In the circles Declan Cross ran in, I was famous for one thing: being his ultimate, pathetic doormat. Once, someone at a party asked him what he actually thought of me. He clamped a cigarette between his teeth, exhaled a plume of smoke, and drawled, “Harper? She’s like a stray dog nobody wanted. Honestly, I bet she’d take a bullet for me.” Later, I actually did. I stepped in front of a gun for him and nearly bled out on foreign soil. After that, everyone whispered about my blind, desperate devotion. They said my love for Declan was a feral, solitary crusade. Until the day he wrecked his car trying to show off for his first love. I was sitting beside him, quietly dabbing antiseptic onto his bruised skin. He reached up, patted my head like a pet, and let out a sudden, cruel scoff. “Harper, does your mother know how cheap you make yourself look?” I froze. Then, I picked up the entire bottle of iodine and splashed it directly into his face. My eyes were bloodshot. “Don’t you ever,” I snarled, “say a goddamn word about her.” 1 Declan hadn’t expected me to react at all, let alone like that. He sat completely stunned. The dark iodine dripped down his nose, blurring his vision. He wiped blindly at his face, his voice wavering with a rare uncertainty. “Are you… crying?” I didn’t answer. The violent, boiling rage inside my chest was already beginning to cool, hardening into something brittle and smooth. In that single, suspended second, a profound sense of exhaustion washed over me. The whole thing suddenly felt terribly pointless. Him. Me. And that heart beating inside his chest—the one I had been obsessing over for so long. Once the obsession evaporated, what followed was a suffocating, overwhelming wave of relief. I turned my back to him and began pulling my things from the closet. Declan’s brow furrowed. He kicked the glass coffee table, sending it shattering against the hardwood. He had a volatile, explosive temper; the moment the world stopped spinning on his axis, he’d scorch the earth. “Harper, stop throwing a tantrum. Come here,” his voice dropped into that cold, authoritative register he used when he expected to be obeyed. I sped up, shoving cashmere and denim into my suitcase. He crossed the room, grabbed my chin in a bruising grip, and roughly wiped away a stray tear clinging to my eyelashes. When I just stared at him—dead-eyed and unresponsive—he forced his brow to unknot. His tone softened, just a fraction. “I’ve been drinking. I was out of line,” he muttered, his voice tight with the foreign effort of an apology. It was a rare concession from Declan Cross. Yet, even in his apology, he looked down at me from a pedestal, tossing me a scrap of affection like a beggar. I zipped my suitcase, yanked the handle up, and walked straight toward the front door. “We’re done,” I said, my hand wrapping around the cold brass knob. “Throw the rest of my shit away. I don’t care.” Crash! A heavy crystal tumbler slammed into the wall inches from my head. The explosive force sent a shard of glass slicing across my cheek. A bead of warm blood welled up. I turned my head, my face completely devoid of emotion. Declan’s face was thunderous, a sneer twisting his handsome features. “Don’t think you can come crying back in a few days begging for another chance, Harper. Everyone in this city knows you’re my shadow. I’m giving you an out right now to save you the embarrassment.” He pointed a finger at me. “Apologize, and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen.” I looked at him, raised my middle finger, and smiled. “I’ve wanted to say this to you for a really, really long time.” “You’re a fucking psychopath, Declan.” 2 To be fair, I’d thought Declan was out of his mind since the day we met. It was a suffocatingly elegant charity gala in the Hills. The room was packed with tailored tuxedos and polite, synchronized smiles. Declan, sporting bleached-blonde hair that screamed trust-fund rebellion, had just ruthlessly smashed a champagne flute over the host’s head—who happened to be his illegitimate half-brother. As he walked away from the bleeding man, he passed me. I was frozen by a pillar. Misinterpreting my shock, he paused to offer a twisted kind of comfort. “Pretty color, right? His head matches his tie now.” At his words, my eyes welled with tears. I stared intently at his face—a face I had researched endlessly, stared at through a phone screen late into the night—before my gaze slowly, inexorably dropped to his chest. Without thinking, I whispered, “How is your heart doing?” Declan blinked, taken aback, and