She opened the book with fingers that shook so violently the pages fluttered like trapped birds. The library was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the single desk lamp that trembled with every gust rattling the windows. Outside, the January blizzard screamed, hurling snow against the glass in furious, accusing waves. Inside, the silence was worse than any sound—thick, suffocating, the kind of quiet that had lived inside Isabel Torres for seven years.

She had come back to The Price of Salt tonight because the ache had grown teeth. She needed to feel the story bleed again, to remind herself that someone, somewhere, had once been brave enough to choose love over safety. Her thumb rested on the cracked spine, pressing until the paper bit into her skin. She could still smell Harper on those pages—coffee, winter, the ghost of a girl who used to kiss her like the world was ending.

The front doors exploded inward with a howl of wind.

Isabel’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she tasted blood.

A figure staggered through the doorway, snow exploding around her like shrapnel. Navy coat sodden, auburn hair dark and plastered to her face, lips blue with cold. Harper Ellis looked like a woman who had walked through hell and decided hell wasn’t far enough.

She saw Isabel.

The world stopped.

“Isa—”

The syllable tore out of her like something vital being ripped free.

Isabel rose so fast that the chair crashed backward. Her legs barely held her. “Harper.”

They stared at each other across twenty feet of polished marble and seven years of grief.

Harper took one step. Then another. Then she was running—stumbling, desperate—until she crashed into the desk, palms slamming down, body shaking so hard the wood vibrated.