Summary: After realising they haven't actually saved the world, the group are forced to grapple with their impending doom while surviving a city full of Ice Nation warriors out for blood. *yn* makes a deal to save her people, while also trying to save herself from falling apart.
Warnings/tags: emotional trauma from me returning after a four year hiatus?, blood, mentions and descriptions of death, angst, emotional trauma, slight mentions of alcoholism, violence, swearing
Notes: Based on 4x01 “Echoes” of The 100.
‘Privileged’ Masterlist
Clarke's lips were moving, words spilling out in hushed, urgent whispers after Bellamy had demanded an explanation.
Nuclear reactor meltdowns. Acid rain and storms. The end of the world within six months.
*yn* just knelt on the cold floor numbly, knees pressed into stone she could no longer feel. Her eyes never left Elijah's motionless body splayed out at her feet.
She was still waiting for him to move. For his chest to rise. A finger to twitch. For him to sit up and laugh at the look on her face and question how she could ever think he was dead.
"Can I check to make sure you're ok?"
She felt a hand settle on shoulder as Abby appeared in her peripheral vision.
"I'm fine."
She didn't recognise the voice that came out of her. It was flat and cold, borderline robotic.
"You nearly died." Abby gently reminded her.
*yn* finally turned to look at her at that.
"We all nearly died." She said, her gaze sharp. "And plenty of others actually did."
Abby didn't say anything. She only offered a small, resigned nod before retreating from her unsuccessful mission.
*yn* forced herself to look down at the man in front of her once more. She tried to still her trembling hands as they reached for him, fingers hovering for a moment as if she avoided it, it might delay the inevitable.
With a featherlight touch, she closed Elijah's eyes. His skin was already cool to the touch.
"Yu gonplei ste odon." She whispered, brushing a thumb over his cheek.
She rose to her feet without another word. She could feel the weight of every person's eyes on her - like they were waiting with baited breath for her to break again.
Her cheeks felt heavy with tear stains still so fresh they hadn't yet dried. Her legs quivered like they might buckle again at any moment, but somehow, by some miracle she managed to make them move.
Without another look, she made a beeline for the exit, following the path Octavia had taken only minutes earlier.
A hand firmly grasped Bellamy's arm as he moved to follow her. "Let her go." Clarke said quietly. "You know if you push her too quickly she'll push you back out even harder."
Bellamy didn't answer, but the way his body stilled indicated he knew that Clarke was right. She was the only person who knew *yn* just as well as he did.
He felt helpless as he watched her leave. He could feel the invisible string connecting them pulling taught with every step she took. All he could hope was that she wouldn't let it snap.
He could deal with the news of the inevitable end of the world, but losing her again?
That was something he wasn't sure his body would let him bear.
-
Getting out of the tower was a terrible idea.
The second *yn* stepped out into the blinding daylight, the stench hit her - metallic, sour, all too familiar. Death. Blood caked the ground, pooling in every crack and crevice. The wails of the grieving had started, raw and unrestrained, people walking around in a daze as they tried to understand what had just happened.
She stepped over the bodies, sliding straight into the chaos. Grounders glanced up at her as she passed, then gave her a second and then a third look.
The air shifted. Their stares hardened.
"Malak al maut."
She stopped. A woman crouched over the body of a young girl was the first to say her name. *yn* leant down, extending her hand on instinct, to offer her aid, comfort, solidarity - like she'd done a hundred times before.
"You did this." The woman spat out. "You and Wanheda."
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she slowly retracted her hand - like someone trying to avoid being bitten by a viper. Her emotionless stare did nothing to quell the low murmuring swelling around her.
From a distance, Clark and Bellamy watched her.
They could tell she was trying to maintain the perfect picture of composure, but she looked more like someone about to go into nervous shock. They knew she was dangling on the precipice again, so close to teetering off the edge a faint breeze might send her plummeting.
"She'll be ok. She always is."
"We always say that." Bellamy answered, his words coming out harsher than he'd intended. "But how much can one person take Clarke?" His voice cracked unexpectedly.
Clarke turned to him. "We'll get through this. All of us." The words felt thin, even to her.
She exhaled. "But in the meantime, we have to figure out how we're going to tell these people that they're about to die in the next six months."
"We don't." He answered immediately. "Not until we know ALIE was telling you the truth."
"She was telling the truth."
Bellamy dragged a hand down his face, his eyes never leaving *yn*'s figure ahead of them. "Then we wait until we figure out a plan. We gave them back their pain, let's not add to it by telling them they're going to die in six months."
Clarke hesitated, then nodded reluctantly in agreement.
"Good." He continued. "*yn* will be on board too. Once everyone's down we go home and get to work."
Before Clarke could respond, shouts for assistance cut through the noise.
*yn* took off in an instant. Clarke and Bellamy exchanged glances.
"You get in contact with Raven." Clarke pushed the radio into Bellamy's hand. "I'll help her."
Bellamy shot *yn* one last look before relenting, leaving Clarke to chase after her.
The two Ice Nation warriors who had been calling for help slowed when they recognised *yn*. She knelt as they began to ease the body they were carrying to the ground.
The man's head lolled to the side. It was caked in blood and dirt, obscuring his features, but she recognised him in an instant.
Something stirred in her, slipping through the cracks of her hastily built walls. Fear. Just a flicker, but it pulsed through her once as his name left her lips.
"Roan."
He needed a doctor, he needed -
Abby rushed to kneel down beside her before her mouth could even begin to form the first syllable of her name. Clarke and Kane were not far behind.
"He got shot trying to help me." Clarke shook her head in disbelief. "I thought he was dead."
*yn* cradled his head as Abby pressed her fingers against his neck.
"Not yet." Abby said grimly. "But he's close."
*yn* shifted his body to the side so they could look at his back. "No exit wound." She observed.
"We need to get the bullet out. And quick, before-"
"Get away from our king."
Cold steel kissed *yn*'s skin. She tensed as the flat edge of the blade pressed against her neck, drawing a thin line. She raised her hands up as the owner of the blade pulled her up onto her feet.
"Wait please-" Clarke began. *yn* flashed her a warning glance as she took a step towards them.
"You're making a mistake. We're part of the coalition." Kane urged.
She was now eye to eye with her captor. Echo. She saw the hint of recognition in Echo's eyes as she pushed the blade deeper into her neck.
Another emotion surged past her mental barriers. But this time it was one she was happy to embrace. Rage.
"Long time no see Malak al maut." Echo mused.
Flashes of Mount Weather came back to her. The assassin. Gina. Echo's smirk as she convinced everyone to leave the bunker defenceless.
"We can save him." Abby spoke.
*yn* could see her own people swarming around them, guns raised. The sound of metal being unsheathed behind her indicated Echo had her own army at her back too.
"We have our own healers."
She began barking commands but *yn* was only able to grasp a few words here and there - something about taking Roan to where they buried their dead.
"He's not dead you idiots." She snarled.
"Echo!"
*yn* watched helplessly as Bellamy pushed his way through the throng of people, fury blazing in his eyes as they locked onto the blade at her throat.
"Bellamy don't." She tried her best to make it sound like an order and less of a plea, with little success.
She hated how it hurt to even look at him, let alone say his name.
"Let her go Echo!"
"Back off Bellamy."
Clarke and Kane held Bellamy back as he desperately tried to move towards the pair.
"Listen to me." *yn* said calmly, forcing her voice to remain steady. "We can save your king ok? Just let me go. There's been enough death today."
Echo's gaze locked onto her.
"I don't know why." She said slowly. "But Roan admired you." Her gaze shifted to Clarke. "And I saw your friend in the City of Light. I know you saved us."
The pressure vanished as the blade slid away from her neck.
Echo shoved her forward. "Consider this my thank you."
Bellamy's hands found her waist as she stumbled forward. She instinctively reached out to balance herself, glancing up at him as he held her firm. Elijah's lifeless eyes stared back.
She tried to ignore the feeling of his fingers almost desperately trying to hold onto her as she pulled herself away from him.
"Look around you." Echo gestured to the devastation around them as she addressed her people. "Skaikru did this to us. Because of them Ontari your rightful commander, is dead. This imposter stole her Flame."
"No." Kane stepped forward. "Wanheda saved us. All of us. Grounders and Skaikru."
"There wouldn't be anything to save us from if not for you."
"Azgeda has no authority here." *yn* cut in, her eyes simmering as she glared at the woman in front of her.
"We do now." Echo replied coldly. "In the name of King Roan, as rightful caretakers of the throne of the commanders, Polis is now under Azgeda rule."
"Like hell it is." A grounder that *yn* didn't recognise appeared. She was an older woman, with an air of authority *yn* knew only came with being a clan leader or an ambassador.
"Where's your war chief, girl?"
"Our war chief is dead, ambassador. As a member of the queen's guard, command of this army has fallen to me until the king awakens."
"If he awakens." The woman glanced around at her captive audience. "Until a new commander can ascend, Polis will be ruled by ambassadors of the coalition. If Azgeda wants it, they must take it by force."
The whir of metal slicing through air, and then flesh, rung out. Silence followed.
*yn* watched as a red line split cleanly across the ambassadors throat. The sound of her lifeless body crumpling to the ground rung out.
"Consider it taken." Echo snarled. Her blade splayed out at her side, dripping with crimson.
"No Skaikru leaves this city."
*yn* let out a sigh.
"Maybe we won't have to wait for the radiation to take us out."
"Any others?"
"That's the last I could find."
*yn* nodded, ushering the last of her people through the narrow opening behind the temple altar. The hidden tunnel swallowed them one by one, shadows folding around familiar faces until they disappeared completely.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"
"Lead them home, Major. We'll be there as soon as we can." Kane answered, grasping the Major's hand in a firm shake.
*yn* nodded to convey her thanks before he disappeared into the darkness.
Her gaze lingered on her dad a beat too long, and then she saw it. The way his jaw tightened, fingers instinctively moving to touch an injury to his wrist. She wasn't the only one who noticed.
*yn* pressed herself back against a wall as Abby crossed the room, zeroing in on his injury immediately. She turned her head away as Abby took his arm, murmuring reassurances, fussing over him with a tenderness that felt almost intrusive in the middle of everything else.
Elijah's body had been left somewhere up above them. The thought lodged painfully behind her ribs. He was up there defenceless and unprotected. Was he being stepped over? Tossed onto a pile like the rest of the other dead? Lost in the sea of bodies drowning this city, never to be found again, never to be given a proper goodbye?
Her throat tightened.
The door opened, pulling her free from the spiral she was teetering on the edge of.
Indra's eyes met hers. Relief flickered across her face briefly as *yn* moved forward to meet her in the centre of the room. Indra's eyes were suddenly darting everywhere, assessing her features, taking in her sunken eyes and sallow complexion.
She barely recognised the girl who stared back.
Indra pulled her into a brief but tight embrace. *yn* let herself squeeze back, gripping onto the familiar strength like an anchor.
"Well?" *yn* heard Clarke murmur to Bellamy.
"You're not going to like it."
"When you destroyed the City of Light there were a thousand Azgeda warriors inside the city of Polis." As she spoke, Indra brushed a hand over *yn*'s cheek, her body blocking her sign of affection from everyone else in the room.
"Great timing." Octavia remarked.
"The only way to remove them, is by force."
"Then let's remove them."
"Slow down." Abby glared at Octavia. "You're talking about a war."
"Yes." Indra confirmed. "Most of the other clans will join Trikru without question, but we'll still be short."
"This is insane." Abby shook her head. "We should be leaving with the others."
"They'll just hunt us down and massacre us if we do." *yn* answered.
"How do we get the other clans to join us?" She directed her question at Indra.
"I can do it. But I need the Flame."
"No." Clarke didn't raise her voice, but her words were absolute.
"Clarke, the clans will follow whoever has the Flame-" Bellamy began.
"Azgeda won't." Clarke shot back.
"Then we fight." Octavia urged. *yn* didn't miss the blood thirsty glint in her eye.
"We don't have time for that." *yn* shook her head. "And we can't risk losing anymore people."
She locked eyes with Clarke.
Abby glanced between the two, immediately picking up on the energy between the two. "What don't we know?"
Clarke and *yn* exchanged another glance, this one laden with shared weight and dread. With a small nod of *yn*'s head, Clarke explained to the others what ALIE had told her - the nuclear reactors melting down, the radiation, the fact they all had sixth months to live.
It felt almost laughable hearing it a second time - bordering on absurd. As if the universe had grown bored and decided to pile on one final act of cruelty for good measure.
"Even if this is true, it's six months away." She said slowly as she tried to absorb the information Clarke had just delivered. "There are a thousand Azgeda warriors who want to kill us now."
"How can we be sure?" *yn* turned to her dad at that, her lips pressed firm in a straight line.
"Because I'll convince him too."
It wasn't said like it was a hope or a gamble - but as a fact. As something inevitable.
Kane studied her before darting to Bellamy's face.
Something unreadable flashed across it as he studied her.
Kane saw it. He knew there was much more to this than what was being said.
"Ok." Abby cleared her throat. "So how do we make sure Echo and her warriors don't kill us while we try and save him?"
"They won't kill us." Clarke answered, with the exact same calm confidence that *yn* had.
"How do you know?"
"Because she has a plan." *yn* cut in, observing her best friend. "Like she always does."
“Octavia’s in.”
*yn* tipped her head back, eyes tracking the length of the tower. It loomed impossibly high, its peak swallowed by cloud.
All they could do from down here was wait and hope that Clarke and Abby could save Roan in time.
Polis had grown dark, the torchlight washing everything in amber hues and shadows. The smoke from the torches curled lazily through the air.
She stole a glance at Bellamy. It felt like only yesterday that she had been admiring him by the campfire before they’d snuck away for the night. The memory burned. She wanted to grasp the yearning clawing at her chest and twist its head clean off.
“Never a dull moment huh?”
*yn*’s brow furrowed at the sight of Murphy.
“Where the hell have you been?”
She looked over his shoulder to catch movement behind him. The outline of a girl clinging to the shadows behind him, watching.
“Relax little miss privileged.”
She rolled her eyes. Whatever moment they’d shared earlier had been left in the gutter, the usual animosity back in full force.
“She’ll only talk to Bellamy.” Jaha interrupted.
*yn* scoffed, folding her arms in from of her chest.
“That tracks.”
“About time we saw that jealousy streak again." Murphy smirked. "I thought you’d lost the ability.”
If looks could kill, Murphy would be six feet under. He grinned at the familiar flare in her eyes. He would never say it out loud, but he was relieved to see the events that had just unfolded hadn’t snuffed out the rage that always bubbled just beneath the surface.
“Should we test to see if I’ve lost the ability to kick your ass?”
"Both of you, focus." Indra snapped.
Like chastised children, Murphy and *yn* shot eachother one last glare before relenting.
"Echo is dangerous." Indra turned back to Bellamy. "She's a member of the queen's guard, she's extremely loyal."
"Not to the people who saved her life." Bellamy muttered bitterly.
"Bellamy, I know how you feel about her." Kane shot *yn* an apologetic look. "But you need to keep your composure."
"Hard to do that when she nearly got my-" Bellamy cut himself off.
Grief flooded his features momentarily as he studied *yn* before he could stop it.
Sometimes when he looked at her, he could still see the bruises covering inch of her skin. He could feel the weight of her body in his arms as he the way he had to lift her into the bathtub. Mount Weather had been what had sealed their fate in some ways, the beginning of the end - when Pike learned how to weaponise Bellamy's fear of losing her, and Bellamy had started letting him.
That was what he saw and felt when he looked at Echo.
*yn* met his eyes, only briefly. He had the unnerving sense that she could hear every thought he hadn't yet said out loud.
"Offer her technology, guns, whatever you can to keep her talking." Kane said.
"Maybe not guns." *yn* murmured, lifting a brow.
"It won't get that far. Our objective is to buy time for Abby to save the king." Marcus looked at Murphy. "And if you want to help, grab a weapon. Take a post."
"Take mine." Bellamy slid his automatic from around his chest. Murphy blinked, he was surprised. And beneath that *yn* noted something else - fear.
"My my how times have changed." Murphy remarked dryly.
Bellamy glanced around the group, his eyes settling on *yn*.
"I got this." He said it to her directly, like there was no one else on this planet but her.
Murphy glanced between the pair, opting to keep his mouth shut this time as he observed their body language.
*yn* watched as Murphy's eyes darted behind him, his hands fidgeting nervously on the weapon.
"Wait." *yn* called to Murphy once the others ventured out of earshot.
She jerked her chin towards the shadows. "Go."
"If you're going to make a run for it, I'd rather you do it before you abandon your post." She explained when she saw the confusion on his face.
She hesitated for a moment but then nodded at the gun. "Keep it. You need something to protect her, god knows you won't be able to."
"How did-"
"Go." She insisted. "Before I change my mind."
Despite her hard exterior, Murphy knew that if he scraped just below the surface, he'd see the fragile shell of *yn* Kane underneath. Even now when she was trying to appear uninterested, he could see that her bottom lip was tremoring just slightly, betraying her.
He sent her one sharp nod, his grip on the gun tightening.
She didn't look back as he rushed past her, disappearing into the dark.
She inhaled sharply, squared her shoulders and followed after the others. She slid the handgun from her waistband and melted into the pillars. She settled on a spot that kept her hidden from view but provided her with a perfect range to fire if needed.
Her finger rested on the trigger as she watched Bellamy make his way out into the courtyard towards the Azgeda soldiers.
It instinctively pressed just a hair harder when Echo stepped into view.
She was too far away to hear anything, but even from this distance she could see Bellamy's shoulders tense as Echo came to a stop in front of him.
"What are the terms of your surrender?"
Bellamy gritted his teeth. It was taking every part of him not to pull out his gun and shoot her where she stood.
"We recognise Ice Nation rule." He forced out. "And you honour Lexa's coalition, including the thirteenth clan."
"No." Echo spoke, this time softer.
"We'll give you guns, show you how to use them."
Her eyes narrowed. "Trikru accepts this?"
"They're not happy about it."
"Not much they can do about that now is there." Echo's calculating gaze locked onto Indra. "Without an army."
Bellamy couldn't control his reaction, his mask slipping momentarily - just enough for Echo to switch her laser focus to him - like a lion stalking it's pray.
"You were there." The hint of surprise in her tone wounded Bellamy more than he thought it would.
He saw the way her face twisted, the way her body angled away from him slightly. She looked at him differently now, and he couldn't blame her for it.
"Is this why you and Malak al maut are not together?"
"We're not here to talk about her." Bellamy snapped.
Echo's face twisted with sick amusement. She'd found his weak spot. "You say that, but somehow it always ends up being about her. Roan's.... fascinated by her." This time, Echo was the one who couldn't subdue the bitterness poisoning her tone.
Her gaze drifted past his right shoulder, searching the shadows. *yn* would be here, she always was.
"Do you accept the terms or not?" Bellamy pushed.
"Everyone hates skaikru. We can never accept your terms."
"The alternative is war, is that really what you want?" Bellamy persisted.
"No one wants war." She shot back. "Lay down your guns, and we'll let your children live."
"I can't do that."
"I'll give you time to decide, consult with who's really in charge." Echo moved to turn around and before Bellamy could think through his decision - he lunged forward to grasp onto her arm.
"I wasn't done talking."
In a blink Echo had him shoved into the dirt, a knife gleaming in the torchlight pressed against his neck.
*yn* sprung up from from her spot in an instant, her gun aimed at Echo's head.
Echo smirked, finding her instantly. "Right on cue." Echo called out, loud enough for *yn* to hear.
"Guns on the ground or he dies." Echo demanded, shoving the blade further into his skin.
*yn* looked at Kane and Indra. She could make the shot easily, but then Bellamy would be lying within feet of a dozen raging Ice Nation warriors looking to enact revenge with no Echo to keep them in line.
She bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that they there were at an impasse. They just had to hope that Clarke and Abby had pulled through.
All she could do now was give Echo a distraction to prevent her from slaughtering them all here where they stood.
"Weapons on the ground." Kane ordered.
*yn* and the rest of her people complied, keeping her eyes locked on Echo.
"You might want to go check on your King." She drawled out as she raised her hands up in surrender.
Echo's eyes narrowed as she pulled Bellamy up onto his feet.
"Seize them." She ordered. "Malak al maut comes with us."
*yn* kept her face blank as two guards dragged her behind Echo, up into the tower.
Chaos was unfolding already when they arrived. Octavia, Clarke and Abby had been captured. There were too many bodies in the room for *yn* to find Roan's body. But judging by the state of things, they hadn't been successful.
"They were trying to kill the King." Echo declared as Bellamy and *yn* were shoved to their knees in front of her.
"No, we were trying to save him." Clarke responded desperately.
*yn* watched as Echo stalked forward, her fist tightening around the hilt of her blade.
"If you're going to kill anyone first, it should be me." *yn* spoke calmly. "Leave Wanheda for last. She's the most powerful."
"*yn*." Bellamy hissed, his eyes wide in shock.
Echo turned to look at her, letting out a dry chuckle. "If you insist."
Echo had barely lifted her blade when a deep voice rung out.
"Hod op."
The voice was deep, like it had been dragged through gravel.
All eyes fell on the King of Azgeda.
*yn*'s lips parted in surprise as she watched Roan sit up. Blood caked his exposed chest, his muscles rippled with exertion as he lifted himself up.
"My king." Echo bowed.
"Roan, help us." Clarke pleaded. "Tell them we're friends."
"You shouldn't try to stand so soon-" Abby winced as a guard shoved her harshly.
Roan coughed as he got up onto his feet. His body lunged forward as his legs nearly gave out, bracing himself on a crate before he could topple.
"Where's Ontari?" He rasped.
"Dead sire." Echo announced. "Killed by them."
Roan's eyes fixed on Clarke.
"We couldn't save her." Clarke explained. "But we did what we came here to do. Now I need you to honour your promise and protect my people."
"That was before your people shot me and killed my commander."
"We just saved your damn life." Octavia hissed.
Roan's eyes landed on *yn*. She'd been so uncharacteristically quiet that he hadn't even realised that she was here.
He studied her, like he was daring her to say something.
She simply glared back at him.
"Lock them up."
The shackles bit into her already bruised wrists, the rusted metal grinding against her skin with every small movement. The adrenaline that had carried her this far was finally burning out, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. It pressed on her chest, weighted her limbs, making her feel like she had a concrete block chained to her ankle.
“Hi.”
She swallowed and kept her eyes fixed out on the sliver of dawn visible through the barred windows.
“Hi.”
“I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to give you space.” She squeezed her eyes shut as Bellamy continued. “Because you look like you're about to break.”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t know why you still try and lie to me after all this time.”
Her bloodshot eyes finally met his.
Both his cheeks had been split open in the fight, dried blood tracing the cuts like a fault line.
She wanted to kiss them. She wanted to add more. She wanted to press her face against his and let their tears intertwine. She wanted to never cry again. She wanted to never let him go. She wanted to never see him again.
She wanted a drink - something strong enough to make everything quiet.
"*yn*-" His voice cracked. "Let me be here for you, please."
She looked out the window again. She couldn't bear looking at him any longer.
"I can't." She whispered.
"*yn*'-"
The cell door screeched open and guards poured in.
"Malak al maut. Get up."
"Where's the king?" Clarke demanded.
Echo strolled into the cell, watching as the guards roughly grabbed her. *yn* said nothing, her body limp as they unchained her from the wall.
"Hey!" Clarke continued.
She didn't flinch as a hessian bag was yanked over her head, plunging her vision into darkness.
"Stop!" She could hear the protests of the others around her as she was shoved forward.
"Echo! Echo listen to me!" Bellamy's voice cut through it all, raw and desperate, crackling like static in her ears.
Slowly, the voices faded.
*yn* remained compliant as they dragged her through twisting corridors, each turn stealing what little sense of direction she had left.
Finally, they came to a stop. She squinted as the bag was ripped from her head, blinding her with sunlight.
"Malak al maut, as requested."
She blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted. Echo was to her left. In front of her, seated on a makeshift throne, was Roan.
He was dressed this time. An intricate crown made of bleached bones and ivory was placed on his head. Flecks of blood still peppered his face, stark against his tanned skin.
"Shall I summon the war chiefs?" Echo asked in her native tongue, unable to hide the eagerness in her question.
Roan's eyes never left her. She felt a touch of fear ghost up her spine.
"No."
"Sire-"
"Get out."
*yn* glanced at Echo, a faint smirk on her lips as she watched Echo ground her teeth in frustration.
She stayed cemented to her spot as Echo and her guards dutifully obeyed and filed out of the room.
The door clanged shut, signalling the two of them were alone. *yn* suddenly felt the weight of that realisation as the silence stretched.
"The crown suits you." *yn* finally broke the silence. Her eyes flickered down to his chest. "Didn't pick you for the sash type though."
"I'm not here for jokes, Malak al maut."
He winced as he pushed himself off the throne and took a few steps towards her.
"Echo tells me I should kill you and Wanheda where you stand. Take your power. Rule over everything."
"It's not a bad plan." She acknowledged with a shrug of her shoulders.
Roan eyed her curiously. She was different. Muted, like a damper had been put over her fire.
"I'm waiting for you to tell me why I shouldn't."
"Because without us you'll be dead within six months."
His eyes narrowed. "Explain." They were standing chest to chest now.
"You remember the fire that caused the end of the world. Praimfaya? Well, it's about to happen again. A wave of radiation that will kill everything, unless we figure out how to stop it."
"Our ancestors survived Praimfaya. We can survive it too."
"You can't." *yn* shook her head. "Not without Skaikru. We might not be able to stop it, but science is our only hope."
"Well isn't that convenient?"
"Fine. Don't believe me." She shrugged.
Roan clenched his jaw, his irises gleaming in the early morning sun.
He'd summoned her here because Wanheda was too dramatic and talked too much for his liking, but also because she challenged him, offered him a chance to flex his mental sparring skills. But the Malak al maut before him was offering him none of that. And Roan didn't like it.
*yn*'s eyes involuntarily flickered to the ground, unable to maintain the intense eye contact. Her stomach churned at the sight of blood pooled under a table behind them. She could feel the blood draining from her face, her hands trembling ever so slightly at her sides as panic clawed its way up her spine.
She knew logically that it wasn't Elijah's blood, but her body didn't.
Roan followed her gaze, noting her paling complexion. He didn't say anything. *yn* didn't know if it was an act of mercy or that he simply didn't care enough to ask.
Roan turned, glancing over at her once before stalking to the floor to ceiling windows.
*yn* followed after him warily, noting that his hand was now resting on the hilt of his sword.
The din of shouts and chants from below reached them.
"Listen to them." He spoke gruffly. "If I don't kill you and Wanheda, I'll be dead in six days not six months." For the first time she saw something earnest flicker in his features.
"Your friend." He continued quietly, his gaze fixed outside. "The one who died upstairs."
The whiplash from the unexpected change in conversation nearly took her knees out from under her.
"I have his body."
"It's safe." He continued when he felt her eyes snap to his face. "I will ensure no harm comes to it."
She didn't speak. She just pushed harder against those mental barriers as best as she could, holding back the tidal wave of grief that was threatening to burst through and flood her entire body. Her crossed arms tightened around her body.
He turned to look at her then. He observed the blood and dirt that caked her face, broken up only by dried tear tracks. Her neck was ringed by differing blooms of pinks and purples. Specks of ash clung to her lashes. She was still undeniably beautiful.
He looked away before she could catch him staring.
"He'll be given a proper burial. Know that."
He was trying to give her some sort of comfort before he snuffed her life force out.
"Make sure Pike's body is dumped in the sewer while you're at it."
"Consider it done."
She exhaled and nodded.
"Ok." She turned to face him. "Kill me if you have to."
"But at least let my people go. Honour Lexa's coalition and keep Skaikru as the thirteenth clan."
"After what you did to Trikru?" He shook his head. "All of Azgeda wants Skaikru dead."
Roan's words stung. A painful reminder of the pain her people had caused, what Bellamy had caused.
"I'm sorry. I can't."
"You'd slaughter innocent women and children?" *yn* snapped, an unexpected bout of anger coursing through her body as she turned to face him.
He turned to look at her properly. She looked brighter, a flicker of the burning flame she once was. It almost made him smile.
"It's not my choice."
"Please, you always have a choice." She scoffed. "You're a fucking king for crying out loud."
Despite the circumstances, something sparked in her chest. She felt alive. And even though anger wasn't the most healthy emotion to cling to, it was the only one she had that didn't make her want to cry, but also prevented her from feeling numb.
"Then give me something else to work with." Roan growled. "Because right now, my hands are tied."
*yn* cursed under her breath, looking out the window as she racked her brain. She knew that there was one thing she could offer, but she didn't know if Clarke would ever forgive her.
But when she looked into Roan's eyes again, she knew she didn't have any other choice.
"Clarke has the chip." She said quietly. "I can convince her to give it to you."
"We were told it was lost." Roan blinked in disbelief. His eyes hardened. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just take it off Clarke and kill you where you stand."
"Because I just gave you one. You think I'd be offering this if what I was saying wasn't true?"
"I already trust you *yn*." He grunted. The sound of her real name sounded strange falling off his tongue.
"Then consider it a peace offering." She pressed. "You wanted an Ice Nation commander. With the chip, you control who ascends. There will never be a commander to rule over you unless you allow it."
Roan muttered under his breath, fixing his gaze out into Polis.
The shouts of the crowd below grew louder. His hand on the hilt of his sword tightened.
She needed something else to sweeten the deal. And something that would let her keep her distance from facing her feelings, her grief.
"I'll stay."
Her words made him look at her in surprise.
"In Polis." She continued. "I'll stay as an ambassador, a prisoner, a symbol, whatever you want."
He cocked his head, studying her.
"What better way to cement your rule then having Malak al maut at your side, singing your praises?" She implored.
He raised a brow. "Singing my praises? Is that something you're even capable of?"
"I can be pretty convincing."
The ghost of a smirk twitching up on one side of his mouth. "You never fail to surprise me, little angel."
"I know you've all come here for an execution but no one else will die here today."
Roan's authoritative voice carried effortlessly across the square, over the gathered crowd.
*yn* shifted in her seat behind him. Roan's guards formed a solid wall of bodies between them and the crowd, blocking her view, but she knew her people were there.
Roan had summoned Clarke, allowing them the dignity of speaking privately. Although she'd been reluctant to hand it over, Clarke confessed what *yn* had already known, that the chip had always been their only way out.
Roan had begrudgingly allowed her time to shower and change before summoning his audience.
She still felt dirty, like no amount of water could wash the blood away that coated her like a second skin. But at least now she looked semi-presentable, like she could stand beside a king without visibly looking like she was falling apart.
"The City of Light has fallen." Roan continued. "And there is no Commander left to rule us. Till another commander ascends, I - King Roan of Azgeda, son of Naia, Grandson of Theo - am care-taker of the throne and keeper of the flame."
Shocked whispers broke out amongst the crowd as Roan held the chip up for everyone to see.
"You're a king, not a priest!" A voice called out. "This is blasphemy!"
"Not blasphemy." Roan answered calmly in his native tongue. "Order."
Silence fell.
"Until another ascends, Azgeda honours and will defend the coalition of the last true Commander, Lexa kom Trikru. Including the thirteenth clan."
The whispers returned, louder now, uneasy.
Roan turned to her. He motioned for her to stand.
"Malak al maut, one of the most powerful warriors amongst us."
She came to stand beside him.
The sound of the crowd hit her all at once, gasps and murmurs of fury, awe, disgust. Her skin buzzed as though charged with electricity.
"As a demonstration of Skaikru's commitment to the coalition and my role as keeper of the flame, Malak al maut has pledged herself to me and agreed to serve at my side here in Polis."
Bellamy stared up at her in shock.
She had changed her clothes. Grounder leathers instead of torn fabric. Her hair pulled back sharply, face stripped of anything soft or familiar. It felt like she was looking through them, not at them.
Clarke had told them about the deal that *yn* had made with Roan to give him the chip, but judging by the look on Clarke's face - it was obvious that *yn* had left this part out.
"Let it be known, that an attack against Skaikru is an attack against us all."
The weight of the King's seal felt too heavy in Bellamy's hand.
Unable to stop himself, he glanced once more up at the tower, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
"We'll do our best to keep Roan on his throne." Kane spoke once Clarke and Bellamy reached him and Abby.
"And we'll do our best to find a way to beat the radiation." Clarke nodded.
Kane stepped forward, clasping Bellamy's forearm firmly.
"You turn the page." Kane said firmly, his hand gripping Bellamy's shoulder as Bellamy went to pull away. "You turn the page, and don't look back. You do better today then you did yesterday. You understand?"
Bellamy inclined his head.
"You'll look out for her?"
Kane smiled sympathetically. "As much as she'll let me."
Bellamy mustered up a weak smile at that and nodded in understanding.
"It's getting dark, we should get going." Clarke announced.
Bellamy went to follow after Clarke, but froze when a familiar streak of hair caught his eye.
Achingly familiar eyes met his.
The others around him fell silent, all eyes turning to *yn* as she approached the group, her steps steady and deliberate.
"I just wanted to make sure you got the seal."
Bellamy blinked, shaking himself out of his daze, before hastily pulling the cloth-wrapped seal from the inside of his jacket. *yn* didn't meet his eyes, just nodded curtly once she'd sighted it.
"I need to talk to you."
She hesitated, studying him as if committing his face to memory, then nodded.
The others around them exchanged glances.
"This'll be good." Octavia remarked dryly, rolling her eyes before wandering off.
"I'll be waiting." Clarke said to Bellamy before shooting *yn* a sad smile.
"We'll be inside." Kane added. Abby nodded in agreement.
They stood in silence. Despite only being a few feet from each other, the space between them felt insurmountable.
"Come with us." Bellamy finally said.
"I can't. Roan-"
Bellamy scoffed.
Her eyes narrowed. "It was part of the deal that Roan and I made. If I leave, I risk jeopardising the safety of our people."
"That's bullshit and you know it." Bellamy snapped.
"It's not bullshit." She hissed defensively.
"Yes it is." His jaw clenched. "You're running away."
"Maybe I am? So fucking what."
"So fucking what?" Bellamy repeated incredulously. "So fucking what is that you look like you're on the edge of a nervous breakdown and you're trying to tell me that you're fine."
"You're seriously getting angry at me?" She snarled. "After everything that's just happened?"
