Page 74 of My Totally Unfair Deal

“Want to join me on the rooftop for drinks?” I ask, trying to recover. “Can you believe I got a standing ovation?”

“I’ll have to raincheck on that.”

The chill in his tone hits me like a slap. I laugh again, nervous. “Well, I’m done for the evening, so maybe we can?—”

“You should graciously mingle with vendors and sponsors until the ballroom closes,” he says, cutting me off. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to me. “I have no doubt you’ll get plenty of business after this. Can you sign off on this?”

I stare at him, then take the pen from his pocket and scrawl my name on the line, my chest tightening.

“Can we talk outside for a second, Harrison?” I whisper. “Something’s off with you.”

“It was a pleasure having you as a client, Miss Hart.” His voice is cold. Formal.

I blink harder this time, certain I misheard him.

“You can take up to two weeks to move your things out of my condo,” he adds, still not looking at me. “I’ll check in with the doorman before I return so we don’t cross paths.”

“Harrison,what the hellare you talking about?”

“I’m saying goodbye, Eliza,” he says. “Our business is officially done.”

I take a shaky breath. “Ourbusiness? You mean ourrelationship,too?”

His expression doesn’t change. “We never had a relationship. And we never will.”

I don’t even feel the floor under me anymore.

“Good luck,” he adds, then turns and walks away like I meant nothing.

I open my mouth to say his name, to scream, torun after him—but someone touches my arm before I can move.

“Miss Hart?” a man says breathlessly. “Your presentation was incredible. Could I speak to you about making a one-month reservation at the farm?”

I smile because I’m supposed to. Because that’s what people like me do.

I nod, and I smile.

And I pretend I didn’t just break into a thousand pieces.

THIRTY-EIGHT

ELIZA

Idon’t cry on the way back to Harrison’s penthouse.

Not when I wave the town car away and tell the driver I’d rather walk home. Not when I stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue in heels I finally learned to walk in.

I don’t even cry when I see my reflection in the window of some designer boutique, dressed like a woman I don’t recognize.

But the second I close the door to the penthouse and hear nothing—no footsteps, no voice, no“You looked beautiful tonight”or“I’m fucking sorry”—I crack.

I kick off the heels, peel off the lashes, tug at the thousand-dollar dress until it tears at the seams.

All the stuff Harrison said about me to his family was all an act, and I should’ve known better than to think he’d ever want to be with me for the long term.

“It was just a deal,” I whisper to myself. “A temporary fucking unfair deal.”

I open my phone to send a message to Harrison.

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