"Bound By The Wrong Brother"

"I don't care what the FAA regulations are, just keep this plane in the air," Harper snapped, her knuckles a bloodless white as her fingernails dug into the leather armrest.

Through the oval window of the private jet, the glittering, suffocating grid of Manhattan was shrinking into the black ocean below.

The intense G-force of the steep ascent pressed her spine hard against the seat.

On her lap, a deep blue velvet ring box sat heavy and mocking, a physical weight crushing her sternum.

Her father's voice echoed in her ears, cold and absolute.

*Sign the marriage certificate with Sterling, Harper, or I freeze your trust and strip your shares.*

A wave of acidic nausea clawed up her throat.

With a sharp, violent flick of her wrist, she grabbed the velvet box and hurled it across the cabin. It hit the stainless steel trash bin in the aisle with a dull thud and vanished inside.

A private flight attendant rushed over, her face pale with concern. "Ms. Bright? Is everything alright?"

Harper waved her away frantically. "Leave me alone. Bring me a double Scotch on the rocks. Now."

The attendant nodded quickly and retreated to the galley.

The phone on the mahogany tray table began to vibrate violently. The caller ID flashed her mother's name: Camille.

Harper slammed her finger onto the red reject button, a rush of adrenaline making her fingertips tingle.

Two seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

This time, the screen displayed a custom ringtone. Howard Bright.

Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. She knew her father. If she ignored him, he would freeze her credit cards before the plane even landed.

Gritting her teeth, she swiped the screen and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Where the hell are you?" Howard's voice barked through the speaker, loud enough to rattle her eardrum.

Harper forced her breathing to slow.

"I'm on the plane with Sterling," she lied, her voice flat. "We're heading to Maui to work on our relationship, just like you wanted."

Howard let out a harsh, metallic laugh. "Do not play games with me, Harper. Send me a picture of the two of you right now, or I'm calling your pilot to turn that jet around."

Harper hit the mute button, her heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs.

Her fingers flew across the screen, pulling up her text thread with Sterling.

*Send the Hawaii photo. NOW. He's checking.*

Staring at the screen, her lungs burned as she held her breath.

Three agonizing seconds passed.

A photo popped up. It was a flawless Photoshop job: Sterling and Harper, smiling fake smiles on a sun-drenched beach.

Harper immediately forwarded the image to her father's chief of staff.

She unmuted the call. "Check your assistant's phone," she said coldly.

A rustle of paper on the other end was followed by Howard's heavy sigh, the tension in his voice dropping a fraction.

Before he could speak, Camille snatched the phone. "Harper, darling! The Vera Wang fitting is moved to next Tuesday. You need to drop five pounds before then, your waist looked thick in the silk."

Harper pinched the bridge of her nose, a sharp, stabbing migraine pulsing behind her right eye. She couldn't do this right now.

Grabbing an empty foil snack wrapper from the tray table, she crushed it directly against the phone's microphone, creating a deafening burst of static.

"Mom? I can't hear you," Harper yelled over the noise. "We're over the Pacific. Losing satellite connection."

She aggressively twisted the wrapper one last time, ended the call, and immediately switched the phone to airplane mode.

The cabin fell into a heavy, ringing silence.

The flight attendant approached quietly, placing a crystal glass of amber liquid on the table.

Harper downed the Scotch in one burning swallow. The liquor scorched her throat, but it grounded her.

Unclasping her Hermès Birkin bag, she pulled out a manila folder—a highly classified file from a private investigator.

She opened it, staring at the grainy photograph inside. It showed her father in a dark alley, handing a briefcase to a towering, broad-shouldered man. The man's face was obscured by shadows, but his sharp, brutal jawline was visible.

The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, announcing their descent into Las Vegas.

Harper traced the man's jawline on the paper. He was a fixer. A cleaner. And he was her only lead to the man who knew the identity of her father's bastard son.

She memorized the shape of his jaw, her pulse steadying into a cold, hard rhythm.