"I'm not angry." He corrected. "I'm-" He inhaled sharply. "I'm frustrated. I keep trying to be there for you, to help you deal with everything that you're feeling, and you're too stubborn to let me."
"Well maybe I don't want to feel anything." She shot back, her eyes glowering with defiance.
"Maybe I'm tired of carrying around all of this guilt and grief and misguided hope." Her voice lowered, as she felt exhaustion finally begin to seep through.
Bellamy let out a breath. The next time he spoke, his voice was soft.
"Don't end up like O, *yn*."
It was a plea.
"Octavia has every right to be how she is." *yn*'s voice inched higher again. "She lost the love of her life and her brother in one go."
Bellamy visibly flinched at that. "Trust me, I understand how she feels."
*yn* shook her head, finally breaking eye contact.
"What about everything you said?" Bellamy asked quietly. His voice was laced with desperation. "That I could never lose you, that I'd always had you."
She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to get away from him before her walls crumbled completely.
"I thought we were about to die."
He took a step back from her, like she'd physically just hit him with deadly accuracy.
"So what? You're saying you didn't mean it?"
"No." She couldn't bring herself to lie to him, not about something like this.
"But I thought we had no more time. Things are different now."
"And six months is all the time in the world is it?" His eyes flared with emotion again.
"Everytime I look at you I see him." She admitted quietly. "And I see Pike, I see Lincoln, I see Cage, I see Wells." She could have kept the list going, but she couldn't bare to say any more names out loud.
"If I let myself feel anything other than anger, I'm scared that it'll knock me to the ground and I won't be able to get up again. And I can't have that, not when people still need me."
She wanted to kiss away the tears that were sliding down his cheeks. Wanted to pull him into her arms.
"So we might only have six months left to live and you're going to spend it here in Polis, pretending that you don't love me?"
His voice cracked at the same time as her heart.
"I'm sorry, Bellamy." Her voice was surprisingly steady.
Bellamy searched her face for a few moments, looking for a hint on her features that she'd change her mind, that there was hope he could hold onto.
When he detected none, he nodded, hastily wiping the tears off his cheeks. She watched as his face visibly hardened, sliding over his features like a visor.
It was a tactic she recognised instantly, because she was wearing the exact same armour.
"May we meet again then."
Bellamy moved to stick his hand out but decided last minute to keep it by his side. She was grateful that he didn't. She was too scared to know what would happen if she touched him again.
She looked up from his hand by his side, her eyes meeting his.
"May we meet again."
Part 41 - coming soon
****
*Hod op = wait
This is quite literally insane of me. I know. Posting after a 4 year hiatus and TEN YEARS after I first started this series. I've honestly never felt so motivated to write for this series, I feel so refreshed and like I've fallen in love with these characters and stories all over again. If you've been with me since the beginning, thank you. If this is your first time discovering this series, welcome - you're in for a hell of a ride.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
After years apart, you're pulled back into your ex-husband’s life when an accident leaves him believing you're still married. Forced to play along for his recovery, you quickly realize some things, like love, lies, and the past, don’t stay buried as easily as they should.
tags: 18+ MDNI, amnesia, slow burn, divorce, arguing, infidelity, eventual smut, a slap, angst, medical terminology, but i'm not a professional so pls be kind.
words: 9.0K
notes: happy friday all! this is my first series, so i appreciate your thoughts and comments! i hope you enjoy - mack 🂱
New York City, 2026
You’re halfway through reheating leftovers when your phone starts buzzing on the counter.
You almost ignore it.
It’s late. Your feet ache in that familiar, dull way that means you’ve been standing too long, smiling too hard, being competent for too many people who don’t know you. New York hums outside your apartment window—sirens, voices, the low rumble of the city that never quite lets you rest.
The phone buzzes again.
You glance at the screen.
Unknown Caller.Texas area code.
Your stomach tightens, sharp and instinctive, like your body remembers something your mind has worked way too hard to forget.
You answer anyway.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause. Papers rustling. A breath that doesn’t belong to anyone you know.
“Hi, is this… is this Mrs.Miller?”
You hesitate a moment. Mrs.Miller. You haven’t been Mrs. in almost 5 years, but maybe it was a mistake.
“Yes,” you respond, slightly breathless.
“This is St. Luke’s Medical Center in Austin. I’m calling regarding Joel—”
You stop breathing. Those words sucking all the oxygen from the room, straight from your lungs. Just for a second. Just long enough for the room to tilt.
“We’re calling because you’re listed as his emergency contact.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out wrong, thin, disbelieving.
“That-that can’t be right,” you say. “I’m his ex-wife.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I see,” the woman says gently. “Well, he was brought in earlier today after an accident at work. He’s stable. But he’s experiencing some memory loss, and-”
Your hand curls into the edge of the counter, gripping onto it a little harder than necessary, almost as if you’re hoping it’ll keep you grounded for what's to come next.
“What kind of memory loss?”
“We believe it’s retrograde amnesia. The doctors are still running tests, but from what we can tell… his most recent memories don’t extend past about five years ago.”
Five years.
The word echoes. Hollow. Loud.
“That would place his last clear memories at…” the woman hesitates, checking something, “…just before your divorce.”
The microwave beeps.
You don’t move to turn it off.
You picture Joel as he was then, scruffy, tired, still wearing his wedding ring even when you’d stopped wearing yours. You picture the way he used to lean in doorways, arms crossed, watching you like you were something he might lose if he blinked.
“Has he… has he asked for me?” you ask.
“Yes,” she says. “He woke up about an hour ago. He was confused. When we asked if there was someone he trusted, someone who would know him well, he said your name.”
Your chest aches in a way you thought you’d outgrown.
“He thinks you’re still married,” she adds quietly. “And we didn’t want to contradict him without support present… You see, the brain is a tricky thing, but the doctor can explain everything once you get here.”
Support.
You look around your apartment, your clean lines, your carefully chosen furniture, the life you built brick by brick to get as far away from Texas as possible, to start fresh.
“I live in New York,” you supply.
“That’s okay,” the woman replies. “We just needed to notify you. But… he keeps asking when you’re coming.”
You close your eyes, and your left hand comes up to rub at your eyelids, probably more harshly than you should. It brings black dots swimming over your vision, and all of a sudden, you have a thumping headache sitting right in your temples.
Five years ago, you left with a suitcase and a certainty that you would never go back. Now, the past is calling, and it frustrates you to no end that you even picked up the phone.
“When do you need me there?” you ask.
And that's how you found yourself on the first redeye to Texas. Your seat was stiff, close to the back of the plane, and the crick in your neck would not go away, no matter what you did. You asked yourself over and over why you were even doing this, why you were putting in the effort, why you even cared… but it hit you square in the chest. It was Joel; you were always going to care, no matter what happened five years ago.
The entire flight, you just stared ahead, thoughts racing through your mind. Maybe when you landed, there would be voicemails saying he remembered, that the amnesia was gone, and you could just go home.
But luck was never really on your side.
You powered your phone back on when you landed, and nothing. No messages, no voicemails, just emails relating to work. Thankfully, your boss hadn’t hesitated. Family emergency, you’d said, and she told you to go, no questions, no guilt. You were a hard worker, after all, and even though you insisted you could work remotely on the cases you were actively handling, she still told you to take the time you needed. They could find someone to fill your shoes for the time being.
You hadn’t corrected yourself about it being a family emergency. It was just easier than explaining everything that had happened, and the history was better left buried.
Because Joel wasn’t family anymore.
At least not on paper.
Not since your shaky hand signed those goddamn divorce papers. Not since you last looked Joel in the eyes as you left your lawyer’s office, searching for any ounce of sorrow… but his gaze wouldn’t meet yours.
Good, you had thought then. He doesn’t get the satisfaction.
But your body didn’t seem to know that Joel wasn’t family anymore.
Your heart had been thrumming since the phone call, and those old butterfly feelings were back. Whether it was nervousness or anger, you didn’t know, but you fucking hated it. How could you even let that brooding man have such an effect on you after what he did? How could you still feel anything other than strict hatred after he cheated on you?
And with your best friend at that.
It was honestly one of the worst moments of your life.
You and Joel had already been on the rocks at the time. You were going to couples counseling to try to fix things, but it just wasn’t working. Joel was always mad about how focused and busy you were with work, and you were always picking fights with him over his nightly bar visits. Or maybe it was something small—him tracking dirt through the house with his boots, or you forgetting to clean your hair out of the sink.
It just wasn’t working.
At first, you thought it was just normal bickering, but then it got mean. And one night, things were said that couldn’t be taken back. That pushed Joel to leave with a slam of the door, and left you sitting on the couch crying.
How productive.
Really, you hadn’t meant for it to come to that. It had just been a long day at work, your boss yelling at you for what felt like the eightieth time that week, not getting the case you wanted, and that promotion to partner at the law firm seeming further and further out of reach.
So coming home to an absolute mess of a kitchen, and Joel’s attitude, was what finally sent everything over the edge.
You slipped out of your heels as you closed the door, glancing toward the living room where Joel sat in front of the TV watching the pregame announcers talking about the Cowboys game. It was late, and you had gotten home much later than you’d originally planned. Even from where you were standing, you could tell Joel was pissed. He’d expected you home two hours ago, and the dinner he’d made was sitting on the kitchen counter, cold.
You took a deep breath and made your way over to the couch, plopping down beside him.
“I’m sorry that I’m la—”
“Don’t.”
He cut you off. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to compose yourself before responding.
“Baby, I really am sorry.”
“Really, darlin’? How many times can you be sorry before I actually see a change? What’s the excuse tonight? Some bullshit about your boss again?”
He snapped with a scoff as he rose from the couch, grabbing his plate and carrying it into the kitchen.
“For all I know, you’re probably fucking the guy with how bad you want this promotion,” he added over his shoulder.
You scoffed and followed him.
“Really, Joel? Fuckin’ really?” you threw back, standing on the opposite side of the island as he had his back to you, taking deep breaths.
“You think I’m fucking Larry?” you start, voice already rising, heat already finding its way to your cheeks as you felt the anger creep in. “He’s fuckin’ in his 70s for christs sake, and about to retire. I’m working my ass off to be the one who gets to step up and fill his position. Lord knows we could use the money-”
“Use the money on what? You’re never here to use the money on anything anyway!” he shouted back in his deep southern drawl as he spun around to look at you, letting out a sharp, dry laugh. It came out venomous, like he was ready to attack if you pressed the right buttons, and damn did you want to.
“You’re always workin’, I don’t even see you anymore. I wake up, go to work, come home, and you’re not here. Most nights I go to bed alone, because you would rather be in that fucking office, slaving away for a guy who just wants to get into your fuckin’ pants,” he added on, placing his hands on his hips as his angry eyes found yours.
“Oh, you’re disgusting, Joel. How can you be this insecure to think that I would sleep with someone in their fuckin elder years? Huh?” You crossed your arms, feeling your nails dig into your biceps slightly as you tried to hold on to the little reserve you had left.
“Me? Insecure? You’re fuckin’ delusional,” he scoffed, walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, where you followed closely behind.
“Delusional? Yeah, maybe, but at least I know I actually have a career worth something, rather than trying to start a fuckin’ company with my deadbeat brother who needs to be bailed out of jail every other night.”
Joel turned around so fast that you almost ran straight into his chest, “That's rich coming from a girl who would do anything to get her Daddy’s attention, and, again, practically fucked her way to the top-”
Crack.
The sound echoed through the bedroom, sharp and violent in the quiet house. Your palm stung instantly, heat blooming across your skin as your hand lingered in the air between you, fingers slightly curled like your body hadn’t quite caught up to what you’d just done.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Joel’s head had turned slightly with the impact, his jaw tightening as a red mark began to bloom across his cheek. Slowly, almost carefully, he turned his face back toward you. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… tired.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand across his jaw as if testing whether it actually hurt.
Your chest rose and fell too fast as the adrenaline rushed through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lowered your hand to your side.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, though most of the bite had drained from your voice. “You don’t get to talk about me like that.”
Joel stared at you for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy shifting behind them.
“You wanna know the truth?” he said quietly.
You should have walked away then. You knew you should have. But your feet stayed planted where they were, like the floor had nailed you in place.
“The truth is,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “I haven’t had a wife for a long damn time. You stopped being here years ago. You just didn’t notice.”
The words hit harder than the slap.
Your throat tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” Joel let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Fair would’ve been my wife giving a shit about this marriage.”
“I do give a shit!” you snapped, the words rushing out before you could stop them. You felt crazy, screaming at the man you once loved more than anything in the world, the same man who now only seemed capable of filling you with shaking rage.
“Do you?” he shot back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, you gave more of a damn about becoming partner than you ever did about being my wife.”
The accusation landed square in your chest like a physical blow. The anger surged back, hot and familiar.
“You think I work this hard for fun?” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together, tears threatening to spill. “I’m doing it for us, Joel. For our future.”
Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“What future?”
The question hung in the air between you like a crack running through glass.
He exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair before pacing across the room, the worn wood floors creaking under his dirt-caked boots.
“You’re never here,” he continued, his voice quieter now but heavier. “We don’t talk anymore. We don’t eat together. Hell, half the time we don’t even sleep in the same bed.”
Your stomach twisted.
“That’s not because of me,” you said, though the words felt weak the moment they left your mouth.
Joel stopped pacing and slowly turned back toward you, his eyes locking onto yours.
“No?” he said. “Then whose fault is it?”
You swallowed, your throat dry, but the anger pushed forward again. If he could hurt you, you could hurt him too.
“At least I’m trying to build something,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “What are you doing, Joel? Drinking every night with your brother and pretending that stupid company of yours is ever going to take off?”
His expression hardened instantly, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“You know what?” he said quietly. “At least when I’m at the bar, someone actually wants to talk to me.”
The words landed deep.
“That’s pathetic,” you said, though your voice lacked the confidence you wanted it to have.
Joel shrugged slightly, his shoulders lifting before falling again. “Maybe,” he said. “But at least they look at me like I matter.”
Silence fell between you, heavy, ugly, the kind that made the room feel smaller.
Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.
“I don’t think you’ve loved me for a long time.”
The words knocked the air out of your lungs.
“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your eyes burning.
Joel shook his head slowly, the movement tired and resigned. “No,” he said quietly. “I think I just admitted it before you did.”
He grabbed his coat from the closet and shrugged it on quickly before heading for the door. The slam echoed through the house as he left.
Three hours later, you were still sitting there, the silence of the house pressing in on you. The silence nearly suffocating. The fridges hum, the clock ticking on the wall, the lull of commentary from the Cowboys game that Joel was watching… Waiting had started to feel pathetic.
So, fuck it.
If Joel wasn’t coming home, you knew exactly where he’d be.
The Bison.
You didn’t bother changing. You just slipped on a pair of dirty sneakers, grabbed your keys, and headed out. The drive was quiet, the kind that let your thoughts get too loud. You rehearsed what you were going to say in your head, even muttering pieces of it out loud to make sure it didn’t come out wrong. The last thing you wanted was to sound like an idiot, or worse, a complete dick.
The time alone had helped you calm down. The anger had burned itself out somewhere between pacing the living room and staring at the clock for the better part of three hours. Now you could actually think.
Maybe you had overreacted a little.
You were tired. That was the truth of it. Tired of the stress, tired of the long days, tired of feeling like everything in your life was constantly hanging by a thread. And if you were being honest with yourself, you missed Joel. You missed what things used to feel like between the two of you.
Things didn’t have to stay like this.
Cutting back on your hours would help. You could step away from the office more, actually be home for dinner again, and spend time together like you used to. Hell, maybe you could even start talking seriously about the family you’d both been dancing around for the last year.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Just a year ago, the two of you had been good. Happy, even. But the pressure of money started creeping in, and the hours at work kept piling up. One late night turned into two, then three, then suddenly you were barely home at all. Somewhere along the way, you’d turned into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.
Getting the promotion at the firm would be nice.
But saving your marriage was better.
And why it took you this long to realize that, you didn’t know. But better now than never.
The Bison’s parking lot was already packed when you pulled in. Of course it was. The fucking Cowboys were playing.
When you stepped out of the car, you could already hear the roar of the crowd spilling out through the bar’s front doors. Cheers, shouting, the muffled echo of the game blasting from the televisions inside.
You made your way toward the entrance.
The second you opened the door, the noise hit you.
The Bison smelled like cheap beer, fried food, and too many sweaty bodies packed into one place. Every TV in the bar was tuned to the game, the crowd erupting in cheers as the Cowboys pushed down the field. Glasses clinked, someone whooped near the bar, and the bartender shouted something you couldn’t make out over the noise.
You hesitated just inside the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the dim lighting as you scanned the room.
Joel had to be here; he was always here on game nights.
You pushed your way through the crowd, squeezing past groups of guys in jerseys and women perched on barstools. Someone bumped into your shoulder, sloshing beer onto the floor.
“Watch it,” someone muttered.
You ignored it, craning your neck to see over the crowd.
Then a voice came from your left.
“Well damn,” a guy slurred from a high-top table. “Did someone get lost?”
His friends laughed.
You kept walking.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he called after you again, louder this time. “Cowboys are playin’, come sit on my lap and make me a cowboy!”
You didn’t even bother looking at him. Your eyes were still scanning the room, searching past the bar, past the dart boards, toward the booths lining the back wall.
Joel usually sat back there. At least you both used to on late nights after a date or just a hard day at work.
Your heart started beating faster the closer you got.
Maybe he’d cooled off. Maybe he’d be sitting there with a beer, sulking like he always did when the two of you fought. Maybe you’d slide into the booth across from him and say what you’d practiced in the car. Maybe the two of you would finally talk. Maybe things could still be fixed.
You slowed as you reached the back of the bar, your eyes drifting across the booths.
One booth held a group of college kids yelling at the TV.
Another had two older men arguing over a play.
Then the corner booth.
At first, you only noticed the boots. Joel’s boots.
You knew them instantly, scuffed leather, the same pair he wore nearly every day.
Relief rushed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.
See? you thought. Of course, he’s here. You’re being dramatic.
You took a step closer, and that’s when you saw her.
She was half in his lap, her hand tangled in the back of his hair as she leaned across the booth. Joel’s hand was on her waist, pulling her in as their mouths pressed together like they had nothing else to do in the world.
For a second, your brain refused to process what you were looking at. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears, then the girl shifted slightly, and her face came into full view.
Familiar, too familiar, your stomach dropped, because you knew her.
For a moment, your brain refused to place the face, as if it were trying to spare yourself the answer. But then the girl shifted slightly, brushing Joel’s cheek as she leaned back just enough to laugh at something he’d said.
And there it was.
Claire.
Your best friend. The girl who took you to the bars on nights when you were studying too hard. The girl who cried on your shoulder after her first real heartbreak. The girl you have known since middle school. The girl who was now holding the knife she just used to stab you in the back.
The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears. The televisions were still blaring, people still shouting at the game, glasses clinking somewhere behind you, but it all sounded distant, like you were hearing it from underwater.
Joel noticed you first.
His eyes flicked up over Claire’s shoulder, and the moment he saw you standing there, they widened. His body went rigid beneath her.
Claire didn’t notice right away. She was still half draped across him, one hand tangled loosely in the back of his hair, the other resting against his chest, lips still roaming along his jaw.
“Joel?” you said.
Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost swallowed by the noise around you.
Claire turned, and the smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw you.
For a second, none of you moved.
Joel’s hand slipped quickly from her waist like he’d just realized it was there. His eyes were dark and heavy, like he’d almost been here before. Had this happened before? Had he fucked her already?
“Hey-” he started, already pushing himself up from the booth. “This isn’t-”
You let out a short laugh, not amused, not angry.
Just… disbelieving.
“Really?” you said flatly.
Joel ran a hand through his hair, panic flashing across his face as he stepped out of the booth. “She-she came onto me, I didn’t-”
You scoffed softly and shook your head.
“Right.”
Your eyes slid to Claire, lingering on her for a long moment. She didn’t say anything, just watched you with wide eyes like she was the one who’d been caught in the middle of something terrible. You gave a small, incredulous shake of your head.
“Really?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
You turned and pushed your way out of the bar, the cold night air hitting your face as soon as the door swung open. Your hands were already shaking as you crossed the parking lot, digging your keys from your pocket and fumbling with them as you reached your car.
Behind you, the bar door burst open again.
“Hey, wait!”
Claire.
Of course.
You turned just as she hurried across the lot toward you, her heels clicking against the pavement. She slowed when she reached you, reaching out gently to grab your arm.
“Please just listen for a second,” she said softly.
You looked down at her hand on your arm before meeting her eyes. Your best friend. The girl who had cried on your couch over bad boyfriends. The girl who had stood beside you at your wedding, holding your bouquet while you fixed your veil.
“What?” you said, cold, wanting to get out of there, and also wanting to slap the taste out of her mouth. The rage from earlier was slowly creeping back in.
Claire’s grip loosened slightly. She glanced back toward the bar door, then back at you again. “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” she said with a coy smirk.
Your stomach twisted, “What are you talking about?”
Claire hesitated just long enough to make it look like the words were hard to say, then she sighed.
“Joel and I… this wasn’t the first time.”
The words landed slowly, like they needed a second to sink in.
“We’ve been fooling around for a while,” she continued, her voice overly smooth. “I kept telling him we needed to tell you, but he didn’t want to hurt you.”
She shook her head slightly, almost tauntingly as she sucked her teeth, “I guess he was never going to.”
Something inside your chest cracked. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue. You just nodded once, like everything suddenly made sense.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
Claire’s expression stayed hardened, like she expected you to fall apart. “I’m really sorry,” she added, a sly smirk making her way to her lips as she shrugged.
But you were already opening your car door.
You slid into the driver’s seat and slammed it shut before she could say anything else. Your hands were still shaking as you started the engine.
Behind you, the bar door burst open again.
Joel.
You saw him in the rearview mirror as he ran out into the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars until his eyes landed on yours.
He started toward you immediately.
“Wait!” he shouted.
Your foot hit the gas.
The tires crunched against gravel as you pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Joel slowed to a stop in the glow of the neon bar sign, one hand dragging through his hair as he shouted something you couldn’t hear.
He got smaller.
And smaller.
Until he disappeared completely.
Sometimes it still felt like you could see him in the rearview mirror like that, even now as you drove toward the hospital.
The ride had been silent. No radio, no podcasts, just you and the steady hum of the road beneath the tires while your thoughts circled endlessly.
You hadn’t seen Joel since the day you signed the papers and left for New York.
Would he look different now?
Would there be grey threaded through his dark hair? Would the Texas sun have left his skin tanner, rougher? Maybe he’d gotten leaner. Harder. Maybe time had carved new lines into his face the way it had yours.
And his voice…
Would it still sound the same? That southern drawl that had always been the perfect mix of rough and smooth, the one that used to make your stomach flip the first time he said your name.
Or would it be different now? Deeper somehow. Sharper. Filled with anger and years of things left unsaid.
You pulled into the hospital parking lot almost on autopilot, barely registering that you had arrived until the engine clicked softly as you turned it off. For a moment, you just sat there, picking at your nails while you worked up the courage to go inside.
Eventually, you opened the car door.
Heat pressed in immediately, heavy and familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Texas didn’t ease into you the way New York did; it announced itself. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and something green, maybe fresh-cut grass, and for a second, you just stood there with your keys dangling loosely from your fingers, letting the reality of where you were sink in.
You shut the door and turned toward the building.
The hospital rose in front of you, all glass and pale stone, the early morning sun glaring off the windows so brightly you had to squint. It looked clean. Neutral. Like nothing bad could ever happen inside it.
Like it wasn’t holding someone who once knew you better than anyone else.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the blast of air-conditioning hit you hard enough to make you shiver.
The smell came first—sterile and sharp, tinged with something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Your shoes squeaked softly against the polished floor as you stepped into the lobby, the sound embarrassingly loud in the open space.
People moved around you with purpose. A nurse hurried past, her ponytail swinging behind her. A man in scrubs laughed quietly into his phone. A couple sat close together near the wall, their heads bowed toward each other.
Everyone looked like they belonged here.
You didn’t.
You paused just inside the entrance, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you glanced down at your phone out of habit, hoping that there would be a phone call or a text saying that this was all some cruel joke. Still nothing.
You shoved it back into your bag before you could check again.
Information Desk, a sign read, with an arrow pointing left.
You follow the sign, your legs carrying you forward before your mind has fully caught up. The lobby feels larger the farther you move into it, the ceiling high and echoing with the muted shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. When you reach the information desk, the woman behind the counter glances up from her computer. Her smile is the kind that feels practiced but sincere, the quiet professionalism of someone who spends her days guiding people through moments they’d rather not be having.
“Hi,” she says gently. “Can I help you?”
Your throat tightens before the words can reach it.
“Yes,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here to see someone. Joel Miller.”
His name feels strange leaving your mouth after all this time. Too personal. Too familiar. As if saying it out loud exposes something you’d meant to keep buried.
The woman’s fingers move across the keyboard, her nails tapping softly against the keys. The sound fills the brief silence between you, each second stretching longer than it should.
“Date of birth?”
You answer immediately. The numbers come easily, instinctively, something you’ve written down on forms and paperwork so many times they exist somewhere in muscle memory. Your voice remains steady despite the weight of it.
“And your relationship?”
The question lands heavier.
It’s simple. Routine. Something she probably asks a hundred times a day.
Still, your mouth opens and then stalls.
“I’m his-”
The sentence falters. The word ex presses against the back of your teeth, precise and painful in its accuracy. You swallow hard, forcing it down.
“…wife,” you say instead.
The lie sits between you.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t question it. Just nods once, as though it fits neatly into whatever quiet category she’s placed you in.
“He’s on the fourth floor,” she says, her voice warm but efficient. “Room 412. Visiting hours are open right now. The elevators are just past the gift shop.”
“Thank you,” you murmur.
You turn away before she can say anything else, afraid that if you linger, she might offer something sympathetic—something gentle enough to break whatever fragile composure you’ve managed to hold together.
The gift shop sits just off the corridor, spilling the faint scent of coffee and artificial lilies into the hallway. Shelves of stuffed animals, greeting cards, and overly cheerful balloons blur together as you pass, but you don’t slow down long enough to actually see any of it. The elevator doors glide open as you approach, and you step inside without company.
The ride upward unfolds in silence, broken only by the low mechanical hum of the elevator cables working somewhere above you. You watch the digital numbers illuminate one by one, each floor punctuating the climb with a soft chime.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The doors slide apart.
The hallway on the fourth floor feels quieter than the lobby below, the lighting softer and dimmer, casting everything in a muted yellow glow. The air here carries the same sterile sharpness, but heavier somehow, thick with the steady rhythm of machines beeping behind closed doors and the faint murmur of a television somewhere farther down the corridor.
You move slowly down the hall, your eyes tracing the numbers beside each door as you pass. Your footsteps fall carefully against the polished tile, measured and deliberate, like you’re trying not to disturb the quiet that hangs over the floor.
410
411
Your breath catches in your chest.
412
You stop in front of the door.
Your hand lifts, hovering just short of the doorframe. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears you’re half convinced it must be echoing down the corridor. Five years. This is the closest you’ve been to him in five years.
You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, then push the door open before you can talk yourself out of it.
The room is brighter than the hallway outside, sunlight filtering through a narrow window and spilling across the floor in pale, slanted bands. The quiet hum of hospital equipment fills the space, machines breathing softly beside the bed while a monitor ticks along in steady rhythm, as though keeping time for him. The air smells aggressively clean, that sharp antiseptic scent that seems determined to erase whatever happened here.
Joel is sitting upright in the bed.
At first, he doesn’t notice you.
His gaze is fixed on his hands resting in his lap, turning them slowly beneath the light as though he’s trying to decipher something written in the creases of his palms. A thick bandage wraps around his head, stark white against his dark hair, and a bruise spreads along his temple, yellowing at the edges where it’s beginning to fade. He looks thinner than you remember. Not fragile, exactly, just worn down, like something inside him has been rattled loose.
Then he lifts his head. His eyes land on you. And everything inside your chest collapses inward.
There’s no hesitation in his expression. No flicker of confusion. He doesn’t study your face the way a stranger might, searching for recognition.
It finds him instantly. Easily. Devastatingly.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly.
The words land somewhere deep in your chest, stirring memories you thought you’d buried years ago. It’s the same way he used to say it when you came home late from work, when you’d step through the front door, and he’d glance up from wherever he was sitting, looking at you like he’d been waiting without realizing it.
Your breath falters.
Sweetheart.
You hadn’t heard that word in years… Hadn’t been called it in years.
Across the room, Joel’s entire posture loosens. His shoulders sink as though some invisible tension has finally slipped from them, like the strings cut from a puppet, relief spreading openly across his face. It’s warm. Immediate. Unmistakable.
“You’re here,” he says.
The simple statement lands harder than you expect.
Without meaning to, you take a step farther into the room, your body moving before your thoughts can catch up with it.
“Yeah,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here.”
His gaze follows you carefully, tracking every small movement as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away. There’s something disarmingly soft in his expression, a tenderness that makes your chest tighten, like he’s committing you to memory all over again.
“I knew you would,” he says with quiet certainty, as though your presence had never once been in doubt.
Your fingers curl slowly into your palm.
“They kept askin’ if there was anyone else they should call,” he continues, his voice still easy, still calm. “I told ’em no. Just you.”
You nod automatically, even as the truth presses painfully against your ribs.
His smile deepens, reassured by the gesture.
“Didn’t like the idea of wakin’ up without you.”
The words land square in your chest, knocking the air from your lungs. He doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen or the careful effort it takes to keep your expression composed. Joel only looks relieved, anchored, somehow steadied by the simple fact that you’re standing there.
“Yeah…” you let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry, it was a long flight…”
Joel nods while he shifts slightly against the pillows, a faint wince crossing his face as he lifts a hand toward the bandage wrapped around his head before letting it fall back to the sheets.
“Tommy’s been here most of the night,” he says casually, like the detail barely matters. “Wouldn’t leave. Guess he finally stepped out to get coffee.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a tired half-smile. “Said the stuff here tastes like burnt dirt.”
That sounds exactly like Tommy.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.”
“He knows you were comin’, though,” Joel adds, glancing back at you. “Seemed real relieved when I told him.”
You nod again, though you aren’t entirely sure what you’re nodding to. The words settle heavily in your chest, another quiet weight you’re not prepared to carry.
“He okay?” you ask after a moment, choosing your words carefully. “Tommy, I mean.”
Joel lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Yeah. Just… hoverin’. Kept actin’ like I was gonna forget my own name.”
If only he knew.
Joel’s gaze drifts back to you then, more thoughtful this time. A faint crease forms between his brows as he studies your face, something quietly uncertain flickering behind his eyes.
“You said long flight,” he says slowly.
Your stomach tightens.
“Yeah.”
He frowns, not with suspicion, but with the mild confusion of someone trying to piece together something that doesn’t quite make sense.
“Why’d you fly?”
The question is gentle. It still lands like a bruise. Well fuck, how were you going to get out of this?
“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.
“Well…” His gaze drifts briefly toward the window, hand rubbing at his stubble, like the answer might be waiting somewhere outside. “You would’ve just driven. It’s only like thirty minutes.”
Your hands tighten together in your lap.
“I thought you were at the house,” he continues, his voice quieter now, softer in a way that makes your chest ache. “Figured you’d walk in complainin’ about traffic, ask if I ate yet.” A chuckle breaks free from his chest, his eyes squinting as he tries to solve the puzzle in his head.
The image forms instantly in your mind, so ordinary, so familiar it almost steals the air from your lungs.
“I didn’t realize you were that far, whe-” he murmurs, pausing himself as he looks around confused, “Where were you?” the thought still sounding like it arrived only halfway formed. “How long were you on the plane?”
“About four hours.”
Joel goes very still.
Four hours is too long to brush aside, too long to tuck neatly into the explanation he’s been building in his head.
“That… doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly, the words drifting out more to himself than to you. “You hate flyin’. Only do it if you absolutely have to.”
Of course he remembers that.
His gaze lifts again, settling on your face with a new kind of focus, not suspicious, not accusing, just searching, like he’s trying to assemble a picture with pieces that refuse to cooperate.
“Where were you comin’ from?” he pushes gently after you don’t answer right away.
Before you can muster up an answer, find some form of excuse to spill, the door swings open.
“Alright,” Tommy’s voice cuts through the room, gravelly and familiar. “I swear they make this shit by runnin’ it through a sock.”
He stops short when he sees you.
For a brief moment, the entire room seems to pause, the quiet hum of machines suddenly louder in the silence.
Then recognition settles over his face, followed by something softer, relief, maybe, though it carries a heavier weight behind it.
“Hey,” Tommy says, his voice dropping as you both exchange a look.
“Hey,” you answer.
Joel glances between the two of you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Took you long enough,” he tells his brother. “She just got here.”
Tommy nods slowly as he steps farther into the room, the paper coffee cup still warm in his hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
But his eyes never leave yours.
There’s something in them, steady, apologetic, burdened with a knowledge Joel no longer carries.
And standing there, caught between the man who looks at you like nothing in the world ever broke between you and the one who remembers exactly how it did, you realize something with a slow, sinking clarity.
Joel has no idea you ever left.
You aren’t the only one holding the truth anymore.
The door opens again, this time with a softer, more clinical presence. A man in a white coat steps inside, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm as his eyes move quickly around the room before settling on Joel.
“Mr. Miller?” he asks.
Joel straightens immediately, shoulders tightening. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Anders,” the man says, voice calm and measured. “I understand you sustained a concussion at work today. First, I want to reassure you, you’re stable. There’s no internal bleeding and no life-threatening injuries.” He gestures briefly toward the bed. “The head trauma caused a concussion, and you’ve got a mild fracture in your left tibia. We’ve already set it and placed a cast. Orthopedics will take another look before you’re discharged and set up a physical therapy schedule for you.”
Joel glances down, like he’s just now remembering his body belongs to him. The blanket shifts slightly, revealing the thick gray cast extending from just below his knee to his ankle.
“Huh,” he mutters, flexing his fingers against the sheets. “That explains why it feels like someone took a golf club to it.”
Dr.Anders nods once, keeping his attention on Joel. “Because of the concussion, you’re also experiencing retrograde amnesia. That means your memory of the time leading up to the accident, and possibly a longer period before that, may be temporarily lost.” The doctors voice is calm, almost like he’s approaching a startled horse, not wanting to spook it further.
