes locking onto hers—dark with love, fierce with intent. "You're here—mine. No ghosts."Her chest ached, his words sinking in—simple, steady, a truth that stripped her bare—and she nodded, her laugh trembling, her hand sliding to his jaw—feeling the stubble there, rough under her fingertips, a texture she'd memorized. "Yours," she whispered, her voice raw, her thumb brushing his lip—a mirror to his touch, a tether in the calm.They stayed there, tangled on the sectional—the city a muted hum beyond the glass, the penthouse theirs in every creak and shadow—her head on his chest, his arm around her, the wine glasses empty on the table, jazz fading into silence. "Love you," he murmured, his voice rough, his hand sliding down her back—tracing her spine, a slow exploration that wasn't about heat but presence, a promise held in check."Love you too," she replied, her voice soft, her hand resting on his chest—feeling his heartbeat quicken, a rhythm she'd fight for, live for. "Even when you're smug."He laughed—low, warm, a sound that vibrated through her—and they sank deeper into the cushions, the night stretching before them, their bond a steady flame, banked but burning.Tomorrow, they'd face the weekend—work, life, the next test—but tonight, in their shared space, with his hand steady on her skin, she didn't care. Jess had brought echoes, but Zane was her now, her always, and it was everything she'd feared and craved.