Love Remade – When Love Goes Haywire

The address Harris had given me led to a building that scraped the New York sky like a glass and steel monument to wealth and power. As I stood on the sidewalk looking up at the penthouse level, my heart hammered against my ribs with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the elevator ride I was about to take. The anonymous text from the night before had haunted my dreams. Ask Harris about the other women. Ask him what happened to them. I had spent hours researching Harris Kingston online, but the internet only revealed the sanitized version of his life-business acquisitions, charity galas, carefully staged photographs that showed him alone or with different women who never appeared in more than a few pictures. What happened to the women who disappeared from his life? And why did someone want me to know about them? The doorman, a distinguished man with silver hair and kind eyes, smiled at me as I approached. "Miss Bennett? Mr. Kingston is expecting you. Penthouse level." The elevator that carried me up forty-two floors was lined with mirrors, and I caught glimpses of myself from every angle-auburn hair that I had tried unsuccessfully to tame into something sophisticated, emerald eyes that revealed every emotion I was trying to hide, and the simple black dress that Maya had insisted I wear because it made me look "like someone who belonged in a billionaire's world." I didn't feel like I belonged anywhere except back in my tiny Brooklyn apartment, grading art projects and pretending that my biggest worry was whether I could afford groceries this week. The elevator doors opened directly into Harris's penthouse, and I stepped into a space that took my breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Manhattan that made the city look like a jeweled tapestry spread out below us. The furniture was elegant but comfortable, expensive but not cold, and everything was arranged with the kind of perfection that suggested a man who controlled every detail of his environment. "You're right on time." I turned toward his voice and felt that familiar flutter in my chest. Harris stood near the windows, silhouetted against the city lights, wearing dark slacks and a white shirt that was open at the collar. He looked more relaxed than he had in his office, but there was still something predatory in the way he watched me cross the room. "Your penthouse is beautiful," I said, because commenting on the apartment seemed safer than acknowledging how devastatingly attractive he looked in his own environment. "Thank you." He moved toward a bar cart that probably cost more than my annual salary. "Wine? You look like you could use something to calm your nerves." "I'm not nervous," I lied, accepting the glass of red wine he offered me. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I pretended not to notice the way the simple contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. "Of course you're not." His smile was knowing, dangerous. "That's why your hands are shaking." I looked down and realized he was right. I set the wine glass on the nearest table before I could drop it and embarrass myself further. "The contract," I said, trying to sound businesslike. "You promised I could see every clause." "Direct as always." He walked to his desk and picked up a document that was even thicker than the version he had shown me in his office. "But before we go through this line by line, I think you should know why I chose you." "Because I'm desperate enough to agree to anything?" The words came out more bitter than I had intended. "Because you're nothing like her." The statement hung in the air between us like a live wire. I didn't need to ask who he meant. The pain that flickered across his handsome features told me everything I needed to know. "Victoria," I said quietly. His jaw tightened. "Victoria Ashford was everything I thought I wanted in a wife. Beautiful, sophisticated, from the right family, said all the right things." He moved to the window, staring out at the city. "She was also a liar and a thief who sold my company secrets to my biggest competitor." "That must have been devastating," I said, and meant it. "It taught me an important lesson about trust." He turned back to face me, his steel-gray eyes intense. "Which is why this arrangement is perfect. You need something from me, I need something from you, and neither of us is pretending it's anything more than a business transaction." Something about his words stung more than they should have. "How romantic." "Romance is a luxury I can't afford." His voice was flat, emotionless. "It makes people do stupid things. It makes them vulnerable." I walked to the contract and began flipping through the pages, trying to focus on the legal language instead of the way his words made my chest ache. But as I read, my confusion deepened. "Harris, these clauses about publicity and media appearances-they're very specific. Too specific." I looked up at him. "It's like you've done this before." For a moment, something that might have been panic flashed across his face before the mask slipped back into place. "I told you, I'm thorough in my business dealings." "This isn't just thorough. This is..." I flipped to another page, my heart racing as I found what I was looking for. "This clause about what happens if I breach the confidentiality agreement. Harris, this isn't about protecting your business. This is about protecting secrets." He moved toward me with that controlled grace that reminded me of a predator stalking prey. "What are you implying, Flora?" "I'm not implying anything. I'm asking directly." I held up the contract. "How many women have signed contracts like this one?" The silence stretched between us, and I knew I had hit the mark. Harris Kingston wasn't just a man who had been betrayed once. He was a man who had learned to orchestrate relationships like business deals, complete with legal protections and predetermined expiration dates. "The answer to that question," he said finally, "is not relevant to our arrangement." "It's relevant to me." I set the contract down and faced him fully. "That text I received last night-someone warned me about other women. Someone who knows what happened to them." His face went pale. "What text?" I pulled out my phone and showed him the message. As he read it, I watched his expression change from surprise to something that looked almost like fear. "Who sent this?" His voice was deadly quiet. "I don't know. But they obviously know about us, about this arrangement." I took a step back, suddenly very aware that I was alone in his penthouse with a man whose past was apparently littered with women who had signed contracts and then disappeared from his life. "Harris, what happened to the other women?" Before he could answer, the lights went out. The penthouse was plunged into complete darkness, and I heard Harris curse under his breath. Emergency lighting kicked in a moment later, casting eerie shadows across the room. "Stay calm," Harris said, but I could hear the tension in his voice. "It's probably just a power grid issue." But then I saw something that made my blood turn to ice. On the window, written in what looked like lipstick, were words that hadn't been there moments before: "She's watching you, Flora. Run." "Harris," I whispered, pointing at the window. He followed my gaze and went completely still. "That's impossible. We're forty-two floors up." "Then how-" The sound of the elevator doors opening made us both spin around. A figure stepped out of the shadows, and my heart stopped completely. It was Victoria Ashford, but not the polished, sophisticated woman I had met in Harris's office. This Victoria looked wild, desperate, her perfect blonde hair disheveled and her ice-blue eyes blazing with something that might have been madness. "Hello, Harris," she said, her voice carrying that same slight accent but now with an edge of hysteria. "Did you miss me?" Harris stepped in front of me, his body tense and protective. "Victoria, how did you get up here?" She laughed, and the sound made my skin crawl. "Oh, darling. I have keys to all your properties. I have access to all your accounts. I know all your secrets." Her gaze shifted to me, and her smile turned predatory. "Including what happened to the other women who thought they could take my place." "What are you talking about?" I demanded, but even as I asked the question, I was beginning to understand. The anonymous text, the perfect contract clauses, the way Harris had refused to answer my questions about other women. Victoria pulled something from her purse-a thick folder that looked disturbingly familiar to the one Harris had shown me in his office. "Should I tell her, Harris? Should I tell sweet little Flora about Jennifer, who signed a contract just like hers two years ago? About Rebecca, who disappeared after her year was up? About Amanda, who tried to break her contract and-" "Stop." Harris's voice was a growl, dangerous and threatening. But Victoria was just getting started. She opened the folder and pulled out photographs-pictures of women who looked nothing like each other except for one thing: they all had the same desperate look in their eyes that I saw in my own mirror every morning. "You see, Flora," Victoria continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than screaming, "Harris doesn't just collect companies. He collects women. And when he's done with them..." She let the sentence hang in the air, but the implication was clear. I looked at Harris, waiting for him to deny it, to explain, to say something that would make this nightmare make sense. But he just stood there, his face carved from stone, his steel-gray eyes unreadable. "Harris," I whispered. "Tell me she's lying." His silence was answer enough. And that's when I realized I wasn't just trapped in a contract. I was trapped with a man whose previous wives had a habit of disappearing.