Joel’s brow furrows, his hand twitching toward the bandage wrapped around his head, moving downwards to rub at his eyes, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together that only he can see. “How long? How much did I… lose?”
“That’s difficult to predict,” Dr. Anders says carefully. “Memories may return gradually, all at once, or, in some cases, not fully. What’s most important right now is that you don’t try to force them. Straining to remember can actually make the condition worse.”
Joel shifts slightly, then winces as his casted leg moves beneath the blanket.
“I… I want to know,” he says. “I need to know what I missed. Everything. Did anything happen? Did anyone… anyone important… pass? Ma? Pa?”
“No, no,” Tommy assures gently, “Ma and Pa are still good, just maybe a lil’ older than you remember,” he lets out with a forced chuckle as he rubs at the scruff on his face.
Joel shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting his weight without thinking. The movement is small, but the second his injured leg moves beneath the blanket, his face tightens.
“Jesus-”
He exhales sharply through his teeth and glances down, like he’s just remembered something is wrong with his body. The blanket has slipped just enough to reveal the thick gray cast running from below his knee to his ankle. Joel stares at it for a moment.
Tommy snorts quietly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “You fell off a scaffold, man. You should feel hella lucky right now.”
Joel glances between the two of you, still trying to piece together the edges of his reality. His hand moves carefully toward the cast, fingers brushing along the hard plaster like he’s checking to see if it’s real.
“Scaffold,” he repeats slowly.
Dr. Anders nods, “About ten to twelve feet, from what your coworkers told us. You were unconscious for a short period of time, which is likely what caused the concussion.”
Joel leans back against the pillows again, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he processes everything.
“Head’s foggy,” Joel admits, rubbing absently at the edge of the bandage on the side of his temple again.
“That’s normal,” Dr. Anders replies evenly. “You’ll likely experience headaches, fatigue, and confusion for a few days. The most important thing right now is rest.”
Joel nods, though his attention has already drifted elsewhere. His gaze finds you again, lingering in a way that makes your chest tighten.
There’s something unsettling about it to you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only stable thing left in a world that suddenly stopped making sense.
Dr. Anders notices it too.
His eyes flick briefly between the two of you before he clears his throat and straightens slightly.
“Joel, I want you to focus on resting for the next few days, alright?” he says gently. “I’m going to step out into the hallway with your family for a moment and go over the details of your recovery plan with them. We’ll make sure everything is set up so you have the help you need while you’re healing.”
Joel glances between you and Tommy, then gives a small, tired nod.
“Alright.”
Dr. Anders opens the door and gestures politely toward the hall.
“If you two wouldn’t mind.”
You push yourself out of the chair, Tommy following a step behind as the three of you slip into the quiet corridor. The door closes softly behind you, the muffled hum of Joel’s monitors fading as the fluorescent lights overhead take their place.
Dr. Anders exhales quietly, leaning back against the wall for a moment as if organizing his thoughts.
“We need to be mindful that Joel is dealing with both a concussion and retrograde amnesia,” he begins carefully. “His brain is essentially trying to rebuild connections. If we push too hard—or introduce emotionally distressing information too quickly, it can interfere with that process. In some cases, it can delay the return of memories for months, maybe years.”
He pauses, choosing his next words with care before looking directly at you.
“For example… his relationship with you.”
Your stomach twists.
“Joel currently believes you’re still married,” Dr. Anders continues. “For the time being, it would be best not to challenge that assumption. Speak to him as his wife. Treat things as normally as possible.”
Your stomach drops.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “You’re telling me to lie to him? Pretend we’re married?”
“Yes,” Dr. Anders replies, calm but unwavering. “For the time being. Joel trusts you, and right now that trust is incredibly important. It gives him a sense of stability. If he’s suddenly confronted with information that contradicts what he believes, especially something emotionally significant, it could create stress that interferes with his recovery.”
Your jaw tightens.
“So it’s all on me,” you murmur, staring down at the polished hospital floor. “I’m the one keeping him stable… by pretending to still be his wife.”
Dr. Anders doesn’t argue.
“I understand how unfair that sounds,” he says gently. “But in the state he’s in, you are the most familiar and emotionally grounding presence he has. Right now, you’re his anchor, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.”
He glances briefly toward Joel’s room before continuing.
“There’s also the matter of his leg. The fracture means he’ll be on crutches for several weeks, possibly longer, depending on how the bone heals. Combined with the concussion, he shouldn’t be living alone or moving around without help for a while. Someone will need to assist him at home, getting around, monitoring symptoms, making sure he doesn’t push himself too quickly.”
Tommy exhales slowly beside you.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “And that someone sure as hell ain’t me.”
Dr. Anders turns toward him.
Tommy rubs the back of his neck, already looking apologetic. “My wife’s eight months pregnant. She’d kill me if I disappeared for a few weeks to babysit my stubborn older brother.”
Your chest tightens.
“So that leaves…” Tommy gestures vaguely between the two of you.
You.
A bitter breath escapes before you can stop it.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter.
Five years. Five years spent building something separate from Joel. A different city, a different routine, a different life entirely. You had finally learned how to exist without him in it. And now you’re supposed to step right back into the role you fought so hard to leave behind. As if none of those years ever happened. As if you never signed the papers and walked away.
Just… step back in and pretend. Just for him.
Tommy gives you a small, sympathetic nod, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside your chest.
You’re not fine. You shouldn’t have to be fine.
But if you walk away… he could get worse.
And somehow, after everything, you still care enough not to let that happen.
You straighten slowly, shoulders squaring as you force your hands to unclench.
“Fine,” you say at last, your voice low and tight with restraint. “I’ll do it. But don’t pretend that makes this okay.”
Dr. Anders nods once, solemn.
“I don’t expect it to feel fair,” he says. “But you’re doing the best thing for Joel right now. The most important thing is patience. Let his memories return naturally. Don’t push him to remember, and don’t overwhelm him with information. His brain needs time.”
Tommy shifts beside you, his voice softer now.
“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Just… take it one day at a time.”
He pauses, then adds with a small, almost apologetic shrug, “It’s good to have you back. Even if the circumstances are pretty damn terrible.”
You give him a stiff nod, then turn back toward Joel’s room.
Your chest feels heavy as you walk down the hallway, every step pulling you closer to a life you thought you’d buried years ago.
A lie. That’s what this is now. A carefully maintained illusion for the man who once shattered everything you had together. And the worst part, the part you don’t dare say out loud, is that beneath the anger, beneath the resentment, beneath the years of distance…
A small, stubborn part of you still wants to be there for him.
Even if pretending doesn’t just break your heart. Even if it slowly kills you to do it.
You push the door open, the soft click of the latch announcing your return. Joel’s head lifts, dark eyes tracking you immediately, alert but not tense.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer.
Joel props himself up slightly, a small wince escaping his mouth, a forced crooked grin tugging at his lips. “There she is. What’d he say?”
“I… talked to the doctor,” you say carefully, “He wants you to rest, but… I’m gonna go home and grab some things for you. Stuff you might need when you’re ready to leave.”
Joel quirks an eyebrow, still grinning. “Stuff, huh? You packing my royal necessities?” His tone is teasing, light, like he’s trying to make the hospital feel a little less serious.
“Yes,” you say softly, a gentle chuckle and smile forcing its way out. “The essentials for surviving with Joel Miller…”
“Right,” he mutters, shaking his head, amused. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “But before you go… can I get a kiss?”
You freeze. Your chest tightens, stomach coiling. A kiss. Here. Now. With him like this.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but god, you’re hoping it works. Twenty-four hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined being in the same state as Joel, and now, here you were, trying to get out of kissing him.
“Hurt me? C’mon, I hit my head, didn’t break my neck.”
And damn, if that wasn’t a good argument.
Joel watches you patiently, that familiar spark in his eyes making it impossible to resist. After a long beat, you lean in and give him a tiny, careful peck.
He blinks, a mischievous glint in his eye, and quips, “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” He asks, going to grab your wrist to pull you back in.
You bite back a nervous laugh as you evade his grip, “That’s… enough,” you murmur, cheeks warming, lips still tingling from where the other man’s were moments ago.
Joel shakes his head, grinning wider now, clearly enjoying himself. “Damn. You’ve gone stingy on me,” he teases. “I know you’re more generous than that. Is it the bandage? Is it a turnoff?”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes, despite the tension in your chest. Even pretending, he still has that way of drawing you in.
“No, it’s not the bandage… Just get some rest, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Joel settles back against the pillows, surrendering to the fight, hands behind his head, eyes following you. “Okay, go then. But don’t take too long. You know I get bored when I’m stuck somewhere with nothing to do.” He winks, light and playful, like he’s still your Joel, the same man you remember.
“I’ll miss you,” he added, and just like that, the air from your lungs was gone.
You nod, turning towards the door slowly, gripping your purse strap. One last glance at him, grinning softly in that rugged, familiar way, and you step out of the room, heart tight, chest heavy, but knowing this little spark of playfulness makes the lie a little easier to bear… for now.
The door closes softly behind you.
Inside the room, Joel watches the door for a long moment after you leave, and the smile fades slowly from his face.
After years apart, you're pulled back into your ex-husband’s life when an accident leaves him believing you're still married. Forced to play along for his recovery, you quickly realize some things, like love, lies, and the past, don’t stay buried as easily as they should.
tags: 18+ MDNI, amnesia, slow burn, divorce, angst, a wound, pain, medication, medical terminology, but i'm not a professional so pls be kind. let me know if i missed anything!
words: 9.4K
notes: hello helloooooo! i am overjoyed that so many people liked the first chapter, and it really helped me with cranking out this one. i appreciate your thoughts! hope to see you all next week! - mack 🂱
Of course the house would look the same. Of course it would bring everything back.
Joel kept the house in the divorce. It made sense. You were the one leaving Texas, chasing something new, something far enough away that it wouldn’t feel like this. You knew all of that. You told yourself you were prepared for it.
Still, standing outside, staring at it, the familiarity knocked the air from your chest.
And then you stepped inside, and whatever breath you had left disappeared completely.
Nothing had changed.
Maybe a different TV mounted above the mantle, but everything else was exactly as you remembered. The same couch. The same backsplash in the kitchen. The same wallpaper, the same carpet.
The same wedding photos.
They hung exactly where you had placed them, like time had decided to stop here and never move forward.
The memory hits you before you can brace for it.
The day you got the photos back from the photographer, you had been so happy you could barely sit still. You wanted them printed immediately, couldn’t stand the idea of them just living on a screen. Joel had insisted on making the frames himself, staying up late at the kitchen table, measuring twice, sanding the edges down until they were perfect.
You had loved them more because he made them.
Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly over the glass. Over your faces. Over a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.
As if touching it might bring it back.
It doesn’t.
You haven’t been that happy in years. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing you ever would be again.
New York had been hard at first. Too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar. But eventually, that became the point. Life moved quickly enough that you could get lost in it. In the noise, in the people, in the work.
Especially the work.
You landed a job at an up-and-coming law firm not long after you moved. Women-run. Sharp. Driven. The kind of place where no one questioned whether you belonged in the room. The past three years had been good. Busy in the best way. The firm was growing, and so were you.
And Winnie made it easier.
Your boss, technically. But never really just that. She was the kind of person you could grab drinks with after work, the kind who called you out when you needed it and sat with you when things got heavy. She told you things you didn’t always want to hear, but probably needed to.
Like last week.
“You’re too buried in work,” she had said, sliding a drink across the table to you. “At some point, you have to let yourself live a little.”
You had laughed it off.
But she wasn’t wrong.
Ever since the divorce, nothing had felt the same. No one had felt the same.
You tried. God, you tried.
You even switched it up completely. Went out with a girl you met on Tinder, thinking maybe you had just been looking in the wrong place this whole time. But there was nothing there. No spark. No pull.
Then there was Eli.
Four months. Four months of trying to convince yourself that something would click eventually. That feelings could grow if you just gave them enough time.
He was perfect on paper. Smart, funny, great hair, an even better smile. The kind of green eyes people wrote poetry about. Stable job, good with money, kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.
He should have been everything.
But he wasn’t.
And you couldn’t fake it forever.
Winnie never understood that part. She couldn’t understand why you let him go, why you wouldn’t even let her set herself up with him after.
But you knew. He wasn’t for you. And you weren’t for him.
Maybe that was just it. Maybe you weren’t meant for anyone anymore.
The thought settles heavier than you expect.
You thought if you moved seventeen hundred miles away, the air would taste different. You thought if you traded the sound of cicadas for sirens, you’d finally be able to hear your own thoughts without his voice interrupting them.
And for five years, you lied to yourself. You told Winnie, you told Eli, you told the mirror every morning that you were ‘cured.’ That Joel was just a fever that had finally broken.
But then the phone rang. A Texas area code. And before the woman on the other end even says his name, your heart is already at the airport. It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t remember the yelling, or the boots tracking mud, or... or Claire. It just knew its owner was in trouble.
The doctors call it retrograde amnesia. They say his brain has a hole in it where the last five years should be. He looks at me and he doesn’t see the woman who slammed the door and signed the papers. He sees the girl who promised to love him until the end of the world.
And God, that’s the knife, isn't it? Because he forgot how to stop loving you... but you never even learned how.
You’ve spent five years building a fortress in New York. Steel, glass, billable hours, and expensive gin. You thought you were strong. But you walk into this house, our house, and you see the frames he sanded by hand. You smell the cedar and the dust. And you realize you haven't been 'living' in New York. You’ve just been holding your breath.
You look at him in that hospital bed, and he calls you 'sweetheart,' and for a split second, the world stops shaking. The anger? It’s there. The betrayal? It’s screaming. But under all that rubble... it’s still him. It was always him.
That’s the real tragedy. Not the accident. Not the memory loss. It’s the fact that you could be anywhere in the world, with anyone else, and you’d still be waiting for a Texas area code to light up your screen.
You never left him. You just changed your address.
You move further into the house, and every floorboard that groans under your weight sounds like an accusation. Each step feels like you’re trespassing on a version of your life that died a long time ago. Or at least, it was supposed to be dead.
Because it isn’t yours. Not anymore.
Your life is six floors up in Manhattan, tucked into an apartment that smells like the burnt espresso from the shop downstairs. It’s a space defined by west-facing windows and the sunset bleeding over the skyline while you sit in your nook, anonymous and safe. That life is quiet. That life is earned.
This? This is a haunting.
You make your way to the bedroom, the door creaking with that same familiar, high-pitched hitch that Joel always promised to oil but never did. The bed is a time capsule, same frame, same comforter, the same dent in the mattress where he sleeps. It’s like the house itself refused to believe you were gone.
You don't let yourself look. You can't. Instead, you move with a clinical, frantic energy, grabbing a duffel bag and raking clothes out of drawers. You focus on the fabric, the tactile reality of denim and cotton, anything to keep your mind from drifting toward the scent of his detergent.
But then, you open the sock drawer.
The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy. There, resting against the dark wood like a silent heart, is a small velvet box. Your stomach drops before your hand even reaches for it. You know. You know what’s in there, but your fingers move on an instinct you thought you’d killed years ago.
You flip it open.
There it is. Joel’s heavy gold band, scratched and dull from years of work. And nestled right beside it, tucked into the same velvet slot as if it never left, is yours.
The breath leaves your lungs in a ragged rush.
You remember the exact spot you left that ring five years ago. You’d placed it on the kitchen counter next to the keys, a cold, silver period at the end of a very long sentence. You walked out and never looked back.
But he hadn't thrown it away. He hadn’t pawned it for a bottle of bourbon or hurled it into the brush. He’d brought it in here. He’d kept them together. Like they still had a promise to keep.
Your chest tightens so violently you have to press your palm against your sternum, trying to keep your heart from hammering its way out. The silence of the house is suddenly deafening, filled with the ghost of the woman who used to wear that ring.
If I’m his wife, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow, I have to look the part.
Dr. Anders’s voice echoes in your head, clinical and detached: Treat things as normally as possible. Don’t contradict him. You are his anchor.
Your hand trembles as you reach for the ring. It’s cold against your skin, but as you slide it back onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Infuriatingly perfectly. It’s a weight you aren't ready to carry again, a gold shackle that tells the world a lie you’re starting to realize you never truly stopped believing.
The "Mrs. Miller" you left behind in Texas wasn't dead. She was just waiting for him to call her home.
Your fingers tremble as you reach into the box. You pluck the ring from the velvet, and the metal feels freezing against your skin, a sharp, cold reminder of a life you spent five years trying to outrun. For a second, you just stare at it sitting in your palm, a small circle of gold that used to mean everything and now feels like a threat.
You take a sharp breath, close your eyes, and slide it onto your left ring finger.
It slips on perfectly. It doesn’t snag or resist; it just settles into the groove it wore into your skin years ago. The weight of it is immediate and suffocating. It’s a physical shackle, a gold anchor dragging you right back into a role you thought you’d finally shed.
You drop Joel’s ring into the front pocket of your purse before you can overthink the intimacy of the gesture, zip up the duffel bag, and walk out of the bedroom without looking back.
The drive back to St. Luke’s is a blur of shimmering asphalt and a rising sense of dread. The Texas heat presses down on the roof of the rental car, thick and demanding, but you’re numb to it. The only thing you can actually feel is the metal band on your finger. It feels like it’s burning a hole through your skin, a brand marking you as a woman who hasn't lived in this state for half a decade.
When you push the door to room 412 open, the sterile air hits you like a wall. Tommy is leaning against the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the bright afternoon light. He looks over as you walk in, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, and then, inevitably, to your left hand.
His gaze catches on the gold and sparkle from the center diamond. He doesn’t say a word, but the subtle, heavy nod he gives you says everything. Thank you. He knew you’d do it, but he also knows exactly what this is costing you. He sees the New York version of you disappearing in real-time.
Joel’s head turns toward the door, and that same devastating, open smile spreads across his face.
“There she is,” Joel says. His voice drops into that warm, gravelly register that used to make your stomach flip, the one that still does, despite the screaming protest in your head.
You force a smile, the muscles in your face feeling brittle and tight. You drop the bag onto the small sofa near Tommy, desperate for the distance. “Brought your favorites. The gray sweatpants, a few clean shirts. I figured you wouldn't want to leave in a hospital gown.”
“You're an absolute lifesaver, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You step closer to the bed, the word sweetheart sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s a label you haven't answered to in years. As you reach out to adjust his blanket, a nervous habit just to keep your hands busy, Joel’s hand comes up to catch your wrist.
His grip is gentle, but firm. It’s so familiar it aches in your bones. He tugs your hand down, pulling it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart.
His thumb automatically strokes across your knuckles. It’s a rhythmic, mindless habit, a language his body remembers even if his brain doesn't. Then, his thumb slides down to rest directly over the cold metal of your wedding band.
He sighs, a deep, contented sound that vibrates against your palm. He traces the edge of the diamond with his thumb, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at you with nothing but absolute, terrifying trust.
Tommy pushes off the windowsill, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the heavy silence. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at your joined hands.
“Right, well,” Tommy mutters. “Now that the warden’s here to keep an eye on you, I’m gonna go track down Dr. Anders. See what kind of paperwork we need to sign to bust you out of here.”
Joel doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave toward the door. “Bring the truck around to the front when you’re done. I ain’t walking across that parking lot in this cast with those annoying ass crutches.”
“Yeah, yeah. Princess treatment, I got it,” Tommy grumbles affectionately, slipping out the door and letting it click shut behind him.
The silence that settles over the room is immediate and heavy. It feels too intimate, too full of things you can’t say without breaking the fragile peace in his eyes.
Joel’s thumb is still resting over your wedding band. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the freezing metal digging into your finger. You try to subtly pull your hand back, a small, jerky movement, but his grip just tightens slightly, anchoring you in place.
“You’re shakin’,” he notes. His voice drops an octave, softening into that gentle, low timber that used to completely undo you.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to mimic the posture of a wife who is simply relieved her husband is okay, rather than a woman playing a terrifying game of pretend. “It’s just… cold in here. Hospitals are always freezing.”
Joel’s brow furrows a fraction, his dark eyes scanning your face. He takes in the rigid line of your jaw, the way your gaze keeps darting to the monitor, the blanket, the window, anywhere but his eyes.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging your hand again until you’re forced to look at him. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Your breath hitches. He thinks you’re worried about him. “I know,” you manage to force out, the words tasting like ash. “The doctor said it was a mild fracture and a concussion. You just… scared me.”
Joel’s face softens into something so open and tender it makes your chest physically ache. He reaches up with his other hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek. You flinch, barely, just a microscopic stiffening of your spine, but he catches it.
For a second, a flicker of confusion crosses his face. But then he lets out a quiet, tired breath, brushing his thumb under your eye where the dark circles of a sleepless redeye flight have settled.
“I know you hate hospitals, darlin’,” he says gently, completely brushing off your distance. He rationalizes it instantly, packing your behavior into a neat little box that makes sense to him. “And I know you’ve probably been runnin’ yourself ragged on that big case you were talkin’ about last week. Add a midnight phone call about me fallin’ off a damn scaffold… I don’t blame you for being a little spooked.”
You swallow hard, your throat tight. That big case from last week. He’s pulling memories from five years ago. He’s placing you right in the middle of the hardest year of your marriage, but looking at you with a patience he lacked right before the end.
“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping back just enough that his hand falls from your cheek. You turn toward the duffel bag, desperate for a task. “I’m just exhausted. Let’s… let’s get you out of that gown. The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we can get you home.”
“Bossin’ me around already,” Joel chuckles, a low, easy sound. He groans slightly as he shifts his weight, trying to sit up straighter against the pillows. “Guess that means you’re feeling a little better.”
You unzip the bag, pulling out the gray sweatpants and a soft, worn-out henley you found shoved in the back of his drawer. You keep your back to him for as long as possible, fighting the tremor in your hands.
“Do you need help?” you ask, finally turning around.
Joel is already working the snaps of his hospital gown, the fabric falling off one broad shoulder. He pauses, looking up at you with a smirk that is entirely too familiar. It’s the look he used to give you across the kitchen island.
“Well, unless you want me flashing the nurses when I try to get these sweatpants over this giant cast, I might need a hand, yeah.” He watches you hesitate, your feet glued to the floor. His smirk softens into an easy smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”
The casual intimacy of the statement hits you like a freight train. You squeeze your eyes shut for a fraction of a second, battling the rising tide of panic, anger, and a grief so heavy it threatens to pull you under completely.
Just treat things normally.
You force your feet to move, stepping up to the edge of the bed. “Alright,” you say, your voice remarkably steady for how fast your heart is racing.
You step closer to the bed, your sneakers creating a soft squeak as you move. The air between you feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you reach out to help him with the remaining snaps of the hospital gown.
His hands drop to his lap, letting you take over. It’s an act of complete submission, of absolute trust, and it makes you feel violently sick.
"Arms up," you say. Your voice is strictly clinical. It's the voice of a lawyer who has detached from the emotion of a case, not a wife tending to her husband.
He complies with a soft grunt, the movement clearly pulling at the bruised muscles in his ribs and shoulder. The thin, faded fabric of the gown slips down, pooling at his waist, leaving his chest bare.
You freeze for a fraction of a second.
There are new scars you don't recognize. A small, jagged line near his collarbone. But the rest of him is exactly the same. The broad line of his shoulders, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin. You used to fall asleep with your face pressed right over his heart.
You grab the gray henley, your movements jerky, a little too fast. "Here. Careful with your head."
You guide the collar over his thick hair, avoiding the white bandage at his temple. As he pushes his arms through the sleeves, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.
It’s a tiny, accidental touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. You flinch, pulling back so quickly you almost trip over the leg of the chair behind you.
Joel pauses, his head emerging from the collar of the shirt. He doesn't pull the hem down right away. He just watches you, his dark eyes hooded and observant.
"You're jumpy," he notes softly.
"I just didn't want to hurt you," you lie smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. A physical barrier. The wall going up. "Your head."
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but his brain is still too foggy to push the issue. He tugs the shirt down, wincing slightly as it settles over his torso. "Okay. Pants."
This is worse.
You swallow the lump in your throat and bend down near the edge of the bed. You grab the sweatpants, gathering the left leg so you can ease it over the bulky, gray cast.
"Lift," you instruct.
Joel leans back on his elbows, using his good leg to shift his weight as you carefully guide the fabric over the cast. You're so close to him now. The sterile smell of the hospital is fading, replaced by the faint, earthy scent that is just Joel. It’s a scent that has no right still being so familiar.
As you pull the waistband up past his knees, your hand accidentally brushes against his bare thigh.
You jerk your hand back like you've been burned.
Joel lets out a soft sigh. Before you can stand up, his hand reaches down, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.
"Look at me," he says.
It’s not a command; it’s a plea, quiet and rough. You keep your head down for a second too long, staring at the gray fabric of his sweatpants, at the way your hand looks against his skin. The gold ring catches the harsh overhead light, a bright, lying glint that makes you feel sick.
Slowly, you lift your gaze.
Joel is leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. The shadows under his eyes make him look older, but the way he’s watching you, with that focused, unwavering intensity, is exactly how he used to look at you before everything turned into a battlefield.
"You’re acting like I’m made of glass," he states, his thumb brushing the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. He can feel it. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic beat that contradicts every clinical word you’ve spoken. "Or like you’re scared to touch me."
"I told you," you say, your voice sounding thin and reedy in the quiet room. "You had a head injury, Joel. I’m just trying to be careful."
"It's more than that," he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. He searches your face, his eyes tracking the tension in your mouth, the way you’re holding your breath. "You’ve been... quiet. Ever since I woke up. Like you’re standing ten feet away even when you’re right in front of me."
He lets out a short, frustrated breath and shakes his head, the movement causing him to wince. "I know things have been rough lately. I know the work... the hours... I know I haven't been the easiest man to live with this past year. I've been angry, and I've been loud, and I've said things I shouldn't have."
You freeze. He’s apologizing. He’s apologizing for the version of him that existed five years ago, the one that was tracking dirt through the house and picking fights about your career. He’s trying to fix the cracks in a marriage that has already been shattered for half a decade.
"Joel, don't," you whisper.
"No, I need to say it," he insists, his voice growing thicker. "Wakin' up today... it was like a reset button got hit. All that noise, all that bickering... it doesn't matter. Not when I almost lost the chance to see you again. I'm sorry, darlin'. For all of it. I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise."
The irony is a physical weight in your lungs. He’s finally giving you the apology you would have died for five years ago, and it’s arriving five years too late, addressed to a woman who isn't there anymore.
You want to scream. You want to tell him that he did make it up to you back then, and then he broke it again, and then he ended it in a bar with your best friend in his lap. You want to pull your hand away and run until you hit the state line.
But then he pulls your hand up to his face, resting his cheek against your palm. He closes his eyes, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.
"Just be here with me," he breathes against your skin. "I just need to know we're okay."
He doesn't mean the divorce. He means the fight you had "last night" in his head. He means the tension that was brewing before the accident.
You stand there, bent over the edge of the hospital bed, your hand trapped against the stubble of his jaw. You don't say anything. You can't. You just let him hold you, a silent participant in a story that’s already over for you, but is just beginning again for him.
The door handle turns, the sharp click of the latch cutting through the tension like a blade.
Dr. Anders walks in, carrying a clipboard, followed closely by a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Joel takes one look at the chair and lets out a heavy sigh, his jaw setting stubbornly.
"I can walk," Joel grumbles, adjusting the hem of his henley.
"Hospital policy, Mr. Miller," Dr. Anders says smoothly, unfazed by the glare Joel shoots him. "Before we get you out of here, I just need to take a final look at that laceration."
The doctor steps to the side of the bed, and you instinctively move back, trying to reclaim some of the air in the room. But Joel’s eyes track you instantly, his gaze anchoring you to the spot, making sure the distance between you doesn't grow too wide.
"Let's get this bandage off," Dr. Anders murmurs.
You watch as the doctor’s gloved fingers work at the edge of the thick white tape. The adhesive makes a sharp, tearing sound against Joel’s skin. Joel winces, a low hiss of breath escaping through his teeth, and his hand twitches on the bedsheet as if he wants to reach up and stop the sting.
Without thinking, your own hand rises, a phantom jolt of sympathy shooting through your chest.
Don’t, you tell yourself, the thought cold and firm. You force your arm back down to your side, your fingers curling into a fist. Do not touch him.
Dr. Anders peels the gauze away. The skin beneath is a bruised, mottled map of purple and black, the center held together by a neat, ugly row of dark stitches. It looks raw. It looks painful. The reality of the impact, the height of that scaffold, the concrete floor, hits you in a sudden, sickening wave. For all the anger you’ve carried for five years, seeing him broken like this still makes your stomach turn.
"Healing nicely," Dr. Anders observes. He leans in with a small penlight, the clinical click of the switch echoing in the quiet. He checks Joel’s pupils one last time, his movements practiced and detached. "No signs of infection. I’m going to put a lighter dressing over it just to keep it clean, but you need to keep the site dry."
The doctor turns his attention toward you, shifting the weight of the medical chart.
"Mrs. Miller," he says. The title still feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. "I’m sending him home with a prescription for pain management and an anti-inflammatory. He needs to take them exactly as directed. I also need you to wake him up every few hours tonight, just to check his responsiveness. Standard concussion protocol."
Joel scoffs lightly, though the sound is tight with the pain in his head. "You’re gonna make her set an alarm to bother me all night? She’s already exhausted, Doc."
"I’m going to make her ensure you don't slip into a coma, yes," Dr. Anders replies dryly. He slaps a fresh, smaller bandage over the stitches with a crisp efficiency. He hands you a stack of discharge papers, thick, white sheets filled with instructions for caring for your ex. "Keep an eye on his mood, his balance, and any extreme spikes in confusion. And remember what we discussed in the hall."
The subtext hangs in the air, heavy and invisible. Don’t push his memories. Keep him stable. Keep up the lie.
You take the papers, the edges of the staples digging into your palm. You don't look at Tommy, and you certainly don't look at Joel. You just nod once, a silent agreement to the terms of your surrender.
"I understand," you say, your voice as clinical as the room.
"Good," the doctor says, already turning toward the door. "Then let’s get him into that wheelchair and out of here."
Ten minutes later, the nurse is wheeling Joel out of the room. He looks utterly defeated by the chair, his jaw set in a line of deep annoyance as the small wheels click against the floor. You follow a few paces behind, the duffel bag heavy on your shoulder.
Tommy is waiting at the curb, his truck idling and sending plumes of exhaust into the shimmering Texas heat.
"Look at you, riding in style," Tommy teases the second the automatic doors hiss open.
Joel lets out a curt chuckle, flashing Tommy the bird without looking up. "Shut up and help me get into this damn thing," he snaps, though the bite is gone, replaced by a weary edge that makes him sound older than he should.
It takes both of you to maneuver him. You have to get close, closer than you can probably handle, hyper-aware of the placement of your hands: one on his waist to steady him, the other bracing his back as he hoists the dead weight of the gray cast into the passenger seat. The second he’s settled, you recoil, stepping away so quickly you almost stumble off the curb.
"I'll take the back," you mutter, practically diving into the cramped backseat of the extended cab before either of them can protest. You just need the distance. You need a barrier.
Tommy catches your eye in the rearview mirror once he’s in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is heavy with understanding. He knows exactly what you’re doing, building a fortress, brick by brick, just trying to survive.
The drive is agonizingly quiet. The low hum of the AC struggles against the heat, and the muffled static of the radio barely masks the tension vibrating in the cab. From your spot in the back, you have a perfect view of the back of Joel’s head. You can see the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his hand rests heavily on his thigh. From this angle, the changes you missed are undeniable. There’s more gray lacing through his dark curls now, and the scruff along his jaw is thicker, grittier. He looks tired, not just from the accident, but in a way that suggests the last five years haven't been kind to him either.
Halfway there, Joel reaches back. His hand moves blindly, feeling for the empty space of the center console, searching for yours.
You press yourself harder against the door, pulling your knees tight together and staring fixedly out the window at the passing highway. You use the blur of the trees as an excuse not to see him, not to reach back. You let his hand grasp at empty air until, with a heavy, resigned sigh, he pulls it back to his lap.
When Tommy finally turns down the familiar oak-lined street, your pulse starts thudding in your ears. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Joel looks out the window at the front porch, at the hanging ferns that somehow survived the summer and the peeling paint on the railing he’d always promised to fix. A soft, grounded smile touches his lips.
"God, it's good to be home," he murmurs, and the sheer weight of his relief hits you right in the center of your chest.
He pushes his door open, bracing his good leg against the running board. Tommy is out of the truck in a flash, grabbing the crutches from the bed. You sit frozen in the backseat for three seconds, your heart doing a strange, frantic double-tap against your ribs. It’s not just the urge to run anymore; it’s the terrifying pull to stay. Your emotions are being tugged in both directions.
Then Joel looks back at you through the open truck door. His dark eyes are tired, clouded with pain, but they settle on you with a quiet certainty.
"Comin', darlin’?" he asks softly.
The "darlin’" catches you by surprise, pulling you from your thoughts, familiar and sharp. You nod stiffly, swallowing the lump of uncertainty as you step out into the stifling heat.
You follow them toward the front porch, the wood creaking under your feet, a sound you haven't heard in five years.
Tommy unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder while keeping a firm grip on Joel’s right side. You step inside behind them, and the air immediately knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s the scent, cedarwood, old leather, and that faint, lingering spice of his cologne. It’s a sensory tidal wave, making the last five years feel less like a new life and more like a very long, very cold intermission.
For a second, you aren't a lawyer from New York. You’re just home.
The heavy, awkward thud of Joel’s crutches against the hardwood snaps you back to reality.
“Easy, easy,” Tommy mutters, guiding him toward the living room. “Don’t put any weight on it, you stubborn ass.”
Joel grunts, his jaw tight as he maneuvers across the rug. “I got it, Tommy. Stop hovering.”
You hang back by the entryway, your hands white-knuckled around the straps of the duffel bag. Your eyes dart around the space, searching for your own reflection in the house. When you were here just a few hours ago, you were moving too fast to notice, but now the silence of the walls is deafening.
Five years ago, your heels would have been kicked off by the door. Your favorite coat would be hanging on the rack, smelling like the perfume he used to say he could find you by in a crowd. There would be a bowl for your keys and a stack of mail with your name on it.