then let out a sharp laugh. “I’ll give you points for originality, sweetheart. Never been hit on quite like that.” He gave me a lazy, mocking wave. “I’m busy today. But I’ll take you for a drive sometime.” It was just a careless, throwaway line to him. But from that moment on, I glued myself to his side. I shadowed him, catered to his moods, obsessed over his diet, his sleep, his stress. Eventually, he cornered me in his penthouse and said, “You’re in love with me, Harper.” He said it with absolute, unbreakable certainty. I thought about it for a long moment before answering honestly. “If caring about your body and your heart is a form of love, then yes. I love you.” Because taking the shape of a “girlfriend” gave me the access I needed to protect him. To monitor him. So, I was willing to play the part. Naturally, we became a couple. But Declan was a terrible boyfriend, entirely enabled by my relentless compliance. At first, I tried to gently steer him away from the adrenaline-junkie lifestyle he craved. He’d smirk, promise to be careful, and then go cliff diving in Maui or street racing down the winding Malibu canyons anyway. Over time, my nagging annoyed him. So, he dumped me. Just like that, he vanished from my orbit. I couldn’t accept it. I went to every single one of his wealthy, snide friends, begging for his location until I finally tracked him down to a VIP room at a club. Knowing I was outside, his friends brought me up just to watch the show. That was when I heard him say it, cigarette between his lips: “She’s like a stray dog… I bet she’d take a bullet for me.” I pushed the door open. Ignoring the mocking stares of the room, I walked right up to him. I lowered my voice, stripping away my dignity. “Please don’t push me away. I’ll do whatever you want.” Declan stared at me for a long, suffocating minute before letting out a dark chuckle. “Alright. As long as you learn how to behave.” From that night on, in the eyes of his social circle, I ceased to be Harper Hayes. I became a punchline. Declan Cross’s pathetic lapdog. But I didn’t care. As long as I could stay by his side, as long as Declan kept breathing, that was enough. 3 After I walked out of his apartment that night, my phone blew up. His friends called one after another, thoroughly convinced it was a publicity stunt. The idea that his devoted shadow had finally snapped the leash was incomprehensible to them. Some even texted me, warning me not to play hard to get, saying I’d overplay my hand and lose him for good. I blocked every single number associated with Declan’s circle in one clean sweep. The next morning, I requested a temporary transfer to my firm’s Chicago office. By the time I returned to Los Angeles, three months had passed. The moment I landed, an old college friend called, practically vibrating with excitement. “Harper! You back? They’re running the canyon tonight. You in?” A heavy wave of nostalgia washed over me. My voice sounded a little rusty when I replied, “I haven’t been behind a wheel in years. I think I’ll pass.” My friend didn’t know about Declan. She just kept pushing, reminding me of who I used to be. After a long pause, I caved. Three years ago, before I ever knew the name Declan Cross, the underground racing scene was my entire life. But out of all the canyon checkpoints in Southern California, I never expected to run into him at this one. I hadn’t seen him in three months. He looked a little leaner, his hair grown out and—surprisingly—dyed back to his natural jet black. When we were together, I had begged him to ditch the bleach. I told him it drew too much attention. He had smiled, but his eyes were hard. “Do you get off on trying to control me, Harper?” My memory was interrupted by the sound of a bright, musical laugh. Serena Blair slipped her arm through Declan’s, beaming up at him. “I told you my taste is flawless, Dec. The dark hair makes you look so much more dangerous.” The crowd around them hooted in agreement. I watched them for a second, feeling nothing but a dull sense of inevitability. Serena was Declan’s childhood neighbor. His golden girl. The one who got away. Before she returned from Paris, I was constantly measured against her ghost. After she returned, Declan laid the world at her feet. If Serena wanted his hair black, it was done before dinner. Not wanting the drama, I grabbed my friend’s arm to leave. “Harper!” Declan had spotted me. He gritted my name through his teeth. I didn’t even break my stride, turning my back to him. He ripped his arm away from Serena, bridged the distance in seconds, and