His Sister's Fiancé, My Forbidden Protector

The Sterling & Partners building wasn't just a skyscraper; it was a monolith of glass and steel that seemed to pierce the grey sky, daring the lightning to strike it. Scarlett stood in the lobby, feeling small. The security guards looked like Secret Service agents. The receptionist looked like a runway model. "Name?" the receptionist asked, her eyes flicking over Scarlett's mud-splattered coat. "Scarlett Miller. I'm here to see Harrison Sterling." The receptionist raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Do you have a QR confirmation?" "No, I called him. He told me to come." A lawyer in a three-piece suit standing nearby snorted softly. Scarlett felt her cheeks burn. "I'm afraid without a code-" "Let her up." A woman had appeared behind the desk. She was older, severe, wearing glasses on a chain. "Mr. Sterling is expecting her. Elevator 4." The receptionist's jaw dropped slightly. Scarlett didn't wait for an apology. She walked to the elevator banks, her heels clicking loudly on the marble. The ride to the 50th floor made her ears pop. When the doors opened, she stepped into a world of hushed silence. The carpet was thick enough to sleep on. The walls were lined with modern art that looked like violent slashes of paint. Harrison was in a glass-walled conference room at the end of the hall. He was standing at the head of a table, leaning over a terrified-looking associate, pointing a finger at a document. He looked like a shark circling wounded prey. He saw her. He didn't smile. He just straightened up, dismissed the associate with a wave of his hand, and walked out. "Office," he said, jerking his head toward a heavy mahogany door. He didn't hold the door for her. Scarlett followed him in. His office was vast, smelling of leather and that same expensive tobacco. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Sit," he commanded, pointing to a chair opposite his desk. Scarlett sat. She kept her hands in her lap to hide the band-aid on her finger. "I assume this isn't a social call," Harrison said, leaning back in his chair. He picked up a pen, twirling it effortlessly between his fingers. "You found my card." "I need a lawyer," Scarlett said. "For my father." Harrison stopped twirling the pen. He looked at her, really looked at her, for a long moment. Then, he let out a short, dry laugh. "You want me to represent Robert Miller?" "You're the best corporate litigator in the city. Everyone says so." "I am," he agreed, with zero modesty. "But Sterling & Partners does not handle Ponzi schemes. It's messy. It's beneath us." "It's not a scheme," Scarlett insisted. "He was framed. By Sebastian Vance." Harrison's eyes narrowed slightly at the name. "Vance is... complicated. Our families have significant overlapping interests." "Interests?" Scarlett felt a chill. "You mean you're working with him?" "I mean there is a conflict of interest. Our firms are currently engaged in delicate negotiations. Representing his accuser would be counterproductive to my family's portfolio." "Please," she whispered. "I have no money. I have no one." The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Harrison slammed the pen down on the desk. "That is not my problem, Ms. Miller. I run a business, not a charity ward. You are a liability. And I don't invest in liabilities." He pressed a button on his phone. "Security, escort Ms. Miller out." Scarlett stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She had humiliated herself for nothing. "Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "I'll find someone else." "Good luck," Harrison said, turning his chair to look out the window. "You'll need it." Scarlett walked out. She held her head high until the elevator doors closed. Then, she let the tears fall. She walked out of the building and into the storm. The wind turned her umbrella inside out instantly. She threw it in a trash can and hugged her arms around herself, shivering violently. "Ms. Miller." She turned. A young man in a sharp suit was standing under the awning of the building. He held a large, black umbrella. "Mr. Sterling asked me to give you this," the assistant said, holding it out. "He said it's bad for the firm's image to have people dying of pneumonia on the doorstep." Scarlett stared at the umbrella. It was an act of charity, but delivered with a slap. "Tell him I don't need his pity," she said. But the cold was biting. She took the umbrella. The handle was heavy, made of polished wood. Engraved in the silver band was his signature: H.S. Her phone rang. It was Bella, her only friend who hadn't blocked her number. "Scarlett? Where are you?" "I'm... I don't know," Scarlett said. "I hit a dead end." "Listen," Bella whispered. "I heard something. Vance is going to the Hamptons this weekend. The Royal Dunes Club. He's celebrating the engagement." "So?" "My cousin works catering there. One of the servers called in sick. I begged her, Scarlett. I told her you needed the shift. You'll have to wear a wig and glasses, the security is tight, but if you can get in..." Scarlett gripped the umbrella handle. Harrison had refused to help. But she knew, with a sudden, crystal clarity, that Harrison would likely be at that club too. If their families were "aligned," he would be there. "Get me in," Scarlett said into the phone. "I'm going to the Hamptons."