But the entryway is stripped bare of you. It’s a museum of a man living alone.
You brace yourself, your pulse thudding in your fingertips. You wait for him to look around, to ask why your coats are gone, why the entryway table is empty, why the house feels like half of it was removed. You have the lies ready, tucked behind your teeth, but you find yourself almost wanting him to notice, to prove that your absence left a mark, even to this version of him.
He doesn’t.
In fact, his dark eyes slide right past the empty coat rack without a flicker of doubt. It’s as if his brain is simply filling in the blanks, projecting the version of the house he remembers over the reality of the one he’s standing in. He isn't looking for your things because, to him, you are already right where you belong.
“Just get me to the sofa,” Joel breathes out, a heavy sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.
Tommy helps him pivot, and Joel sinks into the cushions with a long, pained groan. His casted leg stays propped up stiffly on the oak coffee table, the one you’d picked out together at a flea market three lifetimes ago. He leans his head back against the leather, squeezing his eyes shut as he rides out a wave of pain.
You stand there in the hallway, the duffel bag feeling heavier by the second. You realize that the house doesn't feel like the prison or trap that you originally thought it would. It feels like a memory that won't let you go. And as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, you realize the most dangerous part of the lie isn't that he believes it.
It’s how easily you could let yourself believe it, too.
“You good?” Tommy asks, hovering near the armrest.
Joel swallows hard, keeping his eyes shut against the thrumming in his skull. “Yeah. Just… spins a little if I move too fast.”
“Alright.” Tommy claps his hands on his thighs, taking a reluctant step back. “Well, I got you delivered in one piece. I gotta get back to Maria before she sends out a search party. You got the meds?” He looks over his shoulder at you.
You move into the living room, setting the duffel bag down on a nearby chair with a practiced, steady hand. “Yes. I have them. Go on, Tommy. We’ve got it from here.”
“Good.” Tommy walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back at his brother. A flicker of something complicated passes over his face—a mix of relief and a heavy, lingering guilt—before his eyes shift to you. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”
“I will,” you say quietly.
The front door clicks shut a moment later, the sound echoing through the house like a final seal.
And then, it is just the two of you.
The silence isn't the cold, empty kind you expected. It’s thick, and layered. Filled with tension of things you can’t say. You stand rooted to the spot, feeling less like a stranger and more like a ghost who accidentally stepped back into her own life.
Joel finally opens his eyes. He looks at you standing there, clutching your purse, and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face. It’s a flash of profound, ancient sorrow, the look of a man who has spent a long time memorizing the way a room feels when it's empty.
But then he blinks, and the shadow vanishes, replaced instantly by that soft, lopsided smile.
“You look like you’re waitin’ for me to go blank in the mind, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Relax. I’m not gonna break again.”
“I’m just thinking about the schedule,” you deflect, dropping your purse onto the chair to free your hands. “The pills, the check-ins... I need to get you some water for your first round of meds.”
“Before you go play nurse,” Joel interrupts softly, gesturing toward the TV. “Can you turn that on? The quiet in here is making my head echo.”
You nod, grateful for the task. You walk over to the media console, your fingers finding the remote exactly where it used to live. You point it at the screen, and the low, familiar murmur of a sports broadcast fills the room, grounding the space in something mundane.
When you turn around, Joel isn’t looking at the TV.
He’s looking at you.
His head is tilted back against the leather, his dark eyes tracking you with a quiet, hungry intensity. It’s not the look of a man who saw you this morning; it’s the look of someone who has finally found his way back to the only thing that makes sense.
“What?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
Joel’s jaw tightens. For a second, the air between you pulls taut, but then he exhales, letting his head loll to the side to look at the screen.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, his tone shifting effortlessly back to easy. “Just... love you.”
The words hit you like a physical weight, simple and devastating. You escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting his water, your chest heaving the second you’re out of his sight. The kitchen is a time capsule, but the signs of his solitude are everywhere. One coffee mug. One plate. No magnets on the fridge. It’s the kitchen of a man who stopped expecting anyone else for dinner a long time ago.
You turn the faucet on, letting the water run cold as you pop two pills from the bottle. You can do this. You just have to keep the rhythm. Helpful. Distant.
Then, you hear it.
Thump. Squeak. Drag.
The rhythmic, metallic strike of the aluminum crutches hitting the hardwood floor makes your blood run cold. You shut off the faucet, spinning around just as Joel’s large frame fills the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning heavily into the supports, his broad shoulders hunched as he navigates the tight space. He looks exhausted, his face pale beneath the stubble, but his eyes are locked onto yours with a startling, quiet intensity.
"What are you doing?" The panic rises in your throat, sharp and instinctive. You drop the pills onto the counter and move toward him, hands raised as if you could catch him. "Joel, the doctor said to stay off that leg. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself."
"I’m fine, darlin’," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrates in the small room. He swings himself forward another step, the rubber tips squeaking against the tile.
"Then why are you up?" you demand, backing up until your hips hit the edge of the kitchen island.
He stops just inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of the hospital fading under the familiar, earthy musk of his skin. Even injured, he has a way of making the room feel incredibly small, crowding the distance you've tried to maintain.
Joel shifts his weight, leaning into the right crutch so he can free his left hand. He reaches out, his rough fingers wrapping loosely around the edge of the granite counter, effectively trapping you between his body and the island. A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I've been stuck in that bed lookin' at beige walls and Tommy’s ugly face for the past three days," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, gravelly murmur. "I finally get to come home to my wife, and you run off to the kitchen. Didn't wanna sit in there by myself."
Your breath hitches.
It’s such a simple, reasonable request from a man with a broken body and a foggy brain. He just wants to be near you. But since you know the reality of the last five years, the words carry a suffocating weight. He hasn't just been lonely for three days; he's been sitting in this quiet, empty house for half a decade. And now that you're finally standing in his kitchen again, he physically cannot bear to let you out of his sight.
"I was just getting your water," you say softly, desperately trying to keep your voice level. You reach blindly behind you, grabbing the glass. "You need to take your pain meds."
Joel glances down at the water glass in your trembling hand, then back up at your face. He doesn't move back. He just stays there, soaking in the proximity, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.
"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Just missed lookin' at you, is all. That a crime?"
The sheer, unbroken devotion in his tone feels like a slow-turning knife.
"Here," you whisper, holding out the pills. Your voice is stripped of its sharp edge, leaving only a raw, shaky vulnerability. "Take these. And then I'm helping you back to the couch before you fall and I have to call Tommy to scrape you off the floor."
Joel lets out a soft, genuine chuckle. He takes the pills from your palm, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing against yours, sending a jolt of heat straight up your arm.
"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs obediently.
You watch his throat work as he swallows, draining the glass. He hands it back, his fingers lingering against yours for just a heartbeat too long before he grips the handles of his crutches again.
“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the exertion finally starts to catch up with him. “Take me back. Before I actually do hit the floor.”
You set the glass down and step up beside his uninjured side, sliding your arm around his waist. He’s heavy, solid, and incredibly warm. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, dropping his free arm heavily over your shoulders. He tucks you right into his side, a puzzle piece fitting perfectly back into a place that shouldn't exist anymore.
The walk back to the living room is slow. Every step is agonizingly close. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder and the way his fingers curl loosely against your collarbone. When you finally reach the couch, you help him ease down, holding your breath as he straightens his casted leg with a tight wince.
He lets his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the medicine begins to take hold.
“You should go unpack,” he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.
You freeze. How does he know you need to unpack?
“Whatever work trip you were on… ya’ must be exhausted,” he continues blindly, his eyes still closed, completely unaware of the ice forming in your veins. “Go put your stuff away. Take a shower. I’m just gonna… rest my eyes for a minute.”
Your stuff. In the bedroom.
“Right,” you choke out, your voice sounding thin and hollow. “I’ll go do that.”
You back away from the couch and practically sprint toward the entryway to grab your purse and the small carry-on bag you brought from New York. When you step into the master bedroom and softly click the door shut behind you, the silence of the house finally turns into a scream.
You drop your bag onto the floor and stare at your side of the dresser. It’s scarred and bare. The nightstand where your lamp used to sit is an empty island of dust. You look at the closet door, knowing with a sick certainty that it is filled only with his flannels and work boots.
How the hell are you going to hide this?
You unzip your suitcase with trembling hands. You pull out the few things you packed, like two blouses, a pair of jeans, a pair of pajamas, and a makeup bag. You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which is the one that used to hold your lace and silk.
It is completely empty. Wiped clean.
You dump your folded clothes into the hollow space and shut the drawer. It is a fragile illusion. If he opens the closet or looks in the bathroom cabinet for your shampoo, the lie will unravel in seconds. You make a mental note to get to a Target the second Tommy can take over, just to buy enough fake clutter to make it look like a woman still lives here.
By the time you walk back out, the sun has completely set. The living room is cast in thick, heavy shadows. Only the blue flicker of the muted television illuminates the space.
Joel is fast asleep on the couch.
His head is tilted to the side, and his chest rises and falls in a deep, even rhythm. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion have smoothed out. He looks devastatingly peaceful. He looks exactly like the man you fell in love with before everything went to shit.
You glance at the clock. Wake him up every few hours, Dr. Anders had said. Check his responsiveness.
You swallow hard and step quietly around the coffee table. You kneel on the rug right beside his chest. The plush fibers dig into your bare knees.
For a long moment, you just look at him. Without his dark eyes tracking you and without the weight of his expectations pinning you down, you let the mask slip. God, you are so tired. You are tired of the anger, tired of the distance, and mostly you are tired of how much it hurts to be this close to him.
You reach out, and your hand hovers over his chest.
"Joel," you whisper.
He doesn’t stir. You press your hand gently to his shoulder and give him a small shake. The warmth of his skin seeps right through the thin cotton of the henley. It grounds you in a way you are not ready for.
"Joel," you say, louder this time. "Wake up."
With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open.
For a split second, he looks completely disoriented. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light. He blinks hard, and his body tenses defensively before his gaze focuses and lands on you kneeling there. The tension instantly drains from his muscles. It is replaced by a soft, sleepy recognition.
"Hey," he breathes out. His voice is a gravelly, sleep-heavy rasp that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He shifts, turning his face toward you. "What time is it?"
"Just past nine," you say softly. You keep your voice level. "The doctor said I have to wake you up, remember? Ask you some questions. Just to make sure you are okay."
Joel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh. He turns his body slightly so he is facing you. He reaches out, and his large, warm hand finds the side of your neck. His thumb rests right against your pulse point. He can probably feel how fast your heart is going.
"Alright, Doc," he murmurs. His voice is deeper in the quiet. His eyes are locked onto yours, and they are heavy with an intimate, sleepy heat. "Interrogate me."
You clear your throat and desperately try to ignore the warmth of his thumb. You force your voice into a calm tone.
"What is your name?"
Joel huffs a quiet, amused breath. "Joel Miller."
"Do you know where you are?"
His dark eyes soften. They drop to your lips for a heartbeat before drifting back up. "I am in my living room. In our house. With my wife."
The words land like stones in your stomach. They are heavy and sinking, but you force yourself to press on.
"What’s your favorite football team?"
"The Cowboys," he answers without missing a beat. A faint, sleepy smirk pulls at his mouth. "Even when they are playing like absolute shit and ruin my Sunday."
You nod slowly, and your eyes drop to the rug.
It hits you then with a sharp and terrifying clarity just how much of him still lives in your head. Five years in New York. Five years of new restaurants and new cases and new people. Yet you still know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know he hates the smell of lavender but loves the smell of rain on asphalt. You know his favorite team and his worst habits and the exact way his jaw ticks when he’s trying not to get angry.
All this time apart, and you still know him down to his bones.
"Okay," you whisper. You gently reach up to pull his hand away from your neck. You place it carefully back on his chest to break the contact before it completely undoes you. "You pass. Your brain is intact. But you can’t sleep down here. It’s gonna ruin your back, and we need to elevate that leg properly."
Joel groans softly as you stand up and the reality of his injuries settles back in. "I thought you were supposed to be the nice nurse."
"I am the practical one," you correct. You grab his crutches from where they rested against the coffee table. "Come on. Up we go."
Getting him off the couch is an ordeal, but getting him toward the stairs is worse. The heavy plaster cast throws off his entire center of gravity. After just a few steps toward the staircase, his breathing is ragged. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out over his brow.
"Screw the crutches," he mutters. He leans heavily against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. "I can’t balance with ‘em on the steps."
"Okay," you say. Your heart picks up a frantic rhythm as you step up next to him. "Put your arm around me."
He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his heavy and muscular arm around your shoulders. He tucks you flush against his side. You snake your arm around his waist, and your hand rests flat against the heat of his lower back.
"Take it slow," you instruct. Your voice trembles slightly at the sheer proximity.
The climb up the stairs is agonizingly slow. Every step requires him to shift nearly all of his weight onto you as he hops his good foot up to the next tread and drags the casted leg behind him. You bear it silently. You feel the powerful flex of his back muscles under your palm and the warmth of his chest pressing into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your temple. It is ragged and warm, and it smells of mint and the lingering scent of the hospital.
It takes nearly five minutes to reach the top landing. By the time you navigate down the hallway and through the door of the master bedroom, you are both out of breath. You guide him to the edge of the mattress, and he sinks onto the comforter with a heavy and relieved sigh.
"Jesus," he breathes out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair. "I feel like a helpless old man."
"You did good," you say softly. You step back carefully, putting a safe three feet of distance between you and the bed. You grab an extra pillow from the armchair and tuck it under his cast to elevate it.
Joel watches you. The fatigue in his eyes battles with something much deeper. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the comforter to pull it back. He is making room on your side of the bed. The side that has been empty since you left.
"Come here," he murmurs. His voice is a low and thick rumble. "I’m exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."
Your feet remain glued to the floor. Your heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts your ribs.
"I’m actually going to sleep in the guest room," you say. Your eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze.
Joel freezes. His hand stops moving on the comforter. He looks up at you with genuine confusion. A sharp spike of hurt flashes across his features.
"Why?" he asks. His voice cracks slightly. "We have a perfectly good bed right here."
You wrap your arms around your stomach as a defensive shield against the raw vulnerability in his eyes. "You’re injured, Joel. You have a concussion and a broken leg. I toss and turn in my sleep. If I accidentally kick your cast in the middle of the night or elbow your head..."
"You are not going to hurt me," he argues immediately. He shakes his head. He reaches his hand out toward you with his palm up in an open plea. "You’ve never hurt me. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t go across the hall. I just want you next to me. I-I sleep better when you’re next to me. Please."
The plea nearly shatters you. It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to cross the room and crawl into that bed. You want to bury your face in his chest and pretend the last five years were just a terrible nightmare.
But you know the truth. The lie is already suffocating you. Lying next to him in the dark will only make the inevitable reality hurt worse when it finally crashes down. When he finally remembers everything, and it all goes back to the way it was.
"I’ll be right across the hall," you whisper. Your voice is thick with unshed tears. "If you need anything… just call for me. I’ll leave the doors open."
Before he can argue again and before he can hit you with another look of devastating betrayal, you turn on your heel and walk out of the room.
You step into the dark guest bedroom and pull the door mostly shut. You sink down against the wall and bury your face in your hands as the first silent sob finally rips through your chest.
Rating: Explicit (my whole blog is over 18’s only please)
Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller.
Series Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning. There is smut and falling back in love.
Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty
Part 1 (3,200)
Part 2 (2,600)
Part 3 (3,000)
Part 4 (3,200)
Part 5 (4,200)
Part 6 (5,800)
Part 7 (4,300) The final part
My PPCU Masterlist
Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or if you’d like me to take you off 🖤
The inherent political statement of only speaking in spanish. Of introducing himself by his legal name. Of having most, if not all (don't wanna assume) his background dancers be visibly latinos. Of showing glimpses into the latino experience with such love and care and domesticity (we all laughed at the kid sleeping in the chairs lol), and including ALL latino countries. "The only thing stronger than hate is love." I suppose Joy is all a part of the fight, isn't it?
Summary: The days that followed the outbreak became the breaking point for you and Joel. The love that once held you both together seemed to have died that night until death almost caught you.
w.c: 7,2k.
warnings: pure angst with a "happy ending", established relationship (Joel and reader are married), mentions of blood, death, Joel kills someone, neglection, allusions to depression. I cried a lot while writing this.
A/N: As I mentioned before, I won't be able to update for three weeks (well two because this is an update) because I'll be abroad during this time, so I'm leaving you with this one-shot, which I started writing a few days ago and finished last night.
I'm gonna keep you updated with some sneak peeks of my current series and all, as long as I can.
Thank you so much for all your love. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 🧚🏻♀️💐
Please share your thoughts with me! 💌
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
You had been counting the days ever since that night, three days ago when the world had shifted into a nightmare and the sky had turned into gray sky weighing over your heads.
All you had heard since then was endless crying and silence.
The silence hurt the most.
One moment, you were at home, curled up with Joel and Sarah, safe in the ordinary warmth of each other. The next, she was gone, taken by a cruel twist of fate. The gray blanket of that night stole her away before you could reach her, before you could save her. The gold that had once lit your life dulled into silver clouds that pressed against your weak bodies.
It had been started raining. An hour ago, the dark clouds that threatened to spill over did it, turning into a storm. That kind that soaked through your clothes slowly and insistently as grief consuming your soul.
The sky over the empty highway shifted as the sun tried, and failed to rise. It wasn’t blue or gray anymore. It was something bruised, almost purple, like the world itself had been wounded.
Tommy walked beside you, trying his best not to fall down. He was desperate to find a place where the three of you could refugee until the rain stopped, besides, you hadn’t eaten anything in days, barely slept and it was dangerous out there, still recent, and people crazy.
But Joel kept walking no stop, his hair running down and darkening with the water on it, tracing the lines of his face, the ones that weren’t there a week ago. The one that had settled on three nights ago when his expression darkened and didn’t return to it previous self.
But you didn’t say anything.
After hours stretched into days, all of you had lost the ability to talk. Words felt foreign now. Cruel, even. As if pretending there could be anything after death was a lie none of you were allowed to tell anymore.
So, you kept walking, monotonously, with one foot in front of the other. Again and again because stopping in the middle of the road would mean attention and Joel hasn’t stopped, you couldn’t either.
But your legs burnt. Left one, the same you got shot by a soldier, but what was this pain when it seemed so small to having your heart ripped apart. After it happened, you wrapped it poorly, just a tight cloth around, enough to stop the bleeding leaking.
But after days, every step, made your leg burn. The skin around it felt too tight, and too warm and the rain soaking through the bandage made it worse.
But again, you didn’t say anything. You wouldn’t be the one slowing all down.
And at this point, the road stretching on in front of you felt too empty and with nowhere to go, the strength left inside you wasn’t enough to keep going. Your vision almost blurred at this point. The purple bruise of the sky bleeds into the ground and you felt your body giving up.
Your knee buckled,
You caught yourself, with both hand slamming against the concrete. Your heart pounded too fast.
“Hey—”
Tommy’s voice reached for you; his voice felt distant.
You straightened again, forcing your legs to move, but the strength was gone by now. It drained out of you all at once, like something finally gave up the fight.
Your foot missed its step and you didn’t remember falling this time, only the hard impact, knocking the air from your lungs. Rain hitting your face, so cold and relentless. For a moment, you couldn’t tell if it was the rain or your own tears falling freely.
Your body ached in pain, you tried to stand up but your whole body trembled.
Tommy was there suddenly, dropping to his knees beside you. “Don’t move,” he said, hands hovering, unsure where it was safe to touch. “What happened?”
You shook your head weakly; you couldn’t utter more words.
That made Joel stop for a second, he didn’t turn right away at first, he stood there hardly breathing, shoulders tensed, body still as the body slid down his back, but slowly, he looked over his shoulder.
His eyes landing in your body lying on the ground.
On your leg bent to the other side beneath you. On the dark stain spreading through your jeans.
Something flickered across his face, his instinct, his fear. But his body didn’t seem to move, it felt like he was dead inside out.
“What happened?” he asked, voice broke from no talking from days, the sound it felt foreigner when it reached your ears.
But it wasn’t the usual Are you okay? Does it hurt?
It wasn’t followed by his hands pressing over your shoulders then sliding down your arms until his fingertips found the way to interlock his fingers with yours.
There was just void.
“I—” Your voice cracks before you can finish. You swallow but couldn’t talk anymore. The pain made your vision blur, edges dissolving into gray.
Joel’s jaw tightened but he didn’t come closer. He didn’t worry it felt almost cynical coming from your husband.
That was the part that hurt the most, that the same man who had held you through sickness and sleepless nights stood there now like you were something he couldn’t afford to touch.
Tommy peeled back the soaked fabric at your leg, fingers gentle but quick and his breath hitched the moment he saw your leg.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Joel—"
Joel’s eyes snapped to him.
“It’s infected already.”
Joel flinched at that, his gaze dropped to your leg again, lingered a second too long, then pulled away like it burned.
“You didn’t say anything.” he said, his tone didn’t come from worry. It was accusing.
“I didn’t think—” You stopped, chest tightening. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
Anger twisted across his face, there was also Griend tangled together. It didn’t make sense, but he refuse to help. Instead, he turned back walking the same direction you were previously walking.
“Joel,” Tommy called after him, but there was no response.
Tommy looked back at you, panic flickering across his face. He shifted closer, shielding you from the worst of the rain as best he could. “Hey,” he said gently, “we’re— we’re finding a place to spend the day. We’re all tired.”
His voice softened on the last part. He glanced at you again, and this time, he really looked the way your face was turned toward the sky, rain streaming down your temples, mixing with the tears you hadn’t realized were falling. Your mouth trembled, breath coming shallow and uneven. You weren’t crying loudly because you couldn’t.
Tommy swore under his breath. “Joel,” he said again, louder this time. “C’mon, man.”
Joel stopped, just enough that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
He didn’t turn around. “We can’t stop,” he said.
Tommy stared at his brother’s back like he didn’t recognize him. “She can’t walk, man” he said. “She’s hurt.”
You were met with silence. Rain kept falling over your bodies.
Joel finally spoke again, it felt dead, stripped of anything that sounded like care. “Then we’ll deal with it when we get there.”
Tommy’s jaw fell. “Get where?” he demanded. “She collapsed, Joel. She’s bleeding. Your wife is hurt!”
Joel shook his head once, sharp and dismissive. “I’m not arguing about this.”
Tommy stood; anger flashed across his face. “Since when do you just walk away?”
Joel turned then to face his brother, to caught his face and the way Joel’s eyes looked now…He wasn’t the same man.
“Do you want me to stop?” he called out. “Dou want me to sit down and pretend my daughter didn’t die on my arms?”
Tommy faltered; his own heart broke at that.
Joel’s gaze flicked to you, then quick, almost involuntary.
He saw the tears falling. He saw the way your hands shook, the way you pressed your lips together.
His jaw tensed and for a moment you thought he might come back but instead, he looked away.
“We keep moving,” he said. “That’s how we stay alive from now on.”
And with that he walked on, rain swallowing him up, leaving you in the road with your leg burning, your heart breaking, and the unbearable knowledge that the man who used to be your home had chosen survival over you.
Tommy knelt beside you again, voice thick when he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I got you.”
You nodded weakly, even as your own heart ached from the pain, from the wound, but mostly from the grief of watching your husband disappear into the storm, one step at a time.
He slipped one arm carefully behind your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you carefully despite the way you whimpered when your leg moved. “Easy,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “I got you.”
Your head fell on his shoulder and you wished for him to be Joel because that’s what you wanted, feeling his scent, his warmth, you wanted to be with your husband, but you gritted your teeth and stayed quiet instead.
Ahead of you, Joel kept walking, not even looking back to check on you.
With the time, rain eased a bit, becoming just a miserable drizzling despite the sky not clearing. It just darkened, slowly, like it was giving up on trying to be anything else.
By the time the light sank low enough to stain the clouds purple, your body felt weak, too heavy to even bear your bones. The ache in your leg turned harder to bear, crawling upward in a way that makes your stomach twist in pain.
Tommy adjusted his grip when he felt you shiver. “Hey,” he said softly. “We’re gonna rest soon, okay?”
You nodded, eyes closing. You couldn’t recall the moment Joel stopped looking at you, you could feel behind your eyes, when he became just a shape moving ahead of you.
It was almost night when Joel stopped.
“There,” he said, breaking the silence settled among the three of you, pointing ahead with his finger.
A motel came into view at the edge of the road like a picture from another life, from a life that had abruptly stopped. Two stories. A still flickering sign half-buried in vines. It was that kind of place families used to stop on their way on vacations, for rest, just as you were about to do, just under different circumstances.
Joel stood still for a moment, scanning the area with his eyes, his posture shifted, grief had consumed him, but you knew to read his face, he was exhausted.
And he moved without waiting for either of you, checking the perimeter first. Peered into broken windows. Tested doors with the barrel of his gun, circling the building like a predator, counting exits, shadows for someone or something that could be hiding beneath.
You watched him from Tommy’s arms, eyelids heavy, heart aching in a different way now.
This is how you knew he still cared.
“It’s clear,” Joel finally said. “For now.”
Tommy exhaled shakily. “Thank God.”
He carried you inside. The lobby smelled badly but it was bearable, it didn’t reek to death. Joel didn’t offer to take you from Tommy. He didn’t ask how you were holding up. He just kept moving forward, already pushing open doors, already deciding which room was the safest.
“Second floor,” he said. “Less entry points.”
Tommy followed him, careful on the stairs. Each step sent a new wave of pain through you, and this time you couldn’t stop the small, broken sound that slips out of your throat.
Joel heard it because he stopped for a second.
You knew he did because he paused at the top of the stairs. Just for a second with his shoulders tensed, but he chose to kept walking.
Inside the room, Joel checked the bathroom, the closet, the space beneath the bed and the he locked the door, pushing a dresser in front of it. Curtains drawn tight.
It was safe for now.
And that’s when he looked at you again. You had lost the color on your face, shaking. Tear dried into lines down your checks, and he could notice your swollen leg, red and purple, creeping beneath the bandage.
Tommy placed you onto one of the beds, as gentle as he could be. “She needs to rest,” he said quietly to Joel. “We need to clean that.”
Joel nodded, “do it.” He said.
He turned away again, taking up position by the window, gun resting on the wall, eyes fixed on the dark outside like it’s was the only thing he knew how to face now.
And the night settled.
With you laying there, feverish and aching, listening to the man you married stand guard against the world, while leaving you alone with the wound he was too afraid to touch.
He didn’t know how to face you now, how to care about you because his soul had left his body with no return.
You hadn’t realized how quiet the room had become until Tommy’s hands stilled.
The motel hummed softly around you, some pipes ticked inside the walls, rain tapped weakly over the roof and against the window, but Joel hadn’t moved from his place by the glass in over an hour, his silhouette rigid and still. You thought he had finally fallen asleep sitting in there.
Tommy knelt beside the bed, jaw clenched, focused as he tended to your wound. It burned when he unwrapped the bandage, heat radiating from your skin it made his lips tightened in a line.
“You’re gonna hate this part,” he murmured.
You nodded weakly.
The pain loosened something in your chest. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way no one had said her name out loud since she died.
“I miss Sarah,” you whispered, voice trembling.
The words barely audible, but they made you free a feeling that had stuck inside your chest.
Tommy froze and behind him, Joel moved for the first time in an hour.
“What did you say?”
His voice broke the silence all of sudden, almost like a gunshot, making you flinch.
Joel turned towards you, eyes burning with anger and sadness, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump.
“Don’t say her name.”
Your breath stuttered. “Joel, I—”
“No,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t.”
Tommy rose quickly, placing himself between you both. “Hey—Joel—”
“She wasn’t yours,” Joel said, his voice rising now, raw and broken. “You weren’t her mother.”
The words hurt worse than the pain in your leg.
“You didn’t give birth to her,” he continued, twisting a knife inside you. “You don’t get to miss my daughter.”
Silence crashed down afterward, wrapping his hands around you.
You stared at him, tears blurring your vision. Your mouth opened to say something but nothing came out of it. You wanted to scream that you loved her, that you loved her still and that you would ever do so. You also wanted to say thar she had loved you. That she had called for you too, sometimes, when she was scared.
But you kept that for yourself as a secret that gave you the strength to keep going.
Because the look on Joel’s face broke you in a way nothing had ever before.
Tommy turned on him, shocked on how his brother could be treating you like this. “That’s enough,” he said. “She loved her. You know she did.”
Joel let out a short, bitter laugh, broken and empty. “But that love didn’t save her.”
Something inside you finally collapsed. Just a quiet collapse, like a door closing that would never open again.
Joel didn’t have anything else to blame on Sarah’s fate so he was punished the only good thing he got left.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You didn’t know who you were apologizing to.
Joel stared at you for a long moment. For a second, just one second, you saw it. The regret and horror all over the face of the man who used to reach for you without thinking.
But then it vanished, turning back to the window.
Tommy knelt beside you again, hands shaking as he finished wrapping the wound with a bandage around your leg, but he didn’t speak now. There was nothing left to say.
You laid your head back on the thin pillow, staring at the stained ceiling, listening to the rain begin again outside.
You didn’t cry anymore because there was nothing left of you, just raining talking for you.
And Joel sat back on the chair, guarding through the night, watching, angry and grieving, and utterly alone, having just severed the last place where love still tried to preserve.
The fever came faster than you expected, but quietly.
At first, it was only a chill that wouldn’t leave your body, even wrapped in the thin blankets. Your teeth chattered and your body trembled. Tommy noticed it after a while, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.
“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re burning up.”
You barely heard him. The room felt too bright and too dark all at once. The ceiling swam when you tried to focus on it, the stains shifting like clouds. Your thoughts slipped out of order, tangled in a mix of memories and nightmares.
Joel stayed by the window. He hadn’t turned around since the argument. His shoulders remained squared and rigid there.
She’s running a fever, Joel.” Tommy tried to lower his voice when he spoke. “
Joel’s jaw tightened.
“How bad?”
It was the first question he’d asked about you all night. The first in three days.
Tommy glanced at him. “Does that matter?”
Silence followed after that.
You moved weakly; a small sound escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Not a cry. Just a breath that broke wrong.
Joel heard it and he turned halfway this time, eyes flicking to you before snapping away again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Do we have got any antibiotics?” he asked.
Tommy shook his head. “Not since Austin.”
Joel swore under his breath.
The fever rose as the night dragged on. Sweat soaked your clothes, plastering them to your skin. Your thoughts began to slip further too, memories bleeding into one another. Sarah’s laugh, Joel’s hands on your waist in the kitchen, the sound of gunfire echoing too loud in your ears.
You started to mumble without realizing it.
“Joel,” you whispered softer as if you didn’t know he was really there.
Tommy leaned closer. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You tried but the room tilted and you were unfocused.
“She is burning up!” Tommy said urgently.
Joel crossed the room then, stopping short of the bed, like there was an invisible line he couldn’t cross. He looked down at you, at your flushed skin, your unfocused eyes, the way your body trembled.
The mask he was wearing cracked, fear slipped through.
“Hey,” he said, rough. “Hey, look at me.”
You stirred at the sound of his voice, eyelids fluttering. “Sarah?” you murmured, confused, reaching weakly for something that wasn’t there.
Joel recoiled as if he had gotten shot on the chest.
His breath hitched. He stepped back abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“She’s—” Tommy said softly, but couldn’t finish.
Joel nodded, sharply. “Keep her awake.”
But something pulled you under, dragging you through half-formed memories and broken thoughts. The room faded in and out, voices blurring, the rain outside sounding like applause for something ending.
A play.
At some point, you felt hands on you, careful touching all over your face. Someone was pressing a damp cloth to your forehead. Someone adjusting the blanket when you shivered.
And you didn’t even know it was Joel, but he didn’t dare to do it too long.
By morning, the sky outside had lightened into a dull gray. Your fever hadn’t broken. If anything, it burned hotter, your breathing shallow and uneven.
Tommy sat beside you, exhausted and scared. Joel stood near the door now, gun in hand, eyes hollow.
“She isn’t getting better,” Tommy said quietly. “Joel, she needs help.”
Joel stared at you.
“I know,” he said, looking at you.
The world outside hadn’t softened after a night like that. This world wasn’t forgiving anymore.
Cars sat abandoned with doors hanging open reminded Joel this was the fourth day ever since he kissed you, fourth day ever since he saw Sarah.
He dismissed those thoughts away; he couldn’t afford to think.
He broke into the first pharmacy he saw, smashing the window with the butt of his gun. Shelves were ransacked, bottles scattered across the floor. He tore through them, hands shaking, reading labels too fast, too angry at the world and himself.
But he didn’t find anything.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He moved on, aisle by aisle, behind the counter, ignoring his own pain flickering and burning in his lungs with all those distant sounds that warned him he wasn’t alone out there. Every second stretched tight with one thought only.
But you were dying and it would be his fault.
The place had started to reek of death, he kept moving, opening doors and behind there, bodies lay where they’d fallen. Joel swallowed, ignoring the view in front of him and kept moving, ripping open cabinets, sweeping supplies into his bag with reckless desperation, all of this was useful when his hands finally closed around a familiar bottle,
Amoxicillin.
Bingo.
He laughed, but in a broken sound.
“I got you,” he whispered, though you weren’t there to hear it.
But this place wasn’t empty and Joel realized it too late.
He’d just shoved a cabinet shut, antibiotics clutched tight in his hand, when a voice broke the eerie silence.
“Hey!”
Joel froze.
A man stepped out from behind the counter, wild-eyed, gun shaking in his grip. He looked young, too young, younger than him with blood streaked his sleeve.
“Drop it,” the man said, voice cracking. “Whatever you took. Drop it.”
Joel lifted his hands slowly, heart pounding against his ribs. He could feel it now, the fear, sharp and electric, crawling up his spine. This wasn’t an infected. This was just a guy, a human.
More dangerous.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Joel said, steady despite everything. “Just medical supplies.” He said, “for my wife.”
The man laughed, “Aren’t we all?”
He stepped closer.
Joel’s mind flashed before he could even think, with you on that motel bed, with your skin burning beneath his fingertips.
The man in front of him tightened his hold around the gun. His finger twitched.
“Back up,” the man warned.
But Joel didn’t and he moved before he fully understood what he was doing.
The gun fell off the guy’s hands. There was a shot and Joel slammed into the man, the force knocking them both to the ground.