snatched the fabric of my jacket. His hand was physically shaking. His face was a storm of suppressed fury. He opened his mouth, but Serena’s honeyed voice cut through the exhaust fumes first. “Harper, you finally decided to show your face. Playing hard to get is cute for a week, but three months? You’re pushing it, don’t you think?” She smiled, playing the concerned mediator. The atmosphere shifted. The racers nearby snickered, looking at me with familiar pity. I met Serena’s gaze dead-on. “A breakup is a breakup. Since when does it come with a ninety-day waiting period?” Declan looked at me, then looked at the tuned-up Porsche I was standing near. His dark mood suddenly evaporated, replaced by a triumphant, cocky smirk. He clicked his tongue. “I thought you hated it when I raced. Held out for three months, and you still had to come track me down?” Someone in the back laughed loudly. “Classic Harper! Out of all the canyon routes in LA, she magically finds this one.” Declan’s ego was practically radiating off him. He was absolutely certain I was here to beg for my spot back in his bed, just like I always did. The anxiety that had clearly been gnawing at him for three months vanished. He cleared his throat, playing the benevolent king. “Alright, fine. Sit in the passenger seat and behave. After my run, we’ll swing by your place and get your bags.” I stared at him. The sheer audacity of his narcissism would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. I realized just how deeply sick my own obsession had been to endure this man for three years. My voice was ice. “You love the canyon, right? You think you’re untouchable behind the wheel?” Declan frowned, confused by my tone. I pointed toward the jagged silhouette of the Angeles Crest mountains. “The Devil’s Spine. Deadliest drop in the county. You and me. Right now.” Serena gasped, putting a delicate hand on Declan’s chest. “Dec, don’t. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s just throwing a tantrum. Give her an inch so she doesn’t embarrass herself.” Her words fueled him. Declan scoffed, looking at me like I was a child holding a loaded gun. “Harper, you’ve never touched a clutch in your life. What exactly do you think you’re going to do?” I had already walked over to my friend’s car and popped the door. I gestured toward the starting line. “Let’s find out.” Minutes later, our tires were lined up on the asphalt. Declan rolled his window down, his eyes dark and unreadable in the moonlight. “You don’t have to push it this far, Harper. Step out of the car. Now.” I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel, my eyes locked on the starter. Go. I slammed the pedal to the floor. The engine screamed, and I shot off the line like a bullet. Apexing, drifting, riding the edge of the guardrails—I didn’t let up for a fraction of a second. The G-force threw me against the bucket seat, tires screaming as they kissed the edge of a three-hundred-foot drop. In my rearview mirror, I could see Declan fighting to keep up, his face a mask of absolute shock. He found a brief straightaway and tried to overtake me, aggressively wedging his front bumper into a hairpin turn, grinding metal against my side panel. I was forced to decelerate, my tires kicking up dirt over the sheer cliff edge. Through the glass, I saw that arrogant, victorious smirk return to his face. He mouthed something at me. I shifted gears, pinned the throttle to the floor, and turned my wheel violently into him. The impact sent my car airborne for a terrifying, weightless second. Half of my chassis hung over the abyss of the canyon before gravity slammed the tires back onto the pavement. I let out a massive, unhinged breath, laughing as adrenaline flooded my veins, washing away three years of suppressed misery. This. This was what I had been missing. I crossed the finish line a full ten seconds ahead of him. I threw the car in park and leaned back, letting the beautiful, violent hum of the engine vibrate through my bones. Bang. Bang. Bang. Fists slammed against my window. I rolled it down. Declan stood there, pale as a ghost, his chest heaving, absolute terror in his eyes. