Too Late Mr. Sterling: You Lost Me

The phone vibrated against the marble countertop, a low, angry hum that disrupted the silence of the penthouse. Harper Quinn stood in the center of the expansive walk-in closet, her fingers lingering on the silk of a navy blue tie. She was trying to decide if this was the shade of blue Archer liked, or the shade he said made him look washed out. It was becoming harder to remember the list of things Archer liked because the list seemed to change with the wind.

The vibration came again.

She glanced toward the nightstand. Archer was in the shower. The sound of the water hitting the tile was a rhythmic, distant thrumming, accompanied by his off-key humming of a classic rock song. He was happy. He was always happy when he thought he was winning.

Harper walked over to the phone. It wasn't a call. It was a text message on the lock screen, but the sender ID was blocked.

The truth is in the calculator app. The code is the day he started the company.

Her breath hitched in her throat. It was a physical sensation, a sharp pinch in her airway that made her cough once, dryly. She stared at the words, waiting for them to rearrange themselves into something innocent, something like a wrong number or a spam bot. But the specificity of it-the calculator app, the company date-felt like a cold hand wrapping around the back of her neck.

She looked toward the bathroom door. The humming continued. Steam was beginning to curl out from beneath the doorframe.

Harper picked up the phone. Her hands were shaking. Not a subtle tremble, but a violent shiver that made it difficult to hold the sleek device. She stared at the blank screen, knowing Archer wasn't the type to use a simple sequence like 1-2-3-4. He prided himself on digital hygiene, a trait he preached about in every interview. But Harper knew his vanity exceeded his caution. She tilted the screen against the light, searching for the tell-tale oily residue of his thumbprints. The smudges clustered in a specific pattern, worn deep into the oleophobic coating. Top right, bottom center, middle. The date of his first successful acquisition. The day he believed he became a god.

She keyed in the six digits. The lock clicked open.

His background was a photo of the two of them in the Hamptons last summer. They looked perfect. Tan, smiling, successful. Harper looked at her own smiling face in the photo and felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach.

She swiped to the second page of apps. There it was. The calculator. It looked standard. Gray buttons, black background. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the glass. If she did this, if she opened this door, she could never close it. Ignorance was a warm blanket, and she was about to strip it off in the dead of winter.

She tapped the icon. The keypad appeared.

She typed in the date.