They struggled, fighting and trying to finish each other desperate, clumsy. Joel felt fingers claw at his jacket, nails digging into skin. He smelled sweat and blood and fear.
Perhaps this man also had someone waiting for him.
“I don’t wanna die,” the man sobbed, voice breaking.
Neither did you.
Neither did he, didn’t he? He wanted to saved your life but he still didn’t know if life fitted his plans.
But still, Joel’s hands wrapped around the man’s throat.
It wasn’t something he had planned. It was survival instinct, panic and grief all tangling together in a moment. The man’s eyes went wide beneath him, he fought back weak at first, then frantic, but Joel pressed harder, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” Joel gasped. He didn’t know if he meant it.
Joel stayed there long after it was over, hands still locked in place, chest heaving. When he finally pulled back, his palms were shaking violently.
He opened his eyes and found the man’s eyes staring past him, empty.
Joel staggered to his feet, bile burning his throat. He bent over and retched, dry heaving until his body ached.
He stared at his hands.
They didn’t look different. That was the worst part. This was normal.
“I had to,” he whispered to the empty room. “I had to.”
He shoved the antibiotics into his bag with shaking fingers and fled, taking the guy’s gun in his hands.
By the time he reached the motel, his legs felt like noodles.
When he burst inside, breath ragged, eyes hollow, Tommy barely recognized him.
Joel didn’t explain where the blood came from. He just crossed the room, dropping into his knees beside you, and stayed there, too close now, terrified of distance.
When Tommy gave you the pills and you swallowed them weakly, Joel bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the edge of the bed.
His hands, those same hands, he had just killed someone, hovered over yours, praying to keep you alive.
Joel Miller had crossed a line he could never step back over and he would cross it again.
For you.
For survival.
For love twisted into permanent fear of grief.
A few hours later, your eyes opened to the sound of breathing.
Not your own raged breath.
It took you a lot to separate the world into shapes. The room swam in and out of focus, edges blurred and doubled. The light hurt. Everything hurt.
But Joel was there this time.
He lying beside you, his back facing you, face pressed against the mattress like he was holding it together by force alone. His shoulders rose and fell unevenly, breath dragged too shallow for sleep.
But he was close.
“Joel” Your voice came out broken and shaky.
He flinched at the sound.
His head lifted so fast it was almost violent as him “Hey,” he said, reaching for your face, but then stopping himself. “You’re awake.”
You blinked, trying to focus on his face. He looked different and older somehow. Like something inside him had shifted out of place and never gone back.
“It hurts,” you whispered.
“I know.” His voice cracked immediately. He swallowed hard. “I know, baby.”
But the nickname hit you like ice water, it angered you.
“Don’t,” you rasped.
Joel froze.
“Don’t call me that,” you said, breath shallow, anger trembling beneath the weakness in your bones.
His mouth opened, then closed. The color drained from his face.
Was he losing you too?
“I—” He shook his head once, rough. “I wasn’t—”
“You were going to let me die,” you whispered, eyes burning now, fixed on him. “You looked at me bleeding and you walked away. You didn’t ask if I was okay. You didn’t care if I lived.”
“That’s not true.” said quickly, desperation bleeding into his voice.
Silence felt heavy between you, you didn’t have the strength to face him, to talk to him. All felt numb.
Joel dragged a hand down his face, fingers trembling. “I don’t know how to look at you,” he admitted, voice broken. “Every time I do, I see her. I see her dying. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t lose you too.”
Tears slid from the corners of your eyes. “You already are,” you whispered.
His breath hitched so hard it sounded painful.
“When I get better,” you said, the words thin but clear, “I’m gonna leave.”
Joel’s body went still.
You didn’t look at him when you said it. You turned your gaze past him instead, to where Tommy stood near the door, quiet and exhausted, eyes flicking between the two of you.
Tommy’s expression tightened. “Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to make choice now.”
“I do,” you whispered. “Because if I don’t say it now, I won’t later.”
Joel shook his head slowly, like his body was rejecting your words. “You don’t mean that.”
You looked at him, then. “I do,” you said. “I can’t stay with someone who looks at me like I’m cargo.”
Joel opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked smaller somehow, folded inward by grief and guilt, you didn’t have words to say.
“I wasn’t gonna let you die,” he said, quieter now. “I swear to you.”
“You didn’t stop it,” you replied. “And that’s the same thing.”
Your chest ached with every breath. The fever pulled at the edges of your vision, but you forced yourself to stand still, to finish this while you still could.
“I lost her too,” you said. “Maybe not the same way. Maybe not in a way that lets me scream as loud as you do. But I loved her. I was her mother because she chose me and you took that from me the moment you decided I didn’t get to grieve.”
Joel’s eyes glistened. He looked away; jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
“I don’t know how to be who you need right now,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said.
That was the worst part.
Silence filled the room again, thick and unmoving. Outside, the wind rattled the window, distant and hollow.
Tommy cleared his throat quietly. “You need rest,” he said, to you, but his eyes stayed on Joel. “She needs rest.”
You nodded weakly. The strength it had taken to say all that drained out of you at once. Your eyelids grew heavy, the world blurring again.
As you slipped back toward sleep, you felt Joel’s hand brush yours, hesitant. He was afraid of closing his eyes know, to slept ha darkness disguised as lullaby took you away from him.
You didn’t pull his hand away, but you didn’t hold on either.
After a while, Joel stood and sit on his knees beside the bed, back hunched, elbows resting on the cover like if he stood up, he’d lose you anyway. His eyes never left your face. Not even when his own burned.
“She meant it,” Tommy said quietly.
Joel swallowed. “I know.”
The room smelled faintly of antibiotics now. The rain came and go, leaving another night caught you. Joel reached out then, to your face and brushed his knuckles against your cheek.
You didn’t wake at his touch.
“I killed a man today,” he said suddenly.
Tommy stiffened.
“For the medicine,” Joel went on, voice flat. “He was scared. So was I.” He shook his head once. “I didn’t think. I just did it.”
Tommy didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was careful. “You did what you had to.”
Joel laughed softly, without humor. “That’s what scares me.”
He closed his eyes, forehead dropping to the edge of the bed again. His hand slid into yours this time, fingers curling like he needed the contact to keep himself alive.
“I don’t want her to wake up afraid of me” he whispered. “But I don’t know how to be anything else anymore.”
And then silence took over again, at some point of the night, the fever that held you began to loosen its grip. Not enough to set you free still, but enough that your breathing deepened, and your face didn’t clench in pain. Tommy noticed first.
He was there before Joel these days.
“She’s not shivering as much as yesterday,” he said, hope threading cautiously into his voice.
Joel looked up instantly. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Still hot, but better.”
Joel exhaled, the sound broken, like air escaping a wound. He squeezed your hand once, kissing your temple.
Of course, he loved you, but right now he didn’t know how to do it anymore.
Two days later, the fever let you free.
You had slept better and for more hours, you breath had steadied, your skin didn’t burn, and you wound was finally healing properly. You were still weak, but if it hadn’t been for Tommy, you would probably be death by now.
And know, you couldn’t even look at Joel. That hurt worse than the silence that had settled before.
But you couldn’t forget the way he had treated you and the words he had said to you. It felt numb.
You had no family now.
By the seventh morning, supplies were running low.
Tommy stood near the window, checking the street below for the third time. “We gotta go,” he said quietly. “We need food, water and medicine.”
Joel glanced at you. You were awake, staring at the ceiling, eyes tracking nothing. When he walked closer, you didn’t react to him.
“We’ll be back quick,” Tommy added. “Hour. Two at most.”
Joel hesitated. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll lock the door,” Tommy said. “She can barely stand, Joel.”
Joel knelt beside the bed. “We’ll be right back,” he said, carefully, like each word might break something in you. “Don’t move. Please.”
You didn’t answer. He waited anyway.
He hated it that you seemed death, that despite breathing, you were just a ghost.
Guilt coiled in his chest, but he pushed it down. He couldn’t allow listening to fear right now. Fear had already cost him too much.
So, Tommy and Joel locked the door behind them and after seven days, a whole week since the world had ended, the streets outside felt quiet in that way that never meant safe.
They moved fast, hit a convenience store, then a gas station farther down the road. Tommy found canned food. Joel found bandages, water, painkillers. He kept checking his watch like it could bend time if he stared hard enough.
But his watch had stopped, at the same exact hour Sarah had died, a sob came crushing it.
They were gone long than planned and he was having a panic attack. Tommy didn’t know what to do besides hugging his brother, somehow to show him he was still alive, still there and the he would never be alone.
And when they finally came back, Joel felt something tugging in his chest, like a string pulling a nerve.
“The door still locked, so she is okay” Tommy said, trying to sound reassuring as he unlocked it.
When they opened the door, stepping inside the room. The bed was empty.
The same blanket that had been covering your body was folded by the end of the bed, neatly, like you hadn’t wanted to leave a mess, your jacket was gone, so it was the gun Joel had left for you.
Joel dropped the bag.
“—No,” he said, the word tearing out of him in a broken sob.
He crossed the room in seconds, going to check in the bathroom, the closet, like you might be hiding, like this was some cruel misunderstanding on his side.
“She can’t—” His voice broke completely. “She can’t walk.”
Tommy stood frozen in the doorway, eyes scanning the room by himself. “Joel…”
On the nightstand sat a single piece of paper, folded in half. Joel hadn’t noticed it at first. His hands were shaking too badly.
Tommy picked it up slowly. “She left this.”
Joel snatched it from him. There was no long goodbye.
Just a few words written in a way it seemed like your hand had trembled the whole time.
I’m sorry I can’t do this with you.
Joel stared at the paper until the words blurred.
“No,” he whispered. “No—no—”
He crushed it in his fist, breath coming sharp and panicked. “She’s hurt. She’s sick. She can’t just—”
“She did,” Tommy said gently, voice breaking by the end “You pushed her away she must be hurt.”
The silence that followed was different than before, it completely broke Joel, who sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the place where you had been. The faint impression of your body was already gone, sheets cooling, forgetting you faster than he ever could.
Because he could never forget you. Not even after death itself.
Somewhere out there, you were walking, injured and alone, and you were keeping your promise.
And Joel, who had crossed every line to keep you alive, finally understood the punishment for surviving
You didn’t stay after all; this world had also taken you away from him.
Joel didn’t notice it at first, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, breathing in shallow breaths, staring at nothing while Tommy walked quietly around the room, checking the window, the bathroom again, anything to delay saying the words neither of them wanted to hear.
Then Joel’s eyes dropped to the nightstand.
There was a small circle of gold.
Your wedding ring.
For a second, his mind refused to understand what he was seeing. Like if he looked long enough, it would turn into something else. A coin. A button.
Anything but the same ring he had slid on your finger just one year ago.
He reached for it with trembling fingers, throat closed.
The band felt still warm and he let out a sob. He pressed the ring into his palm, closing his fist around it like he could crush the cruel reality.
“Why did you do this,” he whispered, voice barely there.
After a fight, he always reached for you, he had always showered you in love to show how much sorry he was, because in a world like the one that still existed seven days ago, you were there, he could reach for you.
But know.
Now, he didn’t even know where to follow you.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Joel…”
Joel laughed bitterly, broken. “She didn’t take it with her,” he said, like he needed to hear it out loud to punish himself “She left it behind.”
He looked back at the bed, at the folded blanket, the empty space where you had been fighting to stay alive just days ago.
“She meant it,” he said again.
Tommy leaned against the wall; eyes heavy with exhaustion, “Do you wanna go after her?”
Joel’s grip tightened around the ring. For a moment, hope flared. He could still find you, to follow the path and still fix it. Still drag you back before the world finished tearing you both apart forever.
“No,” he said.
The word hurt more than anything he’d said since Sarah died.
Tommy looked at him, surprised. “Joel—”
“She doesn’t want me to follow her.” Joel said, voice low, steady in a way it hadn’t been in days.
He slipped the ring onto his jeans’ pocket, and his hand lingered on there as if he could feel you.
As a reminder that you were part of his life.
Tommy swallowed, breath stuttering, “What now then?”
Joel stood slowly, rolling his shoulders back like he was putting armor on.
“Now we survive, that’s all. I guess.” he said.
He cast one look through the window, outside the sky was gray again.
Not purple anymore.
Just empty as his heart felt now.
Tommy and Joel chose to spent the night in here again. Neither of them said it out loud, but the truth hung heavy in the room: it was already too late, and neither of them had the strength to keep moving yet. The motel felt safer at night, doors locked.
It almost felt familiar at this point.
So, they stayed. Tommy pushed a dresser against the door again. Joel checked the window again, then again, like he didn’t trust his own eyes, and when the night finally fell, they sat in silence because there was nothing else to say.
Joel lay on the bed you’d left behind, but he didn’t sleep.
Tommy had insisted that after days of keeping the watch, he should rest, especially tonight.
But every sound outside made his body stiff. Every creak of the building caught his attention. His hand rested on his jeans pocket, fingertips pressing unconsciously around the shape of the ring. He took it off his pocket, pressing it right to his chest.
Tommy noticed it, the way his brother was breaking.
And sometime after midnight, rain began falling again, Joel stared at the ceiling, eyes burning and wondering where you could be now.
But then, three quick knocks on the door made Joel stand on his feet instantly, gun in hand, breath held.
“Did you hear that?” Tommy whispered.
Before Joel could answer, the knock came again
“Joel!” someone whispered outside.
He froze at the sound of his name. For one second, he thought it was his mind breaking. That grief had finally hollowed him out enough to make him hear things that weren’t there.
“Joel, please, open the door!” Your begged. Voice breaking, hoarse and strained but it was there just behind the door.
Joel crossed the room in two big steps, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the gun. He yanked the dresser back just enough to unlock the door, he knew he must be careful but you were outside.
When he opened the door, you were standing there, soaking with your hair plastered to your face, breath ragged. You leaned on the frame, one hand clutching your side.
Your eyes found his and something inside them was hopeful.
“I tried,” you whispered. “I really tried.”
But Joel didn’t let you finish. He pulled you inside, arms wrapping around you so fast it stole the air from both of you. He held you tight, you might vanish if he loosened his grip even for a flicker.
“I thought—” His voice cracked, “I thought you were gone for real.”
You leaned on him, forehead pressing into his shoulder. “I got dizzy,” you murmured. “I couldn’t walk anymore. I didn’t know where else to go without you.”
Joel cupped the back of your head, fingers combing your wet hair, smiling at himself because you were here.
Tommy shut the door behind you both, stunned silence written all over his face, but he still placed the dresser on the door again.
Joel pulled back just enough to look at you. Your lips were purple, your skin felt cold.
“You shouldn’t have left,” he said hoarsely.
“You shouldn’t have let me go,” you replied.
Both words were true, but Joel didn’t care, he exhaled shakily, resting his forehead on yours. “You aren’t going anywhere again, he said, almost crying. “Not ever again without me knowing.”
You didn’t answer, you leaned your head on his knee again, crying out loud, all the grief catching and finally being able to let it out.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice shaking “It’s alright. I got you, baby. I got you.”
Tommy turned away, giving you privacy. He pretended to check the window again, jaw tight, eyes burning at the sight.
Joel’s other hand came to your back, feeling how weak you’d gotten in the last seven days, how you trembled from cold and exhaustion.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
Your cries softened into hitching breaths; your body trembled wrapped in his arms. You clutched at his shirt now, pressing your face into his chest, tears and water soaking his t-shirt but Joel didn’t care, he held you tighter, chin resting on the crown of your head.
“I swear I’m not leaving again,” he said again, not sure if he was convincing you or himself. “I swear it.”
Outside, the rain kept falling, but inside, grief had finally found somewhere to settled.
For the first time since Sarah died, Joel didn’t push the pain away; he held it, holding you.
series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter
Lesson 10
Summary: Everything is out in the open; pain, grief, regret, and guilt. You find yourself at a difficult threshold, where both of you must be strong… and begin the journey of healing each other.
Warnings and WC: 14.5k. 🫣 heavy angst, blood, violence, emotional/psychological trauma, grief and loss, past sexual assault/attempted rape, injury, crying, family abuse/parental issues, emotional distress/anxiety/panic, alcohol use, very heartbreaking confessions, graphic violence references, angst, hurt/comfort, romance, slow burn, family drama, emotional healing, trauma, winter/snow), fluff, cliffhanger ending, ⚠️ Content Note: Mature themes / 18+, To avoid spoilers, I’ll add the other warnings at the end... OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Harry's EA (Executive Assistant))
authors note: Yes, the chapter you’ve all been waiting for is finally here, I’ve never cried this much while writing anything before. It’s a very heavy, heartbreaking chapter, so please read carefully. Sorry in advance... but there’s a little surprise waiting for you at the end 🥹
Pain is Shared, Not Borne Alone
The door didn’t open — it gave under his boot.
Wood cracked, the lock snapping as Harry kicked it in, the force of it shuddering up his leg. Snow and wind surged after him, but he twisted his body instinctively, turning his back to the storm, shielding you from it like letting go wasn’t an option he was willing to consider.
He had you wrapped in his coat — his arms tight, desperate — the fabric pulled up around your shoulders, your face, your hands. Snow soaked straight through his sweater instead, melting into the wool, into his skin, but he didn’t react. Didn’t notice. The cold could take him for all he cared.
All that mattered was you.
“Baby—please,” he muttered hoarsely, voice splintering as he staggered inside. “Please don’t do this to me.”
His footing was uneven, breath ragged, panic burning through him as he kicked the ruined door shut behind him. The wind howled once — then silence.
Too quiet.
He crossed the room in broken strides, boots thudding against the floor, and lowered you onto the couch closest to the fireplace, hands shaking as he eased you down. Not gentle — careful. Like he was afraid you might shatter if he was.
Your body barely reacted.
Your hands. Your face.
Still ice-cold.
Harry swallowed hard.
What do I do—what do I do—
No.
Don’t panic.
Think. Remember. You’ve done this before.
Years ago.
First aid training. Mandatory. Tedious. Half-forgotten lectures he’d barely paid attention to. He’d never imagined needing any of it like this. Not with you. Not here.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, forcing the word past the knot in his throat as his hands started moving despite the tremor in them. “Okay. Core first. Chest. Abdomen. Slow. No sudden heat.”
He crouched in front of you, fingers brushing your neck, searching—counting.
There.
A pulse.
Weak, uneven—but there.
Relief slammed into his chest so hard it stole his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, steadying himself.
Too low.
“Shit,” he breathed. “Okay. Still okay. Stay with me.”
He turned you gently onto your side, one arm braced behind your back, careful with every movement.
“Aspiration risk,” he murmured, the words tumbling out half English, half muscle memory. “Side position. Just in case.”
Your lips parted slightly. A faint sound slipped out—more breath than voice.
Harry’s chest tightened.
“I know,” he whispered, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers. “I know you’re cold. I’m here.”
He layered blankets over you—one, two, three—focused only on your torso. Your back. Your stomach.
Not your arms yet.
Not your legs.
Core first.
His hands hovered for a second before he pulled his phone from his pocket.
Eloise’s nurse.
Of course.
He didn’t hesitate.
The line rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” a calm female voice answered—the same one he’d spoken to a dozen times before during Eloise’s night shifts and blood pressure scares.
“I’m sorry—” Harry rushed in immediately, words uneven. “I’m so sorry to call this late. This is Harry. I—I have someone here. H-hypothermia. I couldn’t get her to a clinic. There’s a storm.”
No panic on the other end. Just focus.
“Okay,” the nurse said firmly. “Harry, listen to me. Is she conscious?”
“Barely. She’s responding, but—slow. Her hands and face are freezing.”
“Is she shivering?”
“She was. It’s slowing down.” Harry swallowed hard.
“All right. You did the right thing bringing her inside,” she continued. “Keep her on her side. Warm her gradually—chest and abdomen first. No hot shower. No alcohol. And don’t let her lose responsiveness. Keep monitoring her.”
“I will,” Harry said instantly. “I won’t let her.”
“Do you have a way to check her vitals?”
His eyes flicked toward the hallway closet.
The digital blood pressure monitor. He’d used something similar countless times before, when measuring Eloise’s blood pressure. "Yes," he said. "I do."
“Good. Check her pulse and blood pressure every thirty minutes. Call back if her responsiveness drops or her pulse weakens further.”
He repeated every instruction back to her like a mantra, committing them to memory. Only when she was satisfied did he end the call.
The room fell quiet again.
Just the crackle of the fire.
And your shallow breaths.
Harry dropped to the floor beside the couch, close enough that his knee touched the edge. He pulled it nearer with one hand, refusing to put any space between you, then wrapped his hands around yours despite the cold biting into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, pressing your fingers between his palms, trying to give you what warmth he could. “I’m right here.”
His thumb brushed your knuckles. Your hair. Your temple.
The tears came before he noticed them.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, forehead dropping to your hair as he kissed the top of your head again and again. “Please forgive me. Please don’t leave me.”
While he waited, his mind betrayed him.
Images flooding in uninvited.
How strong you’d been.
How quiet about it.
How you’d walked back into his life smiling—showing up to work, standing tall, pretending everything was fine.
And the things he’d said.
The cruel ones.
The careless ones.
His heart clenched violently, like something inside him cracked apart. Like regret had hands now, tightening around his chest.
Every thirty minutes, he forced himself to move.
Blood pressure cuff.
Pulse.
Numbers too low, but steady.
Again.
And again.
He leaned his head against the couch, nose brushing your hair, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your breathing.
Don’t sleep, he warned himself fiercely. Not until she opens her eyes.
His own eyelids burned with exhaustion, but he forced them open every time they fluttered.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Just a little longer.”
Hours blurred.
And then—
Movement.
Small. Fragile.
A shiver.
You stirred beneath the blankets, a faint sound leaving your throat as you shifted.
Harry’s head snapped up.
“Hey,” he breathed, hands coming up to cradle your face. “Baby. Look at me. Are you okay?”
Your eyes fluttered open—unfocused at first. Then you frowned.
A good sign.
Relief hit him so hard he let out a broken laugh as he pressed kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheek.
“Oh thank God,” he whispered. “You scared the hell out of me.”
You tried to move, groaning softly, the weight of the blankets making it feel like you were trapped.
“What—” you muttered hoarsely. “Wasn’t it enough that your words hurt me, or are you trying to suffocate me with blankets now?”
A shaky huff left him—almost a laugh.
“You were freezing,” he said quickly. “Careful—don’t move too fast.”
Fragments rushed back to you—the car, the snow, the endless cold. You hugged yourself instinctively, a sharp ache blooming behind your eyes.
You pushed upright anyway—and nearly collapsed.
Harry caught you instantly.
“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Please.”
“Don’t touch me,” you snapped weakly, still shivering as you pulled away.
He froze.
Morning light filtered through the window now. The storm had softened—snow still falling, but slower. Pines and hills finally visible again through the white.
You were still trembling.
“I'll make you something warm,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Please. Sit. Rest.”
You turned on him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.
“Oh,” you said bitterly. “So now you care?”
The words cut deep.
He flinched—pain flashing openly across his face.
Without another word, he turned and went to the kitchen.
As he moved, your gaze drifted back to the couch. The blankets. The warmth. The undeniable proof that he’d saved you—despite everything.
Harry stood in the kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, hands braced against the counter as he forced his breathing to slow.
Coffee.
No.
Alcohol.
Absolutely not.
The words surfaced unbidden — first aid training, again. Avoid stimulants. Avoid vasodilation.
He closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself.
Hot chocolate.
Warm.
Sweet.
Safe.
He filled a small pot with milk and set it over low heat — deliberately low. No boiling. No rushing. He stirred slowly, watching thin curls of steam rise as the cocoa melted in, the scent soft and sweet in the quiet house.
“I know you’re angry,” he said quietly, more to the room than to you. “You can yell at me later. Right now you need to warm up.”
He carried the mug back with care, crossed the room, and draped a blanket over your shoulders before you could protest — tucking it in around you like he’d done a hundred times before.
Then he sat down beside you.
Close.
Not touching more than necessary.
The mug hovered in his hands for a second before he offered it to you, like it was something fragile.
“Small sips,” he murmured.
The ceramic was warm against your palms — not hot, just enough to sink into your skin. You hesitated for a second, then lifted it to your lips.
The first sip was tentative.
Chocolate. Milk. A gentle sweetness.
You swallowed — and felt it travel downward, warmth spreading through your chest, your stomach. You exhaled without realizing you’d been holding your breath.
Another sip.
Your fingers loosened slightly around the mug.
The shaking eased — not gone, but softer now. Manageable. Like your body was remembering how to be warm again.
Harry stayed where he was, watching you intently, like any sudden movement might break the moment.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once, then took another slow sip.
It helped.
More than you wanted to admit.
By the time the mug was half empty, the fog in your head had thinned. Sensation returned in little pieces — your hands, your feet, the weight of the blankets around you.
Your breathing steadied.
Harry let out a breath of his own, shoulders sagging just a fraction.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re doing great.”
You leaned back against the couch, still sipping, letting the warmth replace the ache bit by bit — and for the first time since the snow, since the car, since the endless cold —you didn’t feel like you were disappearing anymore.
“Do you want another one?” Harry asked quietly after a moment. “I can make more.”
You shook your head slightly. “No… thank you,” you murmured, voice still rough.
You took one last sip, then set the mug down and stood. The movement felt easier now. Steadier. Heat rushed through you all at once, almost too much — like your body had finally caught up, like warmth was overtaking everything at once.
Too warm, even.
You walked toward the windows, the tall glass panes stretching from floor to ceiling. Outside, the storm had broken completely. Snow lay heavy and untouched across the hills, pine trees standing sharp and clear against a pale sky.
Behind you, Harry set the mug down on the counter. You could feel his eyes on you — slow, careful — but he didn’t say anything.
The silence stretched.
You mistook it.
To you, it felt like restraint. Distance. Like he was still angry. Still holding something back.
You didn’t see the way his jaw tightened.
The way he couldn’t quite look at you.
Not because he was angry.
Because only hours ago, he’d been holding you in his arms, convinced you were slipping away. Because he hadn’t put himself back together yet. Because if he spoke now, his voice might give him away.
You drew in a slow breath, shoulders stiffening.
“Well,” you said finally, not turning around. “Looks like the storm’s passed.”
Harry looked up.
And something in his expression cracked.
“Look… if you can drop me in town, I can figure it out from there,” you said, eyes fixed on the window like it could save you. “I’m not exactly dying to stay here. And you said you needed time—so I don’t want to—”
You didn’t finish the sentence.
Because suddenly—
Harry was behind you.
His arms wrapped around you so fast, so tight, it stole the breath from your lungs. He pulled you against him like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip even a fraction.
Your cheek pressed into his chest.
You could feel his heart.
It wasn’t calm.
It was frantic—hammering like it didn’t know how to survive this either.
“Harry,” you breathed, startled, hands hovering awkwardly in the air for a second as your body tried to catch up to what was happening.
His mouth found the top of your head—one kiss, then another, then another—each one desperate, clumsy, like he was trying to stitch you back into the world with nothing but his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words. “I’m so sorry, baby. Please—please forgive me.”
You froze.
Because his voice didn’t sound like guilt.
It sounded like fear.
And when you turned in his arms, when you finally looked up at him—
you saw the tears.
Not a few.
Not something he could hide with a blink.
They were pouring down his face, relentless, catching in his lashes, slipping over his cheekbones and into the corners of his mouth as if he couldn’t even breathe without tasting them.
For a second you honestly didn’t know what to do with it.
It was too much.
“Harry…” you whispered, your own throat tightening. “Hey. Hey—don’t… don’t cry.”
You forced a faint smile—something small, something meant to lighten the air.
“I’m fine,” you said, gentle but firm. “I was cold. I was terrified, yes. But I didn’t—” you swallowed, trying to make it sound almost like a joke, “—I didn’t die.”
The smile lasted one second.
Because Harry didn’t smile back.
He didn’t even look at you.
He kept staring somewhere past your shoulder like he couldn’t stand to see your face. Like your eyes were too heavy to carry.
Your heart pinched.
“Hey,” you said again, softer now. “Why are you crying like this?”
You tried to tease it into something lighter—into something you could both survive.
“Yes, you were an idiot,” you murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “And yes, you were cruel. But you can’t just cry your way into forgiveness, you know. You’re going to have to—” you huffed, attempting a shaky little laugh, “—try a little harder than that.”
You waited.
For his lips to twitch like they used to.
For that familiar corner of his mouth to lift.
For his eyes to soften.
Nothing.
He only cried harder.
And that was the moment something in you shifted.
Because men like Harry didn’t fall apart like this over a bad argument.
They didn’t cry like children just because they felt guilty.
This wasn’t guilt.
This was something else...
A cold warning went down your spine.
You stopped speaking.
Harry dragged in a breath through his nose, sharp and wet, trying to pull himself together. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand like he was angry at the tears for daring to exist—like he was furious at his own weakness.
Then he looked at you.
Not fully.
Not the way he used to.
His gaze kept dropping, flicking away, like meeting your eyes might be the thing that finally breaks him.
You lifted your hand anyway.
Slowly.
A careful gesture—offering comfort even while you were still bruised from him.
Your fingers hovered near his cheek.
And right before you touched him—
his lips moved.
“W-We…” he tried.
The word caught.
His mouth trembled. His throat worked like he was swallowing something too big to fit inside him.
He shook his head once, like he could physically shake the sentence into place.
“We…” he whispered again, and the sound of it was awful—thin and cracked and terrified.
He inhaled, shaky. Exhaled, shakier.
Then he forced himself to look straight at you.
And you felt it—your body reacting before your mind did, like instinct had been screaming at you for a reason.
“Did we…” His voice collapsed. “Did we lose our baby?”
The last word barely made it out.
It wasn’t even a question.
It was a prayer that had already been answered.
It hit you like a slap.
No—like something heavier.
Like the floor dropping out from under you.
Your hand flew to your mouth, not graceful, not pretty—pure reflex, as if you could stop the sound trying to tear out of you by physically holding it in.
But you couldn’t.
A sob burst free anyway—raw and ugly and unstoppable.
The second it escaped, it unlocked everything.
All the years you’d buried.
All the nights you’d survived.
All the silence you’d carried like a second spine.
Your entire body began to shake.
Not from the cold this time.
From the memory of it.
Harry moved before you could even crumble—arms wrapping around you again, tighter now, protective and desperate, like he was trying to hold you together with sheer force.
“It’s okay,” he choked, even though it wasn’t. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You couldn’t breathe.
You tried to inhale and it turned into another sob.
Your knees buckled like your body had finally decided it couldn’t pretend to be strong anymore.
Harry followed you down without letting go.
You sank together onto the floor—wood beneath your knees, hard and unforgiving, the kind of pain you wouldn’t even remember later because your chest was doing all the breaking for you.
You clutched at him, fingers twisting into his shirt, gripping him like an anchor even while you hated him for not being there when it happened.
You cried into him until his sweater went damp and heavy—until your throat burned, until your head ached, until your lungs felt too small.
Harry wasn’t crying anymore.
Not like before.
Now he was quiet—terrifyingly quiet—because all of him had gone into you.
His hands in your hair.
His palm smoothing down your back in slow, steady strokes.
His mouth pressing kiss after kiss into your temple, your forehead, the crown of your head—each one trembling like he couldn’t stop himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your hair, over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t ask what happened.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t demand details like he had any right to them.
He just held you.
And in the way he held you—like time didn’t matter, he would still stay right here on the floor with you…
He would wait. However long it took. Even if it destroyed him. Even if you never forgave him.
He would still wait.
For a long while, neither of you moved.
Snowflakes drifted lazily against the windows, tapping soft and slow against the glass. The fire murmured behind you, steady and alive, filling the room with warmth and a sound that almost felt like breathing.
You stayed there on the floor, curled into Harry’s chest, crying until time lost all meaning.
He didn’t shift.
Didn’t speak.
He just held you.
Your sobs came hard at first—ragged, sharp—but little by little they softened, until they turned into quiet, shaking breaths.
Somewhere in the middle of it, something shifted.
It wasn’t that the pain was new—it had always been there. But this was different.
For the first time, you weren’t forcing it down, weren’t folding it neatly away and pretending it hadn’t split you open. You were letting it exist. Letting it take space.
And somehow, that hurt and relieved you.
Like something lodged deep in your chest was finally loosening—burning on the way out, yes—but finally moving. Finally breathing.
When you stirred, shifting slightly in his arms, Harry reacted immediately—not pulling away, not tightening his hold. Just lifting his head, looking down at you with quiet attention.
His eyes were red. Wet.
He’d been crying too.
You swallowed, throat raw, like you were trying to reclaim your voice from somewhere far away.
“H-Harry,” you started. Your voice cracked, so you stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “How much… how much do you know?” You hesitated. Then, quieter—almost afraid of the answer: “Did you… did you find out everything?”
Something changed in his face.
Not shock.
Not anger.
Pain. Mixed with something heavier. His jaw tightened, brows drawing together as if holding himself together took effort. He nodded once.
Both of you looked away at the same time.
“How much do you know?” you asked again, not looking at him.
“I don’t know who did it,” Harry said. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “If you’re not ready to tell me—”
You looked up at him. “No,” you said softly. “I can tell you. I… I want to. I was going to. I just—” You faltered. “But how did you find out? Or did you—?”
He didn’t let you finish. Harry gently took your hands and helped you up. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s sit on the couch.”
You wiped your faces, the both of you, and moved together to the couch. You sat side by side, knees almost touching. When you looked at each other now, there was nowhere left to hide.
Harry cleared his throat.
“I… I couldn’t stop thinking after the divorce,” he began, eyes fixed on your hands instead of your face. “Something always felt wrong. Like something was missing. Or twisted." You listened without interrupting.
“What you said that day on the courthouse steps, hurt,” he continued, swallowing hard. “But I couldn’t accept it. Not really. I kept replaying Switzerland. Over and over.” He paused, breathing carefully. “When my mom got a little better… when the company stabilized and I finally had space to think,” he went on, voice low, “I realized how obvious the absence was. You. It felt like... It was like... Something had been ripped out of my life. And it hadn’t been my choice.” He let out a small, bitter smile. “I tried to move on. I really did. But you were everywhere. In everything. It was a brutal year.”
His voice softened. “I see now it was worse for you. I blamed you back then. I tied your leaving to Switzerland. I thought it was all connected.”
He looked up at you then, nervous suddenly, hands tightening around yours. “So I hired a private investigator,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what else to do. You’d left New York. I didn’t have the courage to call you. I just… needed something. Anything.”
He shook his head. “I never imagined this. Please don’t hate me. Or hate me—if that helps. I just… I wish I’d known sooner.”
You reached up, touching his cheek gently.
“Harry,” you said quietly. “Investigating me wasn’t right. But you weren’t entirely wrong either.” You took a breath, steadying yourself. “Even if you had tried to reach me… I wasn’t in a place where I could talk. The shock. The trauma. Leaving you. None of it was something I could heal from quickly.” Your voice softened. “I needed time. A lot of it. Just to survive — before I could even begin to explain." He nodded. "So… the detective you hired. He learned I was in the hospital. What else?” The question was soft. Almost careful. “What else did you find out?”
He hesitated. “The detective said—” He stopped himself, struggling to find the right words about the file he had read and the pictures he'd seen “He said you may have been assaulted.”
His voice broke.
You held yourself together, jaw tight, gaze drifting away. You’d prepared for this moment—but it still hurt. Tears welled again, surprising you after everything you’d already cried that much.
Harry cupped your face carefully in his hands. “Who could do this?” he pleaded. “Who could hurt you? Who made us lose our baby?” His breath hitched. “Please tell me. I can’t think anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I need to know. I’m terrified—but I need to know.” His forehead touched yours. “If you still have the strength… please tell me.”
You nodded slowly.
“I will,” you said. “I was already preparing myself to tell you. Just… not like this.”
You dragged your hands down your face, grounding yourself, then took his hand in yours, looked at your intertwined fingers.
You took a deep breath.
“Um,” you said carefully. “I never thought I’d say his name again, but… do you remember Ilan?”
Harry stiffened. His brows furrowed instantly. He remembered. “The photographer?” he asked quietly.
You closed your eyes. The name. The word. Both cut deeper than you expected.
You nodded once.
“Yes,” you said. “Him.”
And with that, the door you’d rehearsed opening in your mind for years finally creaked open—for real this time.
January, 2020.
Two months before Eduardo left.
That evening, you were upstairs in your room, phone pressed to your ear, half-laughing as you talked to Emily about nothing and everything at once. You were sprawled across the bed, one leg hooked over a pillow.
Downstairs, the penthouse door opened.
“Ma’am,” Yuliana’s voice carried up the stairs, warm and familiar. “Mr. Castillo is home.”
You smiled instinctively and ended the call. “I’ll call you later,” you said, already moving. You stepped out of your bedroom and started down the stairs just as Harry came into view below.
He looked exhausted.
His jacket was already off, tossed somewhere unseen. He loosened his tie as he walked, fingers yanking it free with a sharp, irritated motion before he dragged a hand through his hair. “Baby?” he called up, glancing toward the staircase. His face softened the moment he saw you.
“You’re home!” you breathed, already crossing the space between you.
A tired smile curved his lips despite everything weighing on him. “Hey, baby,” he said.
You reached the bottom step just in time for him to pull you into his arms. He kissed you quickly—forehead, cheek, lips—holding on a second longer than usual. “At least when I come home, you’re here,” he murmured against your hair. “Otherwise the company would be completely unbearable.” He dropped onto the couch with a groan, spreading his arms out like he’d surrendered to gravity.
You sat beside him, turning slightly toward him. “Your dad again?”
He let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t even get me started. One day he’s going to run that company into the ground. I’m so tired, baby. Truly.”
You studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “So… you’re finally coming around to my idea?”
He glanced at you. “I am,” he admitted. “Today made that painfully clear. I just—” He hesitated. “I don’t know if I have the guts yet. If I’m being honest.”
You reached for his hand, squeezing it. “You do,” you said calmly. “You’re smart. Strategic. You know exactly what you’re doing—your father just refuses to see it.”
He watched you closely.
“And,” you added, voice lighter now, “you won’t be doing it alone. I’m right here. So buckle up.” You grinned. “Guess who’s officially starting her dream job as of tomorrow?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me—”
“Yes!” you laughed. “I’m meeting with the company I told you about. Fashion editorial. And—I found my photographer.”
His expression sharpened with interest. “Oh?”
“Remember that guy I mentioned? The one from Nina’s party? Big name in the elite circles—eighty thousand followers on Instagram?” You hesitated, then smiled. “Ilan. I talked to him. He was really nice. We’re meeting.”
Harry’s face broke into a proud smile. He stood and pulled you into his arms again. “That’s incredible,” he said. “I’m so proud of you.”
You hugged him back tightly. “Thank you. I’m terrified,” you admitted. “But it feels right. I’m finally stepping out from under my mother’s control. I’m leaving Queen Financial and building something that’s mine.”
Something shifted in his expression then—resolve settling in.
“You know what?” he said slowly. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll start taking this company idea seriously too. I’ll talk to the right people. Set things in motion.”
You laughed and kissed his cheek. “That’s my husband.” Then, almost shyly, you pulled back. “I have one more thing,” you said. “I already came up with a name.”
You lifted your hands into the air like you were writing it there, invisible letters forming between your fingers.
“Castillo Capital.”
Harry considered it, then nodded. “It sounds solid, timeless,” he said. “I like it. You really believe in this,” he added quietly.
“I believe in you, Harry.”
Then he looked at you — really looked at you.
“I’m lucky,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Unbelievably lucky. To have a wife this brilliant. This driven.”
You lifted a brow, lips curving into that familiar, effortless smile.
“Well,” you said lightly, already stepping into him, “of course you are.”
You tilted your head, eyes sparkling. “Men don’t marry women like me by accident, Castillo.” He laughed softly, forehead resting against yours. “No,” he murmured. “They don’t.”
“I met Ilan the next day,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. “He was… kind. Polite. Professional.”
You paused, gathering yourself.
“At first, everything was exactly what it was supposed to be.”
You told him how that first meeting turned into momentum.
How within days, things started moving fast—in a good way.
You talked about fashion editorial work the way you’d always dreamed it:
Mood boards spread across tables.
Color palettes refined and revised.
References pulled from old European magazines, modern silhouettes, textures, contrasts.
You coordinated test shoots, reached out to models and agencies, discussed styling concepts, lighting, framing. You planned editorial narratives, not just outfits—stories told through fabric and posture and space.
“There was progress every day,” you said. “Real progress. Contacts. Samples. Casting. Locations.”
Emily had been with you through all of it—texts flying back and forth at all hours, voice notes full of excitement.
“She kept saying, ‘This is it, Queen. This is really happening.’ And I believed her, believed in me.”
You smiled faintly at the memory, then let it fade.
“We hadn’t told the elite circle yet. Not officially. But we were preparing. Quietly. Carefully.”
You took a breath.
“We spent almost a week working nonstop. Ilan was… enthusiastic. Supportive. He kept saying how much potential the project had.”
Then your voice shifted—just slightly.
“One day,” you continued, “I invited him to our place. I don’t even remember why I decided that. Maybe it was convenience. Maybe I was just exhausted.”
You shrugged, small and helpless.
“We were supposed to do a simple shoot. Just shoes. Accessories. Clean editorial frames.”
There had been a problem with the model.
Scheduling. Availability. Something mundane.
“He said we could improvise,” you said. “That I could step in. That it would just be a test.”
You hesitated.
“He told me I had the right proportions. That I carried clothes well. That I should trust my body.”
You looked down at your hands.
“I didn’t think twice. I thought—what’s the harm? It was work. Just trying.”
Your voice softened further.
“Around that time, you were barely home,” you added. “You were focused on the company. On breaking away from your father. On setting things up.”
You swallowed. Your eyes finally lifted to Harry’s.
“I was so happy,” you said simply. “For the first time in my life, I was building something on my own. The thing I’d always wanted.”
“I remember,” he murmured. “You were happy. And somehow… that made me brave enough to start building my own way out, too.”
"Yeah."
Silence stretched between you.
“And then,” you whispered, “that day came.”
You stopped there.
Not because you couldn’t continue.
But because this was the edge—the place where memory stopped being a story and became something else entirely.
You drew a slow breath.
Harry didn’t rush you.
He didn’t speak.
He just tightened his grip on your hands, anchoring you to the present while you stood at the threshold of what came next.
You studied Harry’s face carefully, as if memorizing every line, every shadow. “Ilan disappeared for about a week,” you began. “No calls. No messages. Nothing. I was angry—so angry. I thought he was punishing me, or playing some kind of game.”
You exhaled slowly.
“It was February. The day after I found out I was... pregnant.” Harry’s eyes darkened with quiet sorrow. “That was the day you called me,” you added. “You told me your father had left. You were at the hospital, with your mother.”
He frowned, searching his memory. “That day?”
“Yes,” you said.
Harry’s breath caught. “So… that’s when you found out,” he said slowly. “And you couldn’t tell me.”
You shook your head.
“You were dealing with your mother,” you said quietly. “With your family. With the company— and the one you were trying to build from the ground up. You didn’t come home for a week. You were staying with her."
Your voice softened, almost apologetic.
“And then everything else. I thought— I’ll tell him when things calm down.” Your voice faltered. “But they never did.” You looked away. “I never got to tell you.”
When the memory aligned for both of you, silence settled heavily between you, one more time.
“It was that Tuesday,” you continued. “Ilan suddenly answered my calls again. As if nothing had happened. I panicked—because the work was unfinished. I couldn’t find another photographer in time.” You hesitated, then admitted quietly, “So I agreed to see him. I invited him to the house.”
Harry didn’t interrupt. He didn’t move. But his shoulders tightened.
“We did the shoot,” you said. “Yuliana had gone out shopping. It felt… normal. Too normal. I even put on a dress. Just joking around, like I used to during catalog shoots.”
Harry nodded once. “And I never liked that.”
“Yeah, I know,” you said softly. “I offered him a drink. Then I went to the bedroom to change.”
Your voice slowed.
“I don’t remember lying down. I don’t remember feeling tired. I only remember waking up and knowing—instinctively—that time was missing.”
You closed your eyes. Your hands trembled.
Harry leaned forward. “Did he—”
“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Not like that. Not then....”
You swallowed hard. “He took photos of me. While I was unconscious. Naked. Vulnerable.”
Harry’s breath left him in a broken curse.
“He threatened me,” you went on. “He said if I didn’t pay him, he’d send them everywhere.”
Harry looked at you, fighting to stay composed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly. “I know I wasn’t really present… but I was there.”
Your breath hitched. You shook your head, almost helpless.
“I didn’t know how,” you whispered. Your fingers twisted together in your lap. “I was so ashamed,” you said again, the word heavier this time. “Ashamed that I trusted him. Ashamed that I didn’t see it coming. Ashamed that I let it happen at all.” Your voice cracked. “And every time I looked at you… you were already breaking. Your family, the scandals, the pressure, the company— you were barely holding yourself together.” You swallowed hard, eyes glossy. “I kept telling myself, don’t add this. Don’t become another problem he has to carry. Another mess he has to clean up.” Your shoulders slumped. “So I stayed quiet. I convinced myself I could handle it alone.”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
“He wanted money,” you said. “At first I paid. I thought it would end. It didn’t. So I told my mother.”
“And Scarlet handled it?”
“She warned him,” you said quietly. “At first.” Your voice remained steady, but something darker lived beneath it. “When that didn’t work… she dismantled him.” Harry’s gaze lifted to you. “My mother didn’t scream. She didn’t threaten. She moved. You know her already,” you continued. “She made calls. Quiet ones. The kind that close doors without anyone knowing who shut them.”
You swallowed.
“Galleries stopped returning his emails. Brands pulled out. Editors suddenly ‘went in another direction.’ Invitations dried up. His name became… inconvenient.” A bitter breath left you. “She ruined him socially. Professionally. He went from being in demand to being radioactive. And when even that wasn’t enough,” you added softly, “she made sure the photos were taken back.” You hesitated—then forced yourself to say it. “She didn’t do it cleanly. She hired people. Men who know how to get things without leaving fingerprints. They broke in. Took everything. Not just the originals—every copy. Hard drives. Backups. Cloud access. All of it.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “She erased him and every trace of what could have ruined me, our family.”
Silence fell heavy between you.
Harry finally spoke, his voice raw now. “I would’ve done the same,” he said quietly. His eyes lifted to yours—dark, unwavering. “Or I would’ve done worse.”
You looked at him. You knew he meant it. You knew he would have done it — without hesitation — and that the fact he hadn’t been there, that he hadn’t been able to, was something he would carry like a quiet wound for the rest of his life.
You took a slow, steady breath. And you went on.
“I thought it was over,” you said quietly. “I thought I could finally breathe. That I could pick my life back up where it had broken.”
Your fingers tightened slightly in his.
“But I was exhausted. Hiding the pregnancy. Living in constant fear. And you…” Your voice softened. “You were building Castillo Capital for real. Finding investors. Also saving your father’s company after he walked away. Trying to stand on your own two feet.”
You swallowed.
“I didn’t want to add my chaos to yours.”
You took a breath — one that shook despite your effort to steady it.
“Then you told me you were going to London. Just for a few weeks,” you said. “You said it was the last step. That once this investor said yes, the company would finally exist.”
Harry nodded, tears gathering in his eyes.
“You begged me not to go,” he whispered.
“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze at last. “Not because I didn’t believe in you — but because I needed you. And I didn’t know how to say that without falling apart.” A pause. “And you still went,” you finished softly.
The silence that followed was raw.
“When you were gone,” you continued, “Ilan came back.”
Your voice dropped, almost hollow.
“At the worst possible moment. When I least expected it. When I was completely unguarded.”
You swallowed.
“He’d been missing for weeks. And then he showed up at our house — disguised.”
Harry went completely still.
“I had stepped away from work by then,” you went on quietly. “After everything that happened… I’d almost given it up. I had devoted myself to being a mother. That’s all I was thinking about.”
Your breath trembled.
“I thought… if I turned one room into a nursery,” you said, your voice cracking, “if I showed you when you came home… maybe everything would change.”
Tears slid down your cheeks.
“I decided to have the walls painted. I ordered the furniture. I didn’t care about my career anymore. I didn’t even think about the photos. I only thought about our baby.”
You shook your head faintly.
“I believed that baby would save us. That our marriage would be better. That you would forget your father, and I forget Ilan. That we’d finally have peaceful days.”
Your voice broke.
“When you came back from London, I was going to take you straight into that room and surprise you. Tell you everything. I was decorating it every day — it was supposed to be finished before you came home. You still had a week.”
Your shoulders shook as you breathed in.
“I didn’t notice him hiding among the delivery men,” you whispered. “I was too happy. My head was in the clouds — that stupid, hopeful, expectant joy.”
Harry wrapped an arm around you instinctively.
“You don’t have to keep going,” he said softly.
“I do,” you whispered. “Please.”
He nodded, jaw tight, and let you continue.
“I was in the kitchen,” you said. “I was four months pregnant then. Always hungry. I heard Yuliana scream.”
Your breathing became shallow.
“When I stepped into the hallway… everything was quiet. Too quiet.”
You swallowed.
“I saw him in the hallway."
Harry’s fist tightened.
“Yuliana was on the floor,” you continued. “She wasn’t moving. I didn’t know if she was alive.”
Your voice dropped.
“He looked at me and started yelling.”
You closed your eyes.
“He said I had destroyed his life. That we had taken everything from him. He was swearing, screaming… saying he would kill me. That I wouldn’t get away this time.”
Harry’s jaw clenched hard.
“He walked toward me,” you whispered, “still shouting, still furious. I couldn’t even understand all the words—only the rage.”
For a moment, the present fell away.
Your thoughts blurred—escape routes, the stairs, your phone upstairs.
A glass vase sat nearby.
You grabbed it and ran.
Halfway up the stairs, you turned just long enough to throw it at him.
The vase shattered against the steps, glass exploding across the staircase. He raised his arm to shield his face. It slowed him—but it didn’t stop him.
You reached the bedroom.
Your phone.
Your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped it. Your fingers slipped on the screen as you dialed, breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
"Help-"
He was suddenly behind you.
In one violent motion, Ilan slapped the phone out of your hand and hurled it into the hallway. It skidded across the floor, disappearing around the corner.
The operator’s voice echoed faintly from far away.
“Ma’am? Are you there?”
You couldn’t answer.
His hand closed around your throat. The air was ripped from your lungs as your back slammed into the wall. Dots exploded in your vision.
“You bitch! You ruined my fucking life,” he snarled. “You think you can just walk away, you stupid whore? I’ll destroy you. I’ll kill you.”
His face changed then.
The rage twisted into something darker. His eyes dropped, slow and deliberate, and panic surged through you.
“Stop—please, please—don’t,” you gasped. “Let go of me. Get your hands off me, you sick bastard.”
He didn’t listen.
His grip tore at your dress, fabric ripping under his hands. You screamed as he shoved you backward, throwing you onto the bed.
The bed you shared with Harry.
You were left in nothing but your underwear, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Fear burned away into pure instinct.
You fought.
You kicked wildly—and drove your knee up hard, straight into his groin.
He shouted in pain, staggering back just enough.
You reached for the lamp on the nightstand and threw it with everything you had. It struck his face, cutting his skin.
It wasn’t enough to stop him.
But it was enough to give you a second.
You ran again.
You snatched the phone from the floor and turned toward the stairs, thinking only of distance, of escape—your eyes glued to the screen as your fingers fumbled to dial.
You didn’t see him close the gap.
At the stairs, his hand caught your hair.
He yanked you back hard, pain ripping through your scalp as you cried out, your body jerking violently off balance.
Then—
Yuliana appeared.
She was swaying, blood running down the side of her head, her face pale—but her eyes were focused. Determined. She had been hiding. Waiting.
She struck him with something you never saw.
Everything after that happened too fast.
His grip loosened.
Your foot slipped—just for a second—right at the edge of the step. The heel of your shoe missed solid ground, and the world tilted violently beneath you.
You fell.
The staircase seemed endless. Your body hit step after step, twisting, tumbling, breath tearing from your chest. Sharp pain exploded everywhere as broken glass from the shattered vase caught and cut as you rolled, biting into you with every impact.
You hit your head. Hard.
You screamed until no sound came out anymore.
When you finally stopped moving, you lay face-down at the bottom of the stairs, completely still.
Blood spread beneath you.
Yuliana was screaming—panicked, hysterical, unable to move, unable to think, her voice breaking the air again and again.
Your body was on fire with pain—but the deepest pain came from inside you.
From your womb.
You knew.
You were so close to death you could feel it pulling at you, heavy and quiet.
With the last strength you had, you rolled slightly onto your side. Your hand went instinctively to your stomach—to the place where you had felt your baby for the first time.
A broken shard pressed there.
“No… no… no,” you whispered, your voice breaking into raw, animal sounds as you pulled it away.
Warmth flooded your hands.
Your vision blurred, darkened at the edges.
You couldn’t move anymore.
Your hand slipped from your stomach and fell against the cold marble floor. Blood crept outward, thin streams spreading across the surface, reaching toward the phone still ringing nearby.
The sound was muffled now. Everything was muffled.
The smell of iron filled the air. Your body felt heavy. So heavy.
Heavy footsteps rushed down the hallway.
Voices shouted—urgent, sharp, unmistakable.
“Security!”
“Emergency—break the door!”
The sound of wood cracking echoed through the floor as the door was forced open. Boots pounded forward, fast and uncoordinated.
They saw you on the ground.
“Here—on the floor!” someone yelled.
“She’s bleeding—oh my God—get an ambulance now!”
Yuliana’s voice broke apart in panicked sobs as she tried to speak, pointing, shaking, unable to form full sentences.
Hands hovered over you, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse.
But the sounds were already drifting, stretching, fading—like they were coming from very far away.
The world faded.
And the last thing you whispered—barely a breath, barely a sound—was:
“My baby…"
You both went still.
You weren’t sure how you had managed to say any of it out loud — how those memories had left your body in the form of words — and Harry was frozen somewhere between hearing you and trying, desperately, to feel what you had felt. The fact that he had been continents away tore at him from the inside. He cursed himself silently, again and again, reliving every moment alongside you now, too late. Even breathing seemed to hurt.
For a long while, neither of you spoke.
The silence became unbearable — especially the look on his face. You couldn’t stand watching him carry that much pain without relief.
“When I came back to myself,” you said softly, “I was already in Switzerland. My mother told me what happened. I remember flashes of the hospital… but not the flight. They’d sedated me.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles bleaching white as if he were holding himself together by force alone.
“Sedated… and taken there,” he whispered, each word scraping his throat raw. “No one told me. I came back from London… and you weren’t home.” His breath stuttered. “Your things—nothing was there. Nothing. I called you over and over, and then… Scarlet.” He swallowed hard. “She answered instead. I—I remember now.”
You reached for his hand, holding it like it might splinter if you didn’t anchor him to something real. Your fingers wrapped around his, steady, gentle.
“The doctor in New York said it was safer this way,” you said softly, choosing every word with care. “If the story had leaked… it would’ve turned into a media circus. The hospital in Switzerland—they had the right specialists. The best care for what I needed.” Your voice faltered, but you forced yourself to continue. “And being far away—away from the spotlight, away from the media—it gave me space. Space to survive. To heal. Without anyone watching. Without anyone trying to control me… without anyone trying to exploit me.”
Harry’s chest rose and fell unevenly, a broken breath tearing free.
“So… all this time,” he said, his voice cracking open, “you were there. And I didn’t even know.” His eyes shone, ruined. “And I wasn’t there. I should have been there.”
You shook your head slowly, tears spilling without resistance.
“You couldn’t be,” you whispered. “The night you came back from London… my mother and I were already on a plane to Switzerland.”
Harry’s gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames dancing and blurring as fresh tears welled in his eyes. He looked hollow, utterly spent, as if even the simple act of crying had drained the last fragments of him. Every shuddering breath seemed to cost him something irreplaceable.
“The next day…” His voice faltered, catching on the weight of the memory. “I went to your parents’ house… it was empty. Mikey was there… he told me you’d been taken to Switzerland. I didn’t understand—why you left, why you were gone like that. And you weren’t answering my calls. Scarlet… she must have blocked me. I was furious with her. But now…” His words trailed off, thick with dawning comprehension. “…I understand now.”
“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling, barely audible. “I understand, too… because I… I was in shock. It took me days just to speak properly.” You swallowed hard, throat tight, feeling the weight of your own words.
Harry’s eyes searched yours, desperate to reconstruct the puzzle of your suffering from the fragments you were offering. “You were… in the hospital…” he murmured, voice fragmented, like he was trying to piece together something he had been too afraid to see. “For… five months… all that time…” His words slowed, haunted. “…and in between, you… you messaged me…”
“Yes,” you admitted softly, voice breaking. “The first time we video-called… do you remember?”
He nodded, the edge in his voice bitter and raw. “Yeah… I thought you were on holiday. At the hotel… having fun. You said you needed to pull yourself together. I didn’t know… you were healing.”
“Yes,” you whispered again, almost inaudibly, your voice cracking. “Preparing for that call… it was… it was so hard. I had to act like nothing had happened.”
Tears ran freely now, warm and unstoppable, tracing lines down your cheeks. Harry’s hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped the back of your cheek with careful reverence, as if you might shatter. You shared a long, weighted look, each second dripping with unspoken grief, each glance a silent acknowledgment of the pain you had carried alone.
“Mikey sent all the photos from Bern,” you continued, voice cracking, “everything but the hospital. The streets, the cafes, the tourist spots… little glimpses of life. He… he sent them from my phone, to you. I wanted you to see… to believe… that I was okay.”
Harry exhaled sharply. “All of it… convincing me… for five months.” His voice faltered. “Can I… can I ask why you decided to divorce me? Was it because you were so angry… or because you thought you couldn’t forgive me?”
You looked into his eyes… then quickly away.
“Yes,” you admitted softly, voice breaking. “I was angry… yes. But that wasn’t the only reason. After the accident… after..." you bit your lip. "I developed Asherman’s syndrome. They told me… getting pregnant again would be nearly impossible. I couldn’t think clearly. I thought… you wouldn’t want to stay married to a woman who couldn’t give you children. So I said cruel things. I… I wanted to disappear. From you… from everything.”
Harry swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “I should’ve known… that’s what you do. You say the cruelest things so there’s no way back… and I didn’t realize. I was so focused on my own pain… so selfish…On proving myself. On building the company, closing the deal, saving my name… I told myself that if you didn’t care about me, then I wouldn’t care about you either.” His voice broke completely. “How blind was I? How did I not understand? I thought I was surviving… but I was just being selfish.”
Then, slowly, hope flickered in his gaze.
“There has to be… a treatment. There must be some way. You can’t… you can’t give up like this,” he said, gripping your hands tightly, searching your eyes like he was trying to anchor your entire soul.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “It’s been five years… every time I go to the gynecologist, it still hurts… still breaks me.”
“We’ll find another doctor,” he said firmly, gently. “The best. World-class. Whatever it takes.”
You hesitated, trembling. “I… I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m so tired. Can we… not talk about this right now?”
Harry nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“As you wish.”
You exhaled slowly, the weight on your chest lightening just enough to breathe.
“So… everything came out eventually… the truth. No matter how much it hurt.”
Harry didn't respond; he looked ruined, like someone who had been stripped of every smile he had ever known. You hated seeing him like that—it felt like layering pain on top of pain.
“Harry,” you whispered.
His voice cracked when he finally looked at you. “That… that bastard—”
You instantly grasped what he was asking. “He’s in prison,” you said softly, letting the words hang in the air. “Life sentence. No chance of parole. Richard… my mother… they didn’t wait for the system to stumble. Richard, with his team of lawyers, made sure the court acted immediately. The evidence was presented, and the man didn’t have a single opportunity to manipulate the law—he was locked up as soon as the case reached the judge. My family promised I’d never have to see him, hear his name, or know anything more. And I didn’t. Not beyond my memories.”
A bitter smile touched your lips, fragile as a cracked porcelain.
Harry wiped his face, only realizing too late that he was crying again. Your own face felt numb—like you’d passed the point of sensation.
“My love… corazón mío,” he whispered, the Spanish falling from his lips like a prayer. “You’re so brave… so strong. I don’t understand how you survived all of that. I’m falling apart just hearing it… and you…” His voice cracked. “How did you endure? Even telling me… it must have been impossible.”
You shrugged faintly. “I did what I do best.”
He frowned, as if the weight of your words alone wasn’t enough.
“Stubbornness,” you said, a faint twitch of a smile on your lips—not a full smile, not yet. “You know my stubborn streak, Castillo. That’s what kept me going. I couldn’t let a worthless man take my life from me. I couldn’t destroy myself. No one gets to do that to me. Because I’m… perfect.”
For the first time, you truly smiled—fragile, real, tears still slipping down your cheeks.
Harry’s eyes were wide, awe written all over his face. He leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering, breathing you in. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could never let go.
“My baby,” he whispered. “My reason for existing. I hope one day you can forgive me… because I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself. I’m in so much pain.”
You sniffed, pulling back just enough to look at him.
“Pull yourself together, Harry. I forgave you a long time ago. And you don’t get to suffer without my permission—I won’t allow it.”
A weak smile flickered across his face, the pain still etched deep in his features. “Just tonight,” he said quietly, “just tonight, I need to grieve… for… for our baby. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
Your tears returned—but this time, lighter. Shared.
“Our daughter,” you whispered, voice breaking. “She was a girl.”
Harry froze. His body went rigid. “A girl…?”
A raw, guttural sound tore from his chest as he collapsed into your arms, covering his face and sobbing openly—helplessly, like a child. “Oh God…” he whispered through ragged breaths.
This time, you held him. Pressed his head to your chest, rocking him gently as he cried—the strongest man you knew reduced to quiet, broken sounds. You kissed the top of his head again and again, murmuring nothing—because nothing was needed.
Time lost all meaning. No calls. No food. Only grief, shared memories, silent tears, whispered comforts, and the occasional trembling laugh through the sorrow.
Eventually—long after the fire had dimmed—you fell asleep together on the couch, tangled in each other, exhaustion finally winning.
Not healed.
But no longer alone.
You woke up to the sound of the fireplace.
For a few seconds, you didn’t open your eyes. The crackling filled the room, steady and alive, and something shifted inside your chest—something unfamiliar. It wasn’t the sharp, suffocating pain you’d learned to live with. It was softer. Like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally being released.
Your chest rose slowly.
When you finally opened your eyes, the couch felt… wrong. Too empty. You turned your head, searching instinctively, but he wasn’t there. You sat up with a quiet yawn, rubbing your face, then pressed your hand against your chest.
The pain was still there. Dull. Persistent.
But different.
It didn’t feel as lonely.
Maybe it was because you finally shared everything with Harry.
The thought lingered as you woke, warm and quiet, the low crackle of the fireplace pulling you gently back into the world. The sound settled into you, steady and alive. That morning felt different—lighter, somehow—as if something tight in your chest loosened overnight.
You felt it then, clearly—the bond between you, stronger, tighter, as if telling him the truth stitched something back together inside you.
A heavy thought settled in your mind.
I should have told him sooner.
And then, almost cruelly, another followed.
Or maybe… you should never have told him at all.
The memory of his face flashed behind your eyes. The way he looked when you spoke. The way his composure cracked. The way he broke—open, helpless, undone. The sound of his crying still echoed in you. Your body shivered at the memory, a tremor running through your chest.
Seeing him like that hurt more than you ever expected it would.
And yet… beneath the ache, there was warmth.
Because you didn’t carry it alone anymore.
You remembered falling asleep together on the couch—his presence solid, grounding, real. The way your bodies had fit together without effort, exhaustion pulling you both under at once. You pushed yourself upright then, stretching, glancing around instinctively to find him.
But he wasn’t there.
You rose slowly, padding across the floor, drawn toward the fireplace. Half playfully, you bent and added another log to the embers. The coals flared brighter—deep orange, burning red—flames licking along the wood as heat bloomed outward. You stood there for a moment, watching the colors shift, letting the warmth sink into you, steadying you.
When you straightened, you brushed your hands together, dusting the ash from your fingers.
Then you turned toward the tall glass windows.
And you froze.
There was a snowman outside.
Not just any snowman.
It stood just beyond the glass, facing inward—as if it had been watching you wake. Fully formed. Thoughtful. Perfect in a way that made your breath catch. Its shape was unmistakable: rounded, soft, almost delicate. Twig whiskers fanned out like a cat’s, carefully placed. Small ears rose from the sides of its head. There was even a ribbon tied neatly at its neck.
A Hello Kitty snowman.
Your lips parted in a quiet, stunned smile.
When you were little, you’d always wished someone would make one for you. You’d loved Hello Kitty long before it was considered embarrassing—long before you learned how carefully you were supposed to curate softness. Richard had never really been that kind of father, not the one who knelt in the snow to build something whimsical just to make his child smile. And Mikey—sweet, earnest Mikey—had tried more than once, but his snowmen always leaned sideways, collapsed too early, or looked nothing like what you’d imagined. Still, he’d laughed, and somehow, that had always been enough to make you laugh too.
You never said it out loud—it felt too childish, too soft—but the want had lived in you anyway.
Years later, on that trip to Alaska with Harry—when you’d gone chasing the northern lights, back when you were newly engaged and still fearless with hope—he’d done it without you ever asking. He’d taken his time with it, careful and focused, shaping every detail like it mattered. Like you mattered. He’d even added the little touches—the bow, the proportions, the quiet pride in his eyes when he finally stepped back—wanting it to be perfect, just for you. You’d laughed then, breathless and surprised, snow in your hair, heart wide open.
Seeing it then felt like being gently pulled back into that memory.
Your eyes dropped to its face—and then you noticed what was missing.
“The cheeks,” you murmured.
Without thinking, without pausing to plan, you grabbed your bag, fingers already searching. You found your blush, popped it open, and smiled to yourself. Then you slipped your boots on—no socks, no coat, no hesitation—and hurried outside.
The cold bit instantly, sharp and alive, snow crunching beneath your feet as you crossed the distance. You knelt in front of the snowman, pressing your fingers lightly into the powdery surface, feeling the chill seep into your skin. Carefully, reverently, you dusted soft pink circles onto its cheeks.
Perfect.
Only then did a shiver run through you—real, insistent. You inhaled sharply, realizing too late that you came out unprotected.
“Are you serious right now?”
You turned just as Harry stepped outside, two steaming coffee mugs abandoned on the counter behind him. His voice was laced with concern, his movements urgent as he closed the distance between you.
“What are you doing?” he asked, already wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him. “You didn’t even put a coat on.”
You smiled up at him, unapologetic. “But look at it. It’s adorable. I wanted to see it up close.”
He exhaled, shaking his head, holding you tighter. “Were you not on the edge of hypothermia literally yesterday?”
“It was worth it,” you said softly.
He sighed, mock-scolding, and all but dragged you back inside, nudging the door open with his shoulder. Once you were in the warmth again, he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “You’re not cold?”
“I’m fine,” you promised, smiling until the tension in his eyes eased.
And that was when you noticed it.
Something new.
There was a look in his gaze you’d never seen before—protective, yes, but deeper than that. Tender. Worried. Love wrapped in vigilance. It unsettled you in the best way.
As he guided you toward the kitchen, you glanced back once more at the snowman.
“When did you make the Hello Kitty–shaped snowman?”
“This morning,” he said. “First thing I did.”
He set a plate in front of you. The smell was incredible—your stomach growled.
“Ohhh, I’m starving,” you said, already eating. Bacon, eggs—simple, perfect.
Harry sat beside you, watching.
“You should eat too,” you said, looking at him.
“I’m not hungry yet,” he replied, though there was hesitation in his voice.
You took a sip of your coffee and studied him. “Harry, you never skip breakfast.”
“I like watching you eat,” he said quietly.
And suddenly, you understood.
The pain didn’t leave him overnight. It settled into him. It was going to stay—just like the mark it left on you.
That day, he was quiet. Too quiet.
Your phone rang once. You told Mikey you were fine, that you’d be unreachable for a few days. Only Ron knew where you were. You made sure no one would call Harry—no interruptions, no outside voices. In that state, he wouldn’t care about anything else anyway.
At dinner, he barely ate. He sat across from you, shoulders tense, gaze unfocused, as if he was still somewhere else entirely. His eyes found yours only briefly—filled with pain, guilt, something unresolved—before he looked away again.