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! You could have died!” I looked up at him, studying his face. “Your heart seems to be handling the stress just fine.” Declan stopped panting, utterly derailed. “What the hell are you talking about?” His chest rose and fell rapidly, the pulse in his neck hammering against his skin. The rhythm was so frantic, so loud in the quiet night air. I listened to that familiar, beautiful heartbeat greedily, and without warning, a tear slipped down my cheek. Panic flashed in Declan’s eyes. He reached through the window. “Harper—” “I wasn’t afraid of dying. That’s why I won,” I cut him off smoothly, rolling the window back up an inch. “I’ve loved this mountain a lot longer than you have, Declan. And honestly? Your driving is mediocre.” I dropped the car back into gear. “You spent three years looking down on me,” I said quietly over the idle of the engine. “But I never thought that highly of you, either.” Declan stood frozen in the exhaust smoke as I turned the car around and drove away. 4 Returning to the underground circuit gave me my life back. With no one to babysit, I picked up the obsession I’d buried three years ago. In a single month, I swept through dozens of local bracket races, taking first place in almost all of them. The raw, life-or-death adrenaline scrubbed my mind clean. For the first time in years, the crushing loneliness was gone. Which was why it was so deeply irritating to find Declan Cross leaning against my apartment door on a Tuesday night. Given his towering pride, I thought my stunt at the canyon would have severed his ego beyond repair. I stopped at the end of the hallway and just looked at him. He ran a hand through his hair, looking agitated, before breaking the silence. “My hair is black.” I gave him a weird look. Did he think I was blind? Unable to process the sheer stupidity of the statement, I gave him a flat response. “Yeah. Serena has good taste.” He choked on his next breath. He stood there for a long moment before forcing the words out. “It wasn’t for her. You… you said you wanted it black.” I didn’t understand, and frankly, I didn’t care to. “Why are you here, Declan?” “Let’s get back together.” The moment the words left his mouth, he winced, looking disgusted with himself for actually saying them out loud. But it was a phrase I had offered him a hundred times. “What’s the point?” I asked. Before he could stumble through an answer, I gave him one. “There is no point. You don’t even like me. This is just bruised possession. The fact that your devoted little shadow actually walked away is eating you alive. That’s all this is, right?” Declan’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t speak. I walked past him and reached for the keypad to my door. Suddenly, he moved. He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me hard against the wall, crowding into my space with a dark, bitter sneer. He was too close, his breath hot against the skin of my neck, triggering a violent wave of revulsion in my stomach. “You’re doing all of this, tearing us apart, over one stupid comment?” he growled, the mask of the apologetic boyfriend melting away to reveal the volatile, aggressive boy underneath. “What do you want, Harper? You want me to beg?” He pressed his forearm against the wall beside my head, boxing me in. “Fine. Listen closely. I’m sorry. I misspoke. Are you going to forgive me now?” It was framed as an apology, but he was looking at me the way a predator looks at a trapped rabbit. I met his eyes, unblinking. “Are you off your meds again?” Declan’s pupils blew wide. A tremor ripped through his shoulders. When you spend three years monitoring a man’s every breath, you know exactly where the armor is thinnest. You know where to slide the knife. I shoved him back. “If you’re having an episode, call your doctor. Stop showing up at my door looking for a fight.” Declan stumbled back, staring at me. Then, he let out a harsh, cracked laugh. “You’re gonna regret this.” I looked at him, dead serious. “I hope your health stays stable. I hope you live a long life.” He froze, then laughed louder, the sound echoing down the sterile hallway. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Harper.” “You wanted to break up, remember? What I do now is none of your business.” I punched my code into the door. Without looking back, I said quietly, “When I took that bullet for you in Bogotá, you swore you owed me a favor. Anything I wanted. I’m cashing it in now. Leave me alone.” I locked the door. A second later, a massive kick shuddered against the wood. Declan screamed on the other side, punching the door, cursing my name until his voice went hoarse. I walked away. It had nothing to do with me anymore. I went into my bedroom, sat on the edge of my mattress, and pulled a framed photograph to my chest. I held it tight, anchoring myself to the only person in the world I truly loved.
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