Chapter4: Bound By Love

Harris sat in his luxurious office, fingers tapping impatiently on the polished mahogany desk. The sun cast an amber glow through the large window, bathing the room warmly. He knew he needed help to find Mallory, and that's why he was there.

A confident woman with dark, wavy hair entered the room. She carried herself with an air of authority, her every step purposeful. "Harris Thompson?" she asked, extending her hand for a shake. "I'm Jane Wilson, private investigator."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Wilson," Harris said, gripping her hand firmly. "Please, have a seat. I need your help finding someone – Mallory Phillips."

"Understood, Mr. Thompson." Jane took out a notepad and pen, ready to take notes. "What's your relationship with her?"

"Complicated," he admitted, rubbing his temples. "She's… important to me."

"Alright, let's start with what you know about her whereabouts," Jane suggested, looking at him expectantly.

"Her mother, Patricia Phillips, might be the key to finding her," Harris said, his voice laced with determination. "I haven't been able to get any information from her best friend. She wasn't in the apartment that she used to share with Mallory. I've been searching for Mallory for a few days already. I badly need to find her."

"Very well," Jane replied, scribbling down notes. "I'll look into it and update you as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Ms. Wilson," Harris said. "I appreciate your help."

A few days later, Jane stood outside Patricia Phillips' quaint suburban home, discreetly observing her actions through binoculars. She watched as Patricia tended to her garden, wearing a wide-brimmed hat to protect her face from the sun.

"Patricia Phillips?" Jane asked, approaching her with a warm smile. "My name is Jane Wilson, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your daughter, Mallory."

"Who sent you?" Patricia inquired, narrowing her eyes at the stranger. Her tone was guarded, her arms crossed over her chest defensively.

"Mr. Harris Thompson hired me," Jane admitted. "He's concerned about Mallory and wants to ensure she's safe."

"Of course he is," Patricia scoffed, rolling her eyes. The weariness etched on her face implied that she had been through this before – protecting her daughter from unwanted attention.

"Mrs. Phillips, I understand your concern for your daughter's privacy, but Mr. Thompson is genuinely worried about her well-being," Jane said, her voice softening. "If there's anything you can tell me, it would mean a great deal to him."

"Tell Mr. Thompson that Mallory is doing just fine without him," Patricia shot back, her jaw clenched tightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." She turned around on Jane, dismissing her presence.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Phillips," Jane said, taking her leave. As she walked away, she couldn't help but feel conflicted about the case. It was clear that Patricia was fiercely protective of her daughter, and yet, Harris's desperation to find Mallory tugged at her heartstrings.

Jane knew that her job was to provide answers for her clients. But as she dialed Harris's number to report her findings, she wondered if finding Mallory was best for everyone involved.

Meanwhile, Harris paced back and forth in his luxurious penthouse, his frustration mounting with each passing second. Why couldn't he find her? He clenched his fists, feeling utterly helpless.

"Damn it, Mallory," he muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. "Why did you have to disappear?"

The phone rang, shattering the silence around him. He snatched it up, praying it was news about Mallory.

"Mr. Thompson, it's Jane. I spoke with Mrs. Phillips today," the private investigator said, her tone cautiously neutral. "She confirmed that Mallory is safe and well, but she doesn't know where she is and won't disclose any further information."

"Nothing? Are you sure?" Harris's voice cracked, betraying his desperation.

"I'm afraid not," Jane replied sympathetically. "Mrs. Phillips fiercely protects her daughter's privacy, and I couldn't persuade her to share more. But rest assured, I'll have a further investigation on Mallory's whereabouts."

"Thanks, Jane," Harris said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "I appreciate your efforts."

As he hung up the phone, he felt an unfamiliar sensation well up in his chest – a mix of anger, sadness, and overwhelming frustration. His heart ached, the crushing weight of his emotions threatening to suffocate him. He needed to find Mallory. He needed to make things right.

"Damn it all," he whispered, his breath hitching as he leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

And as Harris stood in his penthouse, staring out into the night, he vowed to himself that he would not give up on Mallory. His love for her would endure no matter how long it took or what obstacles stood in his way. He would find her, and together, they would weather the storm.

Harris decided to treat himself to a good drink and went to the bar. He sat alone at the bar, nursing his third glass of whiskey. The dim lighting did little to hide the dark circles under his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders was palpable. Shadows danced along the walls, the flickering candlelight casting eerie silhouettes on the faces of other patrons who seemed to be enjoying their night far more than he.

"Another one, sir?" the bartender asked, eyeing Harris's near-empty glass with concern. Harris nodded without looking up, his hand shaking slightly as he raised the glass to his lips. Each sip burned like fire down his throat, but it was a pain he welcomed – anything to dull the edge of his emotions.

"Damn it, Mallory," he muttered under his breath, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the puzzle that had become her disappearance. His thoughts circled back to one nagging suspicion: Did she know about his engagement? He clenched his fist around the glass, the ice clinking against the sides as his grip tightened.

"Hey, buddy, you alright?" a man slurred from a stool away, his drink sloshing precariously in his hand. Harris ignored him, consumed by the heavy guilt that threatened to destroy him. If Mallory had found out about his engagement, he'd have lost her forever.

"Of course, she knew," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. "She's too smart for her own good. She may be naive, but I think she's not stupid."

"Who's too smart?" the man beside him asked, nudging Harris's arm. Harris shook his head, trying to focus on the swirling amber liquid before him.

"Nobody. It doesn't matter," Harris replied, attempting to shut out the intrusive stranger. But the man persisted, leaning closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"Is it your girl? You're not the first man to have trouble with love, and you won't be the last."

"Love is a damn fickle thing," Harris agreed bitterly, his mind replaying the moments of tenderness and passion he'd shared with Mallory. The way her eyes lit up when she laughed, and the warmth of her touch was all so evident in his memory, yet somehow, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Mallory was the only woman who saw, accepted, and loved him as he was. And that separated her from other women he was with. Their relationship was not based on money, power, and influence. It was pure love that bound them.

"Then fight for it, man," the stranger urged, his words slurring together as he slapped Harris on the back. "You never know what might happen if you try."

"Trust me, I'm trying," Harris assured him, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowded bar. His determination to uncover the truth grew more assertive as his suspicions continued to mount. He couldn't let go of Mallory without knowing for sure – without hearing her side of the story.

"Good luck, then," the man said, raising his glass in a toast before stumbling off to join his friends. Harris downed the last of his whiskey and slammed the glass onto the counter with newfound resolve. His heart raced, fueled by alcohol and desperation, as he vowed to find the answers he sought.

"Where are you, Mallory?" he whispered, the words tasting bitter on his lips. "What happened to us?" Every fiber of his being ached with the need to find Mallory – to look into her eyes and ask her why she had left. But the truth seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke, always out of reach.

And for the first time in his life, Harris Thompson realized that he might never find the answers he desperately sought.