Your heart ached.
He kept his distance all evening. Not cold, not cruel—just careful. Like he was afraid that one wrong step, one wrong touch, might shatter something fragile between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was hesitant.
He said it might be more comfortable if you stayed in separate rooms that night.
The words hit harder than you expected. You didn’t argue, but it stung. It made your chest tighten, anger flashing hot and brief beneath the hurt. Still, you swallowed it. You nodded. You told yourself this wasn’t rejection—it was grief. You let him mourn. You let him sit in his pain without pushing, without demanding anything he couldn’t give.
Tomorrow would be better, you told yourself.
He’d get through this. He had to.
But tomorrow came, and the heaviness was still there.
He was quieter than before. Still distant. Still wrapped in that same ache, like it had settled into his bones. And that time… it started to bother you. Not because you didn’t understand—but because you did, and you couldn’t watch him disappear into it.
So you pushed.
You tugged on his sleeve, teased, pleaded, begged him to come outside. To play in the snow. To breathe. He resisted at first, shaking his head, murmuring excuses—but eventually, he gave in.
And when he laughed—really laughed, just once—it almost broke you.
It was sudden and raw and startled, like it surprised him too. Your chest tightened, eyes burning, because hearing that sound again felt like proof that he was still there.
You made snow angels, arms and legs carving shapes into the white. You threw snowballs until your hands ached and burned, until your cheeks hurt from smiling. You promised yourself—quietly, fiercely—that you wouldn’t leave until he was better. Not that time.
That night, when the caretaker’s meals ran out, you decided to cook together.
It was chaos from the start. A curry chicken recipe from an old cookbook—too much spice, oil splattering, something definitely burning at the bottom of the pan. Harry coughed dramatically. You laughed too hard. He tried to fix it, added something random, made it worse.
But you laughed anyway.
Flour on the counter. Music playing softly. His shoulder brushing yours by accident—and then, maybe not so accidentally. For the first time since everything came out, the air between you felt lighter. Still fragile. Still bruised. But alive.
And for that night, that was enough.
The next day, he laughed at a movie. A real laugh. In the middle of it, you paused the film.
“Popcorn,” you said, pouting. “Please.”
He let out a low grumble, the kind that sounded like resistance but never really was. After a beat, he nodded. “Alright. Popcorn.”
You lit up instantly, bouncing on your feet before turning toward the kitchen, practically skipping your way there, excitement spilling out of you in a way you didn’t even try to hide.
He followed behind you more slowly. His steps were unhurried, careful. He watched you from a few paces back—how you moved, how your shoulders lifted with that barely contained joy. There was a small smile on his face. Tired. Soft. But there.
“But we don’t have a popcorn pot,” you said, opening cabinets one after another, crouching slightly as you searched.
“Are you serious?” Harry asked, disbelief slipping into his voice. “Look at that—another thing we’re missing. If there wasn’t a storm, we’d go shopping.”
You looked at him, eyes lighting up suddenly.
“Hey,” you said, pointing vaguely, excitement creeping in, “I saw it in a movie once. They made popcorn in a regular pot. Same logic, right?”
As you spoke, you pulled a pot from one of the cupboards. Harry watched you for a second, then nodded slowly.
“Yeah… I mean. That should work.”
“Right?”
“Okay. You deal with this,” he said, already moving toward the cabinet. “I’ll get the drinks.”
You set the pot on the stove, turning the heat on. The metal warmed quickly beneath your hands. You poured in some oil, watching it spread thinly across the bottom, trying to remember exactly how the character in that movie had done it.
You grabbed a handful of kernels and tossed them in.
Then you froze.
“…The lid,” you muttered. “Oh. The lid.”
You opened drawers, checked cabinets, moved too fast, irritation bubbling up. “Where are these lids?” you grumbled under your breath.
“Bottom drawer,” Harry answered without looking up.
A second later—
“Oh—!”
The sound slipped out of you instinctively.
Harry whipped around so fast he nearly knocked into the counter. He slammed the cabinet shut and crossed the kitchen in two strides.
“What happened?” he asked, panic flaring instantly. “Are you okay?”
“They’re popping!” you laughed breathlessly. “Harry—the popcorns are popping!”
The kernels were exploding out of the uncovered pot, snapping and crackling, flying into the air, bouncing off the stove, the counter, the floor.
Harry grabbed the nearest thing—a couple of empty mugs—and started trying to catch them mid-air.
You did the same.
“Oh my God, this is so fun,” you laughed, holding out your mug, trying to catch them one by one. Every time one landed just right, you laughed harder—even when a hot kernel stung your fingers slightly.
“Ow—!” you hissed once, then laughed again anyway.
"Careful!" Harry was laughing too. Really laughing.
The sound filled the chalet, echoing off the wooden walls, the two of you standing there with mugs in your hands, like complete idiots, trying to catch flying popcorn.
You bumped into each other.
And for the first time in three days…
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Something shifted in the space between you—quiet, charged, fragile.
Harry leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.
“Alright,” he said gently. “At least let’s eat the ones we managed to save.”
You moved to the couch together.
There was still a little distance between you. Not much—but enough for you to feel it.
You missed the way he used to look at you. You needed him closer. Needed to feel his skin against yours again.
But he wasn’t looking at you with desire. Not yet.
And you knew—
You were going to change that.
That night, alone in the other room, you couldn’t stop thinking.
It felt wrong. Absurd, even. This distance between you—after everything had already been dragged into the light—made no sense. The pain, the fear, the secrets, the grief… all of it was out in the open now. This should have been the part where you held each other tightly and healed together.
Instead, you lay there staring at the ceiling, hating the space between you.
You hated how careful he’d been. How gently he’d kept his hands to himself, like he was afraid even wanting you might hurt you somehow. You understood where it came from—his guilt, his grief, the way he was drowning in his own thoughts—but understanding didn’t make it easier.
You knew the truth, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud.
You’d seen it in his eyes the night before. That fleeting moment when his gaze had darkened, when something raw and unmistakable had flared there before he forced it back down again. Desire—real, aching, restrained. He wanted you. And you wanted him just as badly.
Not just physically.
You needed him. Needed the closeness, the reassurance, the reminder that you were still us. But you didn’t want to force anything. You didn’t want this to be about guilt, or obligation, or desperation. You didn’t want him to touch you because he felt like he owed you comfort.
You wanted him to choose you.
You wanted to move through this pain together—slowly, carefully—and come out the other side as something new. Something steadier. Something healed.
That was the hardest part: knowing he wanted you, and still watching him hold himself back out of fear.
So you made a plan.
Not to corner him. Not to pressure him. But to remind him—gently—of what already existed between you. To give him space to want without shame. To let him remember that desire didn’t have to be dangerous, and closeness didn’t have to hurt.
While Harry sat at the desk, focused on the urgent work Ron had sent over, eyes glued to his laptop screen, you slipped over to the bar. You poured yourself tequila. Took a few steady sips. Enough to feel warm, loose—but not enough to lose control. You poured half the bottle down the sink afterward, watching it disappear, making sure he wouldn’t suspect a thing.
You needed to stay sharp.
But you also needed to look convincingly drunk.
You climbed onto one of the bar stools, swinging your legs slightly as you finished the drink. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the soft tapping of Harry’s fingers on the keyboard. Your heart was beating fast—part nerves, part anticipation.
You nudged the glass toward the edge of the counter.
And let it fall.
It shattered loudly against the floor.
“Oh!” you exclaimed.
Harry was on his feet instantly. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, panic written all over his face, hands already hovering around you.
“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked, breathless.
You blinked down at the broken glass, then back up at him, frowning exaggeratedly. “How did that fall?” you said, confused. “It just… slipped. It broke. Weird.” You shrugged, then smiled. “But I’m fine. It didn’t hurt at all.”
Harry placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at you. “…Are you drunk?”
“What?” you scoffed, dragging the word out. “Nooooo-what are you talking about? Where did you even get that from?”
Your performance was flawless—Oscar-worthy.
Okay, maybe you were a little tipsy. But it was just enough to sell it.
“Hm,” he murmured. “If you’re clumsy enough to drop a glass like that, you’re definitely drunk.”
You tilted your head, lips pressing into a small pout. “…Yeah. I guess I am.”
He sighed softly. “Alright. Then I’ll take you to your room.”
You raised your eyebrows like he’d just suggested something absurd.
“Oh?” You almost laughed. “Yeah, okay. That would be good. Thanks.”
He held out his hand. “Come on.”
You stared at it.
…That was it? He wasn’t going to carry you?
Clearly, you needed to exaggerate a bit more.
“Ah, but I’m very drunk,” you said, voice syrupy. “I don’t think I can walk.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “That drunk, huh?”
“Very,” you nodded seriously.
“Hm. Alright then.” He stepped closer. “Come here.”
Before you could say another word, he lifted you into his arms.
“I’ll carry you so you don’t fall.”
You smiled to yourself, biting your lower lip to keep from laughing.
“Such a gentleman,” you teased softly. “Handsome and polite.”
He chuckled, carrying you down the hall with surprising ease. When you reached your room, he nudged the door closed with his foot and carefully lowered you onto the bed.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Careful.”
The moment he straightened up, you sat up—and grabbed his hand, tugging him down so he landed beside you.
“Harry,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, attentive. “Yeah?”
“Why are we sleeping in separate rooms?” you asked.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “…What do you mean?”
You could tell he understood exactly what you meant. “I mean,” you continued, softer now, “don’t we… have something between us?”
“We do,” he said, smiling gently.
“Don’t you love me?” you asked, searching his eyes.
“So much,” he answered without hesitation.
“I love you too,” you said, voice warm, sincere. “Very much.”
You bit your lip, holding his gaze. You could feel it—him finally looking at you the way you wanted him to.
“Do you want me, Harry?” you asked quietly.
“I do.”
“Then why are we sleeping apart?”
He leaned closer. You closed your eyes, certain he was about to kiss you—
But he stopped. “You’re drunk,” he said softly.
You opened your eyes. “I lied,” you admitted, shrugging. “Well… not completely. But I broke the glass on purpose.”
He lifted his brows, fake-surprised. “Oh. Is that so.”
You sighed internally.
God, just kiss me already.
Frustration bubbled up. You stood abruptly, stubbornness taking over.
Harry looked genuinely startled this time. “Hey—”
You walked straight into the bathroom. He followed immediately.
You stepped into the shower, still fully dressed, and stood beneath the showerhead, turning to face him. You clasped your hands behind your back and looked up at him with the most innocent expression you could manage.
Harry stared at you, eyes wide. “…Are you serious?”
“Yes,” you said calmly. “I need a shower to sober up.”
“A cold shower?” he asked, brows lifting.
“Yes,” you said easily. “You know that’s the only thing that works for me. Did you forget?”
He hadn’t. And he hated cold showers. Every single time.
“You can’t be serious,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“I can,” you replied sweetly. “You said I was drunk, remember?”
He exhaled, then a slow smirk curved his lips. His gaze dropped pointedly to you, making a small gesture toward your clothes.
“In those?” he asked.
“Yes.” You tilted your head, innocent and smug all at once. “But you—” you added lightly, eyes flicking back up to his, “you hate cold water. You couldn’t handle it.”
You took a small step back, hands lifting as if in surrender, teasing. “So you can just stand there. Watch. Make sure I don’t fall, or something.”
Your fingers brushed the hem of your sweater, slow, deliberate. “While I take my clothes off.”
He stilled.
For half a second, you could see it—the exact moment the challenge landed.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
“Can’t I?” he said, already moving, voice low and dangerous with promise. “Watch me, princess.”
He shrugged off his cardigan—just a T-shirt underneath—and stepped into the shower, stopping directly in front of you. So close your noses nearly touched.
“I’m here,” he said, eyes locked on yours.
The corner of your mouth lifted, pure tease. “Yeah, I see you. Took you long enough,” you whispered, eyes flicking over him slowly.
He nodded toward the faucet, jaw tight. “Go on. Turn it on.”
Without breaking eye contact, you reached for the handle, fingers curling around the metal.
“I’m turning it on, Castillo.”
A sharp breath lodged in his chest. His gaze darkened instantly—focused, intent—tracking the slow movement of your hand, the way your lips parted around the words, the fragile stretch of silence hanging between you.
“Do it, Queen.”
You bit down on your lower lip, just once, then twisted the handle all the way.
The water hit.
Cold—brutal, immediate, unforgiving.
It slammed into your skin like a shockwave, stealing the air from your lungs. You gasped sharply, the sound torn from your chest as the icy spray soaked straight through fabric, clinging to you in seconds. Beside you, Harry sucked in a hissed breath through his teeth, his shoulders jerking instinctively as the cold struck him too.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moved.
Then—unexpectedly—you laughed.
A breathless, startled laugh bubbled out of you, half shock, half disbelief, your body shivering hard under the relentless stream. Harry let out a short, incredulous laugh of his own, head tipping back slightly as the cold water drenched his hair, darkening it, plastering strands to his forehead.
“You’re insane,” he said, teeth chattering just a little.
“Admit it,” you laughed back, arms crossing briefly over your chest as another shiver ran through you, “you’re alive now.”
He didn’t answer with words.
Harry stepped closer and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him without hesitation. The contact stole another breath from you—not from the cold, but from the sudden heat of him. His clothes were soaked too, fabric heavy and clinging, his body solid and unmistakably there against yours.
Yes, it was freezing.
But what burned between you was anything but.
Your hands lifted on instinct, brushing against his sides, then his arms. Your fingers slipped into his, tentative at first—then firmer. You laced them together, palms pressed, the connection slow and deliberate, like a dance finding its rhythm. The water continued to pour over you, rushing down your hair, your shoulders, dripping from his lashes, tracing the lines of his face.
He watched you—really watched you.
Water streamed down his jaw, his mouth slightly open, breath uneven. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, once, twice, grounding. He shifted, guiding you gently, turning you just enough that your bodies aligned better, still moving as if to unheard music. His head dipped closer, tilting slightly, his forehead brushing your temple.
You could feel his breath now. Warm. Unsteady.
Then he leaned in.
The kiss was soft. Careful. A question more than an answer.
His lips pressed to yours gently at first, testing, tasting, as if making sure you were really there. The cold faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of him, the familiar curve of his mouth, the way his grip tightened just a fraction when you kissed him back.
He pulled away slowly, reluctantly, resting his forehead against yours. Water still rushed around you, but the world had narrowed to this—your breathing, your closeness, the space between your lips.
“I love you,” he said softly. “so, so much.”
Then he kissed you again—this time deeper, more certain. His arms tightened around you as you wrapped yours around his neck. The water kept running, your breaths mingling.
You both trembled.
“Baby,” he murmured, breaking the kiss with a soft laugh, “if you’re sober now… maybe turn on the hot water?”
You laughed. “Unbelievable,” you said. “I’m miraculously cured.”
You turned the handle. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirrors, the air growing warm as you stayed wrapped around each other—safe, close, finally together again.
Wet clothes made every movement harder. Your fingers fumbled, fabric sticking stubbornly to skin as you laughed breathlessly against his mouth, only for the sound to dissolve into something lower, needier. He helped, hands firm, tugging and pulling until damp material slid free at last.
You peeled the rest away, piece by piece, tossing everything aside without care. Wet fabric hit the tiles with dull slaps, forgotten the moment it left your hands. Nothing playful remained now—no teasing, no hesitation.
Only want.
Bare skin met bare skin beneath the spray, water tracing paths between you as the last barrier disappeared. Steam swallowed the room, the sound of the shower loud enough to drown out everything else. The air felt thick, charged, as if it couldn’t hold what was building between you.
And when there was finally nothing left to remove, nothing left to hide...
Gloriously naked, Harry stood under the spray, water cascading over him in silver sheets. Your stomach clenched with a sudden rush of desire, sharp and undeniable. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.
You stepped closer, bare feet slick against the tile, heat and steam wrapping around you both. Your hands found him without hesitation, palms gliding over warm skin, tracing lines you already knew but needed to relearn anyway. You watched your own fingers move—over his chest, along the planes of his stomach—memorizing the way he reacted, the way his breath shifted when you touched him.
Reaching past him, you grabbed the shampoo and squeezed a generous amount into your palm before pressing it to his hair. You worked it in slowly, deliberately, your fingers threading through damp curls as foam bloomed beneath your touch.
You watched as it flowed down his body, water catching it and pulling it lower, gently blurring his features as steam thickened the air. Muscles moved beneath the surface of his skin as he tilted his head back, rinsing shampoo from his hair. White lather traced lazy paths down his chest and stomach.
Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips as you followed its path—down his broad shoulders, shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist. Foam slid over his firm back, down strong thighs, disappearing beneath the falling water.
The shower roared around you, but all you could hear was his breathing—and your own, unsteady, wanting.
He returned the gesture without a word. His hands closed around the bottle, fingers slick as he tipped it over you, cool shampoo spilling against your skin before he spread it slowly, deliberately. You leaned into his touch as his hands moved—steady, attentive—guiding you beneath the spray.
He worked it into your hair first, fingers massaging your scalp with an ease that made your knees feel weak. Foam bloomed between his hands, sliding down your neck as he rinsed you, his thumbs brushing your jaw, tilting your head just slightly so the water could follow.
Then his hands moved lower.
Not rushed. Not careless.
He washed you with the same focus, palms gliding over your body, lingering just enough to make your breath hitch. Everywhere he touched, your skin reacted—oversensitive, alive—heat blooming beneath his hands. You shivered despite the warmth, a soft tremor you couldn’t stop as his fingers traced familiar paths, water and soap making everything feel amplified.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Your breasts ached, nipples tightening with want, and you slid your hands around him, needing the contact. Your body brushed against his, soft against solid, your skin sensitive where it met his chest. You kissed his wet shoulder, lips lingering there, tasting water, faint shampoo, and him—a mix that made your breath catch.
He leaned into you slightly, trusting, inviting. His hands found your hips, thumbs pressing in as if to anchor himself, before they drifted lower, tracing slow paths down your thighs.
Your legs parted instinctively as his slick hands moved between them, heat and water making every touch sharper. The inner skin of your thighs was brushed lightly, teasing and deliberate, and a sharp gasp escaped you. Your hands gripped his biceps, holding on as if they could steady the tremor running through you.
The other hand rose, fingers ghosting over your cheek. Soft—so tender—but there was unmistakable need in the press of his palm, the way his thumb brushed along your jaw. You tilted your head into his touch, heart racing, breath hitching, aware of every inch of skin that met his.
All the while, his fingers explored your sensitive mound. As his mouth covered yours, two fingers slipped into you. Your body jerked in pleasure, your moan lost under the wonderful feel of his mouth moving over yours. At his coaxing, you opened your mouth wider, letting his tongue slip in. His fingers moved within you, his thumb rubbing your clit over and over. You shattered into a million pieces under the magic of his mouth and fingers.
Your hands traced down from his back to his hips, embracing them close so you could feel his hardened manhood against you. An animalistic growl broke free from him, as he felt more aroused by your actions.
His mouth trailed kisses down your throat, over the swell of your breasts. Bending his head, he took first one then the other into his mouth. The heat of his mouth on your breasts sent nerve ends tingling. With exquisite care, he worshiped them, suckled them. Your hands gripped his head firmly, fingers twirling in his curls as you pulled him closer, the pleasure mounting to an almost overwhelming level.
You leaned your back against the tile and parked your hands in his wet hair and made yourself breathe, tried to because he had you by the hips now, kneeling under the warm fall of water, and you knew what he wanted, knew what he would do, and again, you were wishing for him to do that. Your womanhood was burning, aching.
He kissed across your belly, around your navel, and you were a little ticklish there, always, but this time you resisted it, helped by the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and you spread your legs and tilted up to him and let him do it.
He was so good -better than your memories- mouthing gently at your mound first, kissing firmly all around, circling slowly in. His last kiss landed right at the base of your clit, right where the folds separated, and he pressed with his tongue, extending it, parting the folds, and he did that over and over, slow intense laps. You let your head fall back against the tile, trusting his grip on your hips, letting him take you apart.
He gently, inexorably, worked you open, exploring all the folds and whirls, and finally, when he had you panting, melting, he nuzzled right in, nuzzled all the petaled skin aside, and sucked gently and then licked directly on your clit, and you cried aloud as you came, a blinding rush, and jerked in his hands. He waited you out, not taking his mouth away, remembering exactly how to handle you, what you liked and what you needed.
He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your thighs, trailing upward as he steadied you in his arms and entered you slowly, letting you adjust, filling you completely, you screamed in pleasure, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Your body trembled against his as he positioned himself for the better access, stretching you full, wide. Looking into your eyes, his gaze burned with an unspoken, almost unbearable desire. His brown eyes, dark and smoldering, taking your breathe away.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze—just the two of you, moving together as if the rest of the world had vanished. Every gasp, every shiver, every brush of skin was magnified, the closeness between you electric.
He quickly found his rhythm, moving strongly within you. Multiple sensations swamped you. The feel of cool tiles against your back, the hard beat of water pouring down on you, the feel of him thrusting into you, hands tight on your hips.
“You feel so good, baby,” he purred, his voice low and warm, vibrating against your skin.
“You too, Harry… Oh, yes,” you whispered back, your words soft and breathy, barely audible over the rush of water. Every syllable was soaked in need and affection, a delicate echo of what you felt.
You weren’t loud. There were no urgent cries—just the slow, intimate rhythm of your bodies pressed together under the warm spray. Every touch lingered, every sigh and whispered name carried weight, a promise exchanged in silence.
It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t frantic. It was tender. Lovely. You moved together with a soft urgency, giving and taking in equal measure, completely lost in each other. Even in motion, even as breaths hitched and small shivers ran down your spines, there was a softness to it—a shared understanding, a love threaded through each gentle touch, each careful movement, each whispered word.
Soon, you felt yourself reaching you climax and dug your nails into his shoulders. With a gasp, your orgasm arrived and you clenched the muscles of your womanhood to enhance it. You couldn't stop yourself from screaming Harry's name in wholesome ecstasy, slipping into pure euphoria. The sudden contraction tipped him over the edge and with a few more thrusts; he spilled himself inside you and groaned deeply at his release.
The water rippled eternally afterwards….
His muscular arms held you close as you breathed heavily, noticing that it was enough activity for the night and begun kissing your lips softly, at the same time placing his hands on your hips so you were sitting in his lap, savoring the moment.
Harry's hands traced against your breasts and you shivered slightly at his touch. You leaned forward a little to once again feel his soft lips against your own, if only for a few moments. Harry broke away from the kiss, but pulled you into an embrace, holding tightly as if never wanting to let go of your. You closed your eyes and let him hug you, fully enjoying the peaceful moment between you.
After you both had savored the moment, letting the warmth and closeness wash over you, and your breathing finally slowed, Harry turned off the water for one last rinse. He stepped out and slipped into his own soft robe, then reached for yours, draping it around your shoulders and fastening it carefully.
He gently wrapped your hair in a towel, taking his time as if you were the most precious thing in the world, tucking stray strands with a tenderness that made your heart ache. Once your hair was secured, he held you close for a moment, his hands lingering on your back, before letting you both climb into bed.
Snuggled under the covers, robes still soft against your skin, you lay together in silence, only your breaths and the occasional soft glance filling the room. You held each other tight, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.
There was a serene certainty in that silence—a knowledge that a completely new chapter was beginning between you, all the barriers between you gone, old secrets and sorrows shared and laid to rest, and the simple joy of being together. And with that, you drifted into sleep, hearts tethered, completely at ease.
Scarlet was doing one of the rare things she allowed herself—drinking past midnight. Lara froze when she saw her. She had only done this twice before; this was the third.
Scarlet stood by the window, staring into the city below, her face sharp in the dim light. She didn’t turn when Lara approached. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the folder on the table.
Lara’s eyes fell on it.
This… oh god… is this real?
Scarlet didn’t respond. She didn’t move. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the folder. Inside, the heading read:
“The family of convict Ilan Kensley has formally petitioned this court, asserting that concerns regarding the petitioner’s mental health warrant reconsideration. The court will examine and assess the case in accordance with established legal protocols.”
Lara’s voice trembled. “Jesus… how dare they? What are we going to do?”
Scarlet finally turned, her eyes cold, measured. “The lawyers are handling it.”
Lara hesitated. “Eduardo… if you reached him—he could testify, right? Ilan threatened him before… Castillo’s name… everything he did to Queen—”
Her words faltered as Scarlet’s gaze cut through her like ice.
“Enough—” Scarlet’s voice was firm, unwavering. “My daughter will not know about this, Lara. I’ll handle it in my own way.”
With that, she walked toward her room, leaving Lara standing frozen. Lara stared at the folder, heart hammering. Her hand lingered over it, trembling, then slowly dropped.
She couldn’t help but glance at the photo inside—a booking photo of Ilan at the police station, his face cold and unrepentant.
My poor girl. Could she tell Harry everything and mention that the monster who assaulted her was his stepbrother? Could she even bear to say it? Lara’s chest tightened as a wave of helplessness crashed over her.
Her fingers closed the folder, pressing it to her chest. Her mind screamed, This is too much… my heart can’t take it.
And in that moment, in the silent weight of the midnight room, the truth hung there, heavy and unspoken, like a storm waiting to break.
Author’s Note: Writing this chapter was extremely hard for me, as someone who’s experienced something close to assault years ago. I hope it resonated with you. I’m sorry if it was upsetting—but the sweet moments and intimate scenes were meant to lift your spirits (and mine). Thank you for reading. and.... the little twist at the end isn’t enough to stop their love. I hope it still makes you happy! love you all!
thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️
AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME ❤️ IT'S SOOOO IMPORTANT TO MEEEE 🥰
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Lesson 8
Summary: No matter how hard you deny the truth and keep running, Harry is far too eager to chase. How does the cat-and-mouse game end again? Right: With you caught.
Warnings and WC: 13.7k. Mature themes / 18+ (the aftermath, unresolved feelings) gossip girl reference, unfinished love, dirty thoughts, soft domestic moments, unresolved feelings, denial vs desire, mention of blood, emotional angst, hospital scenes, medical trauma (past & present), mentions of infertility / pregnancy loss, accident aftermath, injury, anxiety & panic response, unresolved emotional conflict, Lucy being annoying, flashbacks, fluff, Minor French dialogue included: translations are right there, Flirting / Banter, Jealousy, denial of feelings, rom-com, comedy, idiots in love, lying, wealth, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, slow burn romance, manhattan aesthetic. OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Harry's EA (Executive Assistant))
authors note: Yes, I know this chapter was late, and I’m so sorry, my loves. Cramps slowed me down, but I wanted to give this chapter the care it deserved. Thank you so much for waiting and for all your sweet get-well wishes, love you all 💋
Never Enter a Battle You Can’t Win
Good morning, Upper East Siders. Gossip Girl here.
Wait. That voice—
And I had the biggest scoop yet.
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t— This had to be a dream. Why did it sound like it was echoing inside your head?
One of my many sources, Melanie91, sent us this little gem…
What? Who?
Spotted: Manhattan’s Queen, seen leaving the Q3 after-party last night in the company of her ex-husband, Harry Castillo.
What? No— what was happening? This was a dream. It had to be.
The voice kept going, smug. Relentless.
Didn’t these two divorce five years ago? Didn’t they avoid the same rooms, the same parties, the same air?
A pause. Almost a laugh.
Don’t believe me? See for yourselves. Sources confirmed the two were photographed getting into his car and heading straight to Harry Castillo’s penthouse.
Screens lit up everywhere. Phones. Tablets. Laptops. All at once.
A collective gasp rippled through rooms, streets, crowded spaces — a sound you somehow heard, even as your ears started ringing. Your stomach dropped. No. This wasn’t happening.
But here where it gets interesting…
Of course it did.
Special thanks to my other source, who provided photographic proof. At 5 a.m., Queen was seen leaving alone — appearance disheveled, emotions… visible.
A sharp, mocking edge slipped into the voice.
Even queens had bad nights, it seems.
The screen flashed white. The photo filled everything. You. 5 a.m. Eyes red. Tears clinging to your lashes. Mid-step into a taxi, your body half-turned — caught in the exact second you hadn’t known anyone was watching. A moment you never agreed to share. A moment you didn’t consent to being remembered.
The whispers exploded, overlapping, multiplying—
“Oh my God.”
“Wait — is that her?”
“Are they… getting back together?”
“I thought that was ancient history.”
Suddenly, you were in the middle of a party. You didn’t know how you got there. Music was pounding. Glasses clinking. And everyone was looking at you.
What— What was happening? Heat flooded your face. Shame hit hard and fast. You turned and ran. The room blurred. And then — you were somewhere else.
Home? No. Yes. Maybe. Scarlet’s hand gripped your arm too tightly, grounding and suffocating all at once. Richard stepped closer, his phone already in your face, the screen glowing like an accusation. “Explain this. Now.”
“How could you?”
Mike snorted from somewhere behind them, shaking his head like this was all absurd. “So Gossip Girl was real,” he muttered. “Wow. Guess we should’ve listened.”
As if you could have missed it. As if the entire city hadn’t been watching you in real time.
The crowd parted without you moving. Not to make space—but to put you on display. Elite friends. Familiar faces. People who had known you forever—or had simply memorized your name well enough to ruin it. Their gazes cut into you. Lingering. Judging.
And then the whispers began. Soft at first. Curious. Cruel.
“Did you hear?”
“Five in the morning… leaving his place.”
“So they slept together?”
“I always wondered how far she’d fall.”
“Our Queen,” someone murmured, lips curling. “Was it cheap?”
Everyone staring. Everyone knowing.
You stood there, frozen in the middle of it— not a woman anymore, but a scandal breathing, exposed under a hundred polished smiles and sharpened eyes.
No. No, no, no.
Your chest tightened. Panic crawled up your throat. “Stop,” you gasped. “No— no— no—” You screamed, “NO!”
You jolted upright with a sharp gasp. The sheets flew off the bed. Your skin was damp, hair clinging to the back of your neck, heart racing like it was trying to escape your chest. Silence. You reached up and pushed the sleep mask off your eyes. Morning light spilled softly through the curtains, pale gold slipping across the walls, the floor, the familiar shape of your room. Your room. Not a Blair Waldorf fantasy. Not a penthouse from hell.
Relief washed over you in a slow, shaky wave.
“Oh,” you breathed, hand pressed to your chest. “…Oh my God. Thank God. Thank Jesus.” The room was still. Safe. Ordinary. “It was a fucking dream,” you whispered.
You swallowed, then let out a small, breathless laugh as the tension drained from your shoulders. “Damn. Living in the Gossip Girl universe would be terrifying.” You sank back into the mattress, a smile tugging at your lips. Of course it was a dream. All of it. The exposure, the whispers, the cameras. None of it was real.
It was just a dream, yes, a nightmare.
You pulled the sleep mask back over your eyes and settled into the pillow, smiling now, calmer, almost peaceful.
Right.
Just as sleep began to take you again— you froze.
Something pulled at your awareness. A thought. A sensation. Slowly, you lifted the edge of the sleep mask and glanced toward the far side of the room. The chair. And draped over the back— the dress.
Your smile disappeared. You sat up slowly, tugging the sleep mask up onto your head instead. “…Wasn’t it just a dream?” you murmured. “Like the others?”
You’d had those before. Too many times after the divorce. Those vivid, erotic dreams that left you breathless and filled with a mix of frustration and desire. Steamy visions where you could almost feel his touch, hear his voice, taste his lips, and catch his scent lingering on your skin and across your sheets. Dreams that always seemed to end in guilt, leaving you with damp panties. With you waking up furious at yourself for wanting what you shouldn’t.
But this— this wasn’t like that.
There was evidence. Everywhere.
And suddenly it all came rushing back. His confession. You telling him to stop— and then not stopping him at all. The kisses. Too rough to linger on. Too hungry to slow down. Just flashes now—his mouth crashing into yours, control already gone, restraint burned away.
Your hands in his shirt, gripping, pulling, undoing it without thinking, like distance itself had become unbearable. He hadn't even bother to take your dress off. Too impatient. Too far gone. He’d just shoved it up, pushed it in a rush of heat and fury, anger and want blurring together as your bodies surged toward each other— reckless, starved, already past the point of stopping.
The most private parts of you—untouched for five years—opening again to the only person who ever knew exactly how. As if he still remembered the code. The sounds. Your sounds. His.
And then— After. What you did. What you said. The look on his face.
“Fuck,” you whispered hoarsely. “I wish it had been a dream.”
Because then it wouldn’t hurt like this.
Sleep was officially impossible.
You swung your legs out of bed, deliberately avoiding looking at the dress, and headed straight for the bathroom—but the memories followed you there too.
You remembered coming home around five-thirty, peeling off your shoes and clothes and stepping into the shower without thinking. Standing there for half an hour, water scorching your skin while you cried until your chest ached.
Your bra and panties were still on the bathroom floor.
Discarded.
Abandoned.
Almost mocking you.
And your traitorous mind kept replaying the same image—how he hadn’t even bothered to remove them, just yanked them aside, almost ripping them off and how he entered you in one thrust, how he came inside of you with that beautiful groan of his, like a music to your ears and, how his cum making them soaked, his white sheets were total mess, remembering that feeling made your breath hitch—
You almost gasped and laughed at your reflection.
“Stop,” you muttered. “Forget it. Forget it. It didn’t happen.”
Then your gaze caught on your neck.
A faint bruise.
Soft. Purple.
Undeniable.
There it was.
Proof.
Your fingers hovered near it as memory sharpened—his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, what they’d done to you… how much you’d liked it.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” you hissed.
You turned on the tap, splashed cold water over your face, dried off quickly, then scooped the discarded clothes off the floor and shoved them somewhere out of sight.
Out of sight. Out of mind. Supposedly.
Back in your room, you sat at your vanity and went through the motions—day cream, practiced movements, control. You gently dabbed moisturizer over the bruise, layered concealer on top, dusted it with powder.
Gone.
At least visually.
But that didn’t stop the images from flashing behind your eyes. Over and over. Persistent. Intrusive.
And the worst part?
It hadn’t felt wrong.
You lifted your gaze—and caught your reflection in the glass of the revenge mood board behind you.
It looked… different now.
You stood and walked toward it slowly.
Harry’s photo was pinned there multiple times. You’d stared at it for weeks, plotted around it, built strategies and petty, delicious revenge fantasies from it.
But now—
It didn’t look the same.
You averted your eyes.
As if it was watching you.
As if you were a teenager again, staring at a celebrity crush poster, heart doing stupid, traitorous things.
As if—
God.
As if you were in love again.
Worse.
You glanced back.
The difference between the woman you were a month ago and the one standing there now knocked the air from your lungs. All the games. The plans. They suddenly felt ridiculous. Excessive.
Pointless.
Your hand trembled as you pulled his photo down and slipped it into the bedside drawer without looking at it.
Then, one by one, you ripped the Post-its from the board and tossed them into the trash.
The mood board was left bare.
Just tiny pinholes scattered across the surface.
Like wounds.
“Seriously,” you muttered under your breath.
“What is wrong with me? Am I losing it?”
You shook your head, forcing logic back into place.
“I can’t fall in love with him again. That’s impossible. Ridiculous.”
You said it like a threat.
Like a rule.
Ignoring the way your chest tightened, you got dressed, straightened your shoulders, and left the room—dragging yourself back into reason, even as your heart quietly rebelled behind you.
You paused outside the building for half a second longer than necessary. Your eyes lifted to the glass façade, to the name etched into steel above the entrance.
CASTILLO CAPITAL.
Damn it. The word Castillo had never felt this loud before. Never this… intrusive. Once, it had belonged to you. Now it felt foreign — and somehow closer than ever.
Great. Perfect. You were officially losing it.
“It’s just a stupid name,” you muttered under your breath, annoyed with yourself. Just letters. Just branding. Nothing more. You squared your shoulders and walked inside.
Coming back to work after last night felt… strange. Wrong, almost. But staying home with your thoughts — with the inevitable conversation waiting for you with your mother — would have been unbearable. Right now, distraction was survival.
Your mind was a mess. A tangle of fear, heat, regret, clarity, denial — all colliding at once. You’d give anything to be in Kyoto right now, sitting across from Jeff during one of those quiet Zen meditation sessions you’d once found ridiculous. Funny how wrong you’d been. They actually worked. Those monks knew what they were talking about.
Acceptance created movement. Resistance created suffering. Ignoring the truth was harder than facing it — because wherever you went, your mind followed. And lust? Lust blinded the eye; stillness revealed the truth.
Easy to say, you thought. Easy when sitting cross-legged in a forest, breathing pine air and drinking herbal tea. Try saying it again on the Upper East Side, with paparazzi waiting to exploit your smallest misstep. Or better yet, on Wall Street, where ambition never slept and vulnerability was a liability.
You scanned your key card at the turnstile, shaking your head at yourself. “Get it together,” you whispered. “You’ve survived worse than this.” Please, you thought, let me get to my desk without seeing him. I’ll bury myself in work, disappear until evening, and go straight home. Maybe you should talk to Emily. Or someone. Anyone.
You were so wrapped up in your thoughts that when someone called your name, you nearly jumped out of your skin. Slowly, you turned — your pulse roaring in your ears — only to find one of the interns smiling at you.
“Good morning!” Relief hit so hard it was almost embarrassing.
“Good morning,” you replied, forcing a smile.
As you walked on, you noticed a few people glancing your way. Lingering looks. Curiosity. Right. Last night. You’d overstepped — said too much to an intern about the CEO’s ex-wife. If they knew the truth, you thought — and immediately regretted it. The idea alone made your skin prickle.
You headed toward the elevators — and spotted John just as he was about to step inside. Perfect. “Hey, John!”
He turned. “Hey. Morning.” His tone threw you off. Quieter than usual. Less bright. Still, he held the elevator for you.
“Thanks,” you said as you stepped in. Then, unable to stop yourself: “Okay, but what was that? Where did your usual sunshine go?”
He shrugged lightly. “Nothing. I—just… Did you make it home alright last night? Your phone was off.”
Your phone. Right. The one Harry had hurled against the wall and shattered. You cleared your throat. “Uh — yeah. My battery died. Then I fell asleep. Thanks for checking in.”
“Always,” he said, but his eyes stayed on the floor indicator.
A beat passed. Then you looked at his face. “I think I might’ve snapped at you yesterday. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
The elevator stopped. Dana stepped in.
John glanced back at you. “Yeah, um… We were having fun, and then suddenly… something shifted. It happened when those girls were talking about Harry and his ex.” You stiffened.
“I don’t know what you have against him,” John continued carefully, “but whatever it is, it’s mutual. He’s tense around you too.”
Before you could respond, Dana cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt — but Ms. Queen, I was actually looking for you. I need your help with something for a meeting, if you have a moment.”
You met John’s eyes. He gave you a small nod. “We’ll talk later,” you said. As the elevator doors opened, John lifted a hand in goodbye. Dana and you stepped out. You exhaled the second the doors closed.
“This was the Legal and Compliance floor, right?” you asked. “What is the issue?”
Dana hesitated — then pressed the button for another elevator instead. “…There wasn’t one,” she admitted with a sheepish smile. “I just noticed the conversation was going somewhere uncomfortable. I thought you might appreciate an escape.”
You laughed softly. “Dana, you’re a lifesaver. Truly.”
“…I could tell it was uncomfortable for you,” she said softly. You exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. “It really was. Lying — even by omission — felt awful.”
“I don’t want to overstep,” she said gently, “but… Mr. Pitts is going to find out eventually.”
You nodded slowly. “You’re right. I just need a minute to get my head straight — and then I’ll tell him.”
The second elevator doors closed, it was just the two of you. You glanced at her — the red-framed glasses she was wearing today, lashes brushing the lenses. Brown hair pulled back neatly, green eyes warmer than you’d realized. She was… actually beautiful. Not in a loud way. In a quiet, effortless one.
“Dana?” you asked, a little tense. She looked up. “Have you ever been in love?” She blinked. “Uh… I think if I had been, I’d know?” You nodded slowly. “Do you think someone can fall in love with the same person twice?”
Her fingers loosened around her bag strap as she considered it. “I don’t really know,” she admitted. “But my grandmother used to say something.” You smiled faintly. “Older women are always wise. Go on.” “She used to say a heart only loves once. Love isn’t something you can buy or find just anywhere. If you find it, you’re lucky. Love is the most beautiful thing to have, hardest thing to earn and most painful thing to lose.”
You hummed quietly. “She’s not wrong.” Dana looked at you thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s no such thing as falling in love twice. Maybe if you loved someone once… that love never really dies. It just goes quiet. Until something reignites it.”
Your throat tightened, eyes burning just enough to give you away. Dana panicked immediately. “—But that’s just her opinion! I mean—”
You smiled at her. “Thank you, Dana. Really.”
Then your gaze dropped to her outfit. Clean lines. Thoughtful choices. “You know,” you added lightly, “we should go shopping sometime. You’re very good at dressing well on a budget.”
Her face lit up. “R-really? I’d love that.”
You smiled at her and stepped out on your floor as the doors opened. Back at your desk, you greeted everyone — complaints about hangovers, the DJ, the speeches, laughter filling the air. You almost relaxed. Almost.
Then you stopped. Flowers. Elegant. Excessive. Impossible to ignore.
White orchids and roses, arranged with deliberate precision — not flashy, not sentimental. Creamy whites softened by muted greens, the balance exact, intentional. And tucked between them — hellebore. Rare. Quiet. Almost severe in its beauty.
The flowers were impossibly fresh. Petals unbruised, stems firm, cut only hours ago. This wasn’t something picked up on a whim. There were maybe one — two places in all of New York capable of arranging something like this. Florists who didn’t sell flowers so much as discretion. Who sourced selectively. Who understood restraint.
This wasn’t just romantic. It was personal.
The kind of bouquet only someone who knew you intimately — and knew exactly where to go — would ever think to send. You didn’t even need to open the card. Still, you did.
Good morning — H
You slipped the card into your hand quickly, scanning the room. A few curious glances. A few murmurs. You ignored them. You couldn’t stop the smile that sneaked onto your lips. You set the arrangement down gently, still resting in its luxury flower box — rigid, immaculate, the florist’s name embossed in subtle lettering along the side — then sat down, inhaled slowly, and opened your notebook and tablet.
You started working. Or rather — you tried.
From the corner of the open floor, Ron watched. Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough to see you stop at your desk. Just enough for you to see the flowers. And just enough to catch the way your lips curved — soft, involuntary — when you realized what they were.
Ron smiled to himself. He turned on his heel and headed straight for the executive elevators.
The doors opened onto the CEO floor.
Dana was seated at her desk, fingers moving quickly over her keyboard. She was mid-sentence on the screen when she noticed Ron. She pushed her chair back slightly and looked up.
“Oh,” she said. “Where were you? Mr. Castillo was asking for you.”
Ron grinned. “I know. We had a… special errand.”
He glanced around the floor, then leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper right by her ear.
Dana’s eyes widened. She immediately slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh my God. So cute.”
Ron chuckled — then instantly straightened, dropping his voice into something far more appropriate for the floor.
“Shh. CEO level. Serious faces.”
Dana nodded quickly, schooling her expression as she rolled her chair back toward her computer at the same time Ron pulled himself together.
They lasted three seconds.
Ron headed for Harry’s office, throwing Dana a quick wink over his shoulder.
She bit back a laugh and turned back to her screen, still smiling as she resumed typing.
The moment Ron stepped inside, Harry was already on his feet.
“Well?” Harry asked immediately.
Ron didn’t rush his answer. He let the moment stretch just long enough to enjoy it.
“She saw them,” he said calmly. “Just now. Placed them right on the edge of her desk.”
Harry exhaled. “Did she—”
He hesitated. “Did she like them?”
Ron nodded. “Yeah. She did.”
Harry frowned slightly. “How do you know?”
Ron let out a small, almost shy smile.
“She smiled.”
Harry closed his eyes for a brief second. When he opened them, the tension had softened.
He smiled — openly this time.
His shoulders loosened as he sank back into his chair.
Ron watched him for a beat, then pulled the chair opposite and dropped into it.
“So,” Ron said, tilting his head. “You two finally made peace.”
Harry’s expression shifted. Subtle. Serious.
“Not exactly.”
Ron blinked. “What do you mean, not exactly? You left the party together. Flowers showed up this morning.”
Harry sighed.
Ron leaned forward slightly now, voice careful. “You spent the night—?”
“It’s complicated,” Harry said gently, cutting him off. “There are still things between us. Things we haven’t resolved.”
Ron’s face fell — like someone watching their favorite team lose in overtime.
He pouted. “There go my New Year bonus predictions,” he muttered.
Harry squinted. “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” Ron said quickly, waving it off. Then, more sincerely:
“I just wish you’d get back together already. The tension between you two is… visible. Like, from space.”
Harry exhaled, then nodded.
“It will happen,” he said quietly. “I’m going to do everything I can. I’m going to win her heart.”
Ron studied him — really studied him — then leaned back with a small, supportive smile.
“I’ve got your back,” he said simply.
Harry straightened slightly, resolve sharpening in his eyes.
“Good,” he said. “Because I need you to do one more thing for me.”
You stared at your screen, typing the same line over and over again. Deleting it. Rewriting it. Typing it again. Your eyes drifted — inevitably — to the flowers. You sighed. They were still there. Perfect. Quiet. Judging you. You tried to refocus.
At some point, Lucy stopped by your desk, asking one of the interns a question. Her gaze lingered on the arrangement a beat too long. If you weren’t already drowning in your own thoughts, you might have noticed the look — curious, sharp, calculating. But you didn’t. You didn’t notice anything at all.
Until your desk phone rang.
You picked it up without thinking. “Yes?”
“…Ms. Queen.”
You froze. Harry’s voice.
“I need you to come to my office. Now.”
You swallowed. Panic kicked in faster than logic. “Um... I’m very busy. I can’t,” you blurted out — and hung up.
Silence.
The girls at the neighboring desks stared at you. Whisper immediately broke out. You pretended nothing happened and kept typing.
Several floors above, Harry stared at his phone as it beeped uselessly. He exhaled. “Hanging up on your boss,” he muttered to himself. “You really made a habit of that.” Then he stood. “Fine,” he said quietly. “If you won’t come to me… I’ll come to you.”
He straightened his jacket and strode out without sparing Ron or Dana a glance. They exchanged a look. Ron shrugged. Dana shrugged back. “Well,” Ron said. “Back to the schedule.”
The elevator opened on your floor. A ripple moved through the open office.
“Mr. Castillo—”
“Oh. Mr. Castillo.”
“He’s coming this way.”
You heard it before you saw him. Oh God.
Your survival instincts kicked in. Without thinking, you launched yourself out of your chair and dove under your desk. “Queen?” one of the girls whispered. “What are you doing?”
“I dropped a pen,” you hissed. “Looking for it. You keep going. Work.”
You dragged your chair closer, using it as a shield.
Harry scanned the floor, eyes sharp, searching. People swarmed him instantly.
“Is there anything you need?”
“Can we help with something?”
He offered a polite, tight smile. “Just checking in,” he said. “Seeing how everyone’s doing.” His eyes never stopped moving.
Under the desk, you closed your eyes. Please don’t come here. Please don’t come here.
Then — opportunity.
You slipped out from the other side of the desk and bolted. Head down. Fast. Like you were dodging paparazzi all over again.
“Good luck, everyone,” Harry called casually behind you. “Keep up the great work.”
He saw you. Immediately.
“There she is,” he murmured — and followed.
You passed John. “Hey John, catch up later!” you threw over your shoulder.
John blinked, lifting a hand. “Uh— okay?”
Harry breezed past him a second later. “Hey, John. Doing well?” he said cheerfully. John watched you go. “Guess it’s one of those days,” he muttered, returning to his desk.
You slowed when you hit an open area, forcing a smile so no one got suspicious. Harry’s voice cut through the hum. “Queen!” A few heads turned. He corrected himself smoothly. “Um.. Ms. Queen — may I have a word?”
You gritted your teeth. “Why is he following me like a duckling,” you muttered, speed-walking again.
A narrow corridor appeared. You didn’t even check the sign. You yanked open the first door you saw, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind you. “Don’t come in. Don’t come in,” you whispered.
You turned.
Six men stared back at you. A projector beam hit you square in the face. INFRASTRUCTURE REVIEW MEETING glowed on the screen behind you.
“…Oh.”
Silence.
“I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, forcing an awkward smile. “Wrong meeting.” They kept staring. “Really sorry,” you added, backing toward the door. “Please— continue. Infrastructure is… very important.”
You escaped, apologizing repeatedly.
The moment you stepped back into the hallway, you collided with something solid. Your back hit the door. You gasped.
Harry.
Standing right in front of you. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
“What,” he asked calmly, “are you doing exactly?”
You blinked. Swallowed. “Working,” you said quickly. “Learning things.”
He gestured to the door behind you. “In an infrastructure review meeting?”
You nodded. “Yes. Cross-functional awareness. Very… proactive.”
Harry let out a quiet laugh. “Stop making excuses,” he said. “You’re very clearly running away from me.”
“I am not,” you fired back. “I have reports to finish.”
You pivoted and marched toward the elevators.
Harry stood there, stunned.
“I— I bought you a new phone,” he called after you.
But you were already gone.
The elevator doors closed.
Harry stared at the empty hallway for a long second. Then he laughed — genuinely, incredulous. “Running away now?” he muttered with a crooked smile. “Guess we’re doing this like teenagers.”
With an hour left before lunch, you were already planning your escape routes for the afternoon. Emails. Meetings. Bathroom breaks. Anything that kept you from running into him again.
You were halfway through a document when a shadow fell across your desk.
“Ms. Queen.”
You looked up. Mrs. Reyes.
“These files need to be delivered to Ms. Mason’s office,” she said briskly, passing them to you.
You blinked. “HR? Why would I—”
She arched a brow. “You do remember you’re an intern, right?”
You forced a polite smile. If you knew who I actually am, you’d be looking for a place to hide, you thought darkly. Bitch.
Out loud, you simply nodded and stood.
Lucy’s floor felt different. Quieter. More controlled. The air itself seemed monitored.
You knocked once and stepped into her office, placing the files she had requested neatly on her desk.
She barely looked up. “Thank you.” Her tone was cool. Clinical.
You turned to leave.
“Ah — Queen,” she said suddenly.
You paused.
She looked at you through her computer screen now, head tilted slightly. Studying you.
“There’s something I wanted your opinion on.”
You turned back. “Mine?”
Her gaze drifted — slow, deliberate — from your shoes to your earrings. “Yes,” Lucy said lightly. “You’re clearly interested in fashion. You dress very well… despite your salary.” The smile that followed didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t really dress like an intern,” she added. “More like someone higher up.”
You kept your expression neutral. “Anyone who understands style can dress well on a budget.”
Lucy’s lips curved. “That’s exactly why I wanted your help,” she said, gesturing to her screen. “Come closer.”
You did.
A shopping site filled the monitor. Men’s watches.
Your brow lifted slightly.
“I’m buying a gift,” Lucy said casually. “For someone very special. A Christmas present. I know it’s early, but this one matters.”
Something in her tone made your stomach tighten.
“The kind of gift depends on how close you are to the person,” you said carefully. “How important they are to you.”
She laughed softly. “Oh. Very important.”
Then she leaned forward and showed you her necklace — almost pressing it into your line of sight. “He gave me this for my birthday,” she said. A delicate piece. Turquoise sapphire. Elegant. Expensive. “He even wrote a note,” Lucy added casually. “Said the color reminded him of my eyes.” She smiled. “Isn’t that sweet?”
You swallowed. Did he now?
You tilted your head, professional. “Then something meaningful would make sense. Understated. Personal.”
Lucy watched you too closely. “Exactly,” she said. “I want to give him something just as thoughtful.”
You tilted your head slightly again. “If you tell me a little about his personality,” you said calmly, “I can help you choose better. Gifts make more sense when they fit the person.”
Lucy’s expression softened — almost fond. “Well,” she began, thinking aloud. “He’s very focused. A workaholic, really. Always busy, always thinking ten steps ahead.”
You nodded once.
“He’s polite,” she continued. “Reserved. Not the loud type. But when he pays attention… it’s very deliberate.”
Your fingers stilled on the desk.
“He has good manners,” Lucy added, smiling. “Old-fashioned, in a way. Reliable. Protective.”
Of course.
“And intelligent,” she went on. “Intimidatingly so. But kind. Quietly kind.”
You held your smile in place, every word landing exactly where it hurt. “That helps,” you said evenly. “A lot.”
Inside, your mind supplied the missing piece automatically. You could’ve just said his name, you thought. That would’ve been faster.
You nodded, fingers brushing the trackpad as you scanned the page. “These aren’t quite right,” you said, opening another tab. “If he’s the type you’re describing… he’d suit something more classic. Minimal. Timeless.”
You stopped on one. “This,” you said quietly.
Lucy studied the screen — then looked at you, impressed. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “Classic. Minimal. Elegant.” Her smile sharpened. “It’s almost like you know him,” she added. “You’re good at this, Queen.”
Your chest tightened. Just a fraction. You smiled anyway.
As you left her office, her words echoed louder than they should have. Out in the corridor, you slowed your steps.
A necklace, you thought. He bought her a necklace.
The thought followed you down the hall, heavy and unwelcome, refusing to let go.
Lunch was minutes away when Ron knocked once and stepped into Harry’s office.
Harry was standing by the window, hands buried in his pockets. The phone box still sat on his desk — unopened.
Ron cleared his throat. “We should probably prep for your lunch meeting. I just spoke with the restaurant. Private room. Curated menu. Very… Parisian.”
Harry hummed absently.
Down on the street, people were already spilling out of the building. Lunch-hour energy. Movement. Noise.
“Monsieur Étienne Moreau agreed to meet before heading back to France,” Ron added, more carefully now. “That makes this one important. Last time you pushed it back, he almost walked. Took weeks to get him to agree again.”
Harry exhaled slowly.
Moreau. Skeptical. Calculated. The kind of man who never needed the deal — and knew it.
“He doesn’t take meetings unless he thinks they’re worth his time,” Ron continued. “And he’s particular about his lunches. He hates surprises.”
Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.
“That’s his prerogative,” Harry said coolly. “We’re not the ones chasing this. Castillo Capital isn’t built on favors.”
Ron nodded, then shifted, watching him. Then, deliberately casual:
“Everyone’s heading out for lunch,” he said. “Ms. Queen too, I think. I might’ve overheard her and John talking about it when I passed her desk.”
That did it.
Harry turned. “Is she?”
Ron nodded. “Yeah. Sounded set.”
Harry exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting back to the phone box.
She’d avoided me all morning. Wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t come to my office. But she’d go to lunch with him.
His jaw tightened.
“Alright,” he said after a beat. “Change of plans.”
Ron straightened immediately. “Oh?”
“I’ll need an assistant for the lunch meeting,” Harry said calmly, already moving back toward his desk.
Ron’s face brightened. “Perfect. I’ll come. That place has an incredible steak and—”
“No,” Harry cut in. “You already have too much on your plate today.”
Ron sighed. “If that plate included a decent steak, I’d be a lot happier.”
Harry didn’t even look up.
“And your French,” Harry added, dry. “Isn’t fluent.”
Ron groaned. “I’m one level away, alright? Any day now.”
Harry finally turned from the window.
“Queen,” he said. “Ms. Queen will do.”
Ron blinked. “She’s not an assistant.”
Harry lifted a brow, cool and unmistakable. “I’m the CEO, Ron. I decide who assists me.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “And her French is excellent.”
A beat.
Then Ron’s mouth curved into something knowing.
“Oh,” he said. “A romantic French lunch.”
Harry shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Business lunch, Ron.”
Ron raised his hands. “Understood. No commentary. Strictly professional.”
He headed for the door, still grinning to himself.
Behind him, Harry finally reached for the phone box. He slipped it into his coat pocket and allowed himself the smallest smile — one he didn’t bother hiding.
John appeared at your desk right on time, jacket already slung over one arm.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah — one second. Let me grab my coat.”
You barely managed to stand when Mrs. Reyes materialized beside you like a gathering storm. Her heels stopped just short of your chair.
“Queen,” she said sharply. “You’ve been requested as assistant for Mr. Castillo’s lunch meeting. Five minutes. Downstairs.”
You blinked. “What? But I— why me?”
Reyes fixed you with a look that could freeze glass.
“The CEO reviewed your CV,” she said coolly. “It seems he intends to make use of the skills you listed.” A pause. Then, pointedly: “Your French.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Notebook. Pen,” she added. “Don’t be late.”
She turned and walked away without another word.
John stared after her, eyebrows raised. “Did that just happen?”
“I think it did,” you muttered. “Why is my life like this?”
“Don’t they have other assistants?” he asked.
“Apparently not,” you sighed. “This is exactly what I needed today.”
John smiled, half amused, half impressed. “Well… looks like that fluent French of yours finally came in handy. Guess there aren’t many of you around here.”
“Lucky me,” you murmured.
“Well,” he said, stepping back. “See you after lunch, then.”
“Yeah. See you.”
You grabbed your tablet, notebook, pens — checked them twice — and headed for the elevators.
Outside the building, a sleek black car waited at the curb, engine idling softly — not Harry’s Mercedes, but one of Castillo Capital’s official vehicles, all polished lines and tinted windows.
The window lowered.
“Ms. Queen,” Harry said coolly. “We’re running late.”
You hesitated for half a second — then slid into the seat. The door closed with a soft, final thud.
He handed you a clipboard the moment you sat.
“Take notes. Key points. Action items.”
You shot him a look. “Why me? Where’s Ron?”
“He had… other priorities,” Harry replied, eyes forward.
You scoffed. “So you didn’t pick me on purpose.”
“Maybe,” he said evenly.
“Maybe?”
Harry reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small box. He held it out to you without looking.
“If you hadn’t been avoiding me earlier,” he said quietly, “I would’ve given you this then.”
You stared at it.
Inside lay the latest model phone.
“I’m sorry I broke yours,” he added.
You took the box, opening it carefully. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I should have,” Harry said simply. “It was my fault.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, yes. Throwing someone’s phone at a wall is generally considered bad manners.”
His mouth twitched.
“I’ve been phone-less all morning,” you went on, arching a brow. “Very inconvenient. Mildly traumatic. But thank you.”
You slipped the phone into your bag.
“Well,” you said lightly, “now that that’s settled, you can find another assistant.”
You reached for the door handle.
Harry moved faster.
His hand closed over the door before you could open it, and he leaned in — close enough that your breath caught, close enough that the air shifted.
Your eyes locked.
For one dangerous second, he considered kissing you. It took everything not to.
"J’ai vraiment besoin de toi à cette réunion," (I really need you at this meeting.) he said quietly.
You swallowed, your gaze flicking to his lips.
"Oui," (Yes.) you replied softly. "J’ai compris. Et si la conversation dévie — je saurai exactement quand intervenir." (I understand. And if the conversation drifts — I’ll know exactly when to step in.)
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"Tu vois ?" (You see?) he murmured. "Ton français est impeccable. C’est pour ça que tu es là." (Your French is flawless. That’s why you’re here.)
He pulled back, settling into his seat.
“Good,” he said, composed again. “Now — agenda items.”
You blinked. Then let out a quiet laugh. “Oh. Right.”
You started writing.
And the entire drive, Harry watched you — focused, composed, right by his side, exactly where he wanted you.
The restaurant was quiet in the way only very expensive places ever were.
White tablecloths. Low voices. A private dining room tucked discreetly away from the main floor, shielded from curious eyes and unnecessary noise. Soft lighting caught on crystal glasses and polished cutlery, casting everything in a warm, controlled glow.
Harry sat beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed when you reached for your notebook.
Across from you, Monsieur Étienne Moreau observed the room with practiced ease — composed, unhurried, the kind of man who never felt the need to rush a decision.
Menus were closed. Water had been poured.
The conversation began smoothly enough.
Until it didn’t.
“I still find the structure too rigid,” Moreau said in English, folding his hands. “It leaves little room for… interpretation.”
Harry’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Our structure is what ensures stability,” he replied evenly. “Our partners value that.”
Moreau smiled — polite, but unconvinced.
Then, deliberately, he switched languages.
"La stabilité peut aussi devenir une prison, non ?"
(Stability can also become a prison, can’t it?)
Harry’s gaze flicked briefly to you.
You spoke before the silence stretched too long.
"Pas si elle est bien pensée, Monsieur. Une structure solide permet d’évoluer sans perdre sa cohérence."
(Not if it’s well designed, Monsieur. A solid framework allows growth without losing coherence.)
Moreau’s eyes sharpened with interest.
"C’est une belle façon de le dire," (That’s a beautiful way to put it.), he replied.
You continued, measured and precise, clarifying the flexibility built into the framework — not defensively, but confidently.
The tension eased.
Wine arrived. Plates followed.
The conversation shifted — slowly, naturally — from negotiation to philosophy, from numbers to intent.
Moreau leaned back in his chair, studying you openly now.
“Monsieur Castillo,” he said at last, a hint of amusement in his voice, “your assistant is not only very beautiful — but remarkably intelligent as well.”
You smiled politely, lowering your gaze just enough to keep it gracious.
“Vous êtes un homme chanceux,” Moreau added. “A lucky man.”
Harry’s smile was tight.
“She’s here because she’s exceptionally competent,” he replied coolly. “Not because she’s decorative.”
Moreau’s brows lifted — impressed rather than offended.
“Touché.”
The rest of the lunch flowed easily after that.
Details were agreed upon. Timelines aligned.
The deal settled.
As they stood, Moreau checked his watch.
“I’ve moved my flight to tonight,” he said. “They’re predicting snow tomorrow. I’d rather not test New York airports in winter.”
Harry nodded. “Wise choice.”
Moreau shook Harry’s hand firmly — then turned to you.
He took your hand gently and pressed a brief kiss to your knuckles.
"Enchanté, Madame," (It was a pleasure, Madam.) he said warmly.
Harry stiffened.
You withdrew your hand smoothly, offering a polite smile. “And you, Monsieur.”
Moreau departed shortly after, coat draped over his arm, deal secured.
The door closed.
You exhaled dramatically and sank back into your chair.
“Oh, thank God,” you said. “He’s gone. Now I can finally eat.”
You reached for your plate without ceremony.
Harry laughed quietly. “Go ahead. You earned it.”
You took a proper bite this time.
“Seriously,” he added, softer now. “You were incredible. Thank you.”
As you leaned forward, a small trace of cream lingered at the corner of your mouth.
Harry noticed before you did.
Without thinking, he reached out with his napkin, brushing it away gently.
“Slow down,” he murmured. “You don’t have to inhale it.”
Your heart skipped — once, hard.
You froze for half a second.
Then smiled, lowering your eyes back to your plate, suddenly very aware of how close he still was.
And how quiet the room had become.
Harry didn’t pull back.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice low.
“Can I ask you something?”
You hummed, lifting your glass and taking a slow sip of wine.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
You paused, glass still in your hand.
“Avoiding?” you said lightly. “Where did you get that idea?”
He exhaled. “Last night—”
“Harry, please,” you cut in softly.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” he asked. “Why were you at that hospital?”
You swallowed, then took another bite of dessert — deliberately.
Avoiding the conversation seemed like the only option.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“You know I’m going to find out eventually,” he said. “But. I’d rather hear it from you.”
You finished chewing. Slowly.
“Alright,” you said at last, looking at him. “You want to know?”
He nodded.
“Cosmetic,” you said flatly. “There. That’s your answer.”
Harry rolled his eyes and smiled crookedly.
“Strange,” he said quietly, his gaze lingering, “because I don’t remember leaving a single part of your body unexplored last night — every inch felt exactly the way I remembered it, too well for anything ‘cosmetic.’”
Your chest tightened.
He leaned closer. “So you’re choosing the hard way?”
“I’m not choosing anything.”
He tilted his head. “You still love me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Hmm. I think you do.”
Something snapped.
You needed to change the subject. Immediately, you told yourself.
“You know,” you said sharply, lifting note-worthy calm into your voice, “you stand there telling me you love me—”
You paused, letting the words hang.
“—while you’re busy buying other women necklaces that conveniently match their eye color.”
Harry froze. Completely.
“What?”
“Lucy,” you said coolly. “She practically shoved it in my face today. Her birthday gift.”
A beat.
“From someone she made very clear is important to her.”
The word landed exactly where you meant it to.
He blinked — then laughed.
“You’re laughing?” you snapped. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“I didn’t buy it,” he said, still amused. “Dana picked it. I forgot Lucy’s birthday last minute and panicked. I was trying not to look like an idiot.”
Your brows lifted before you could stop them.
“Oh,” you said. “So that’s how it is.” Your lips twitched.
“Wait,” he said quietly. “Are you… jealous?”
There was something sharp in his eyes now. Amused. Knowing.
“What?” you said too quickly, turning back to your plate. “No.”
Harry’s mouth curved, slow and certain. “I think you are.”
You scoffed. “I’m not.”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he shifted closer — not abruptly, not enough to make a scene — just enough that his arm came around the back of your chair, caging you in without ever quite touching.
“You’re lying,” he murmured, voice dropping to a whisper. “Just like you were last night.”
His eyes burned with it.
Your breath hitched. Your lips were suddenly far too close to his.
You swallowed.
Your eyes closed on instinct.
For a suspended moment, you were sure he was going to kiss you.
Instead, he brushed a slow, teasing kiss against your cheek.
Deliberate. Infuriating.
You inhaled — and his cologne filled your lungs, warm, familiar, heady, settling deep enough to make your skin prickle.
Heat curled low in your stomach.
His lips lingered just long enough to make it cruel.
Then he pulled back.
You exhaled sharply and stood at once, smoothing your skirt with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.
“Alright,” you said, a little breathless. “If we’re done eating, we should head back to the office.”
You grabbed your bag and turned toward the door, lifting a hand to fan your face as you walked.
“Why is it so hot in here?” you muttered under your breath.
As you moved through the restaurant, a couple of servers glanced your way — curious, faintly amused — before quickly looking away again, professionalism snapping back into place.
Behind you, Harry laughed — soft, unmistakably pleased.
As he followed you out of the restaurant, he was still smiling.
At night.
Emily appeared on your screen sprawled sideways across her bed, one knee bent, a heating pad tucked stubbornly against her stomach. Her phone was propped up on a pillow, the angle slightly crooked.
“Okay,” she said slowly, squinting at you. “Let me get this straight.”
You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, blowing gently on your nails, watching the fresh coat of polish dry.
“He confessed his love. You slept together. You left him. And now you’re saying you need to stay away from him.”
You nodded. “Yes. Exactly that.”
Emily stared at you, unimpressed. “You hear how insane that sounds, right?”
“I need distance,” you insisted. “I have to.”
She sighed, shifting carefully. “Babe. He’s your boss. You work at the same company. I’m just… reminding you.”
“Great,” you said dryly. “Thank you for that reality check.”
Emily wasn’t done.
“And now you’re telling me he’s made you his assistant, you’re basically glued together all day, and somehow you’re going to avoid him?” She smirked. “Please. Sooner or later, you’re going to cave.”
“No,” you shot back. “That’s not happening. You’ll see. I’m keeping my distance.”
Emily raised a brow. “Ah yes. Like the distance you maintained that night.”
She paused. “Do you have any other brilliant, mature plans?”
Before you could answer, your door swung open.
Mikey walked in without knocking — of course — holding a book like it was a sacred text.
“Why,” he announced dramatically, “am I not a happy wardrobe that gets to witness you entirely while you sit, work, sleep, and exist?”
You stared at him. “…Is that Kafka?”
He nodded solemnly.
You grabbed the nearest hairbrush and hurled it at him. “Get out of my room.”
Emily leaned closer to her screen. “What’s wrong with him now?”
“Don’t ask,” you muttered. “Sienna said she could never be with someone who doesn’t read, so now he’s reinventing himself as a tortured intellectual.”
Mikey flipped a page, unfazed.
“Man is free, but everywhere he is in chains—”
“Oh my God, I’ve read it,” you snapped. “Multiple times. Go away.”
He glanced at the wall. “Hey. Where did your revenge mood board go?”
You stiffened. “None of your business. Leave. Now.”
Mikey sighed. “Fine. I still have ninety-eight books left on my before I die list.”
He walked out, shaking his head.
Emily laughed — then immediately winced. “Ow. Laughing hurts. These cramps are brutal.”
“Drink some tea,” you said automatically.
“Mom’s been forcing sakura tea on me all day. I’m about to lose it.”
You smiled faintly. “Poor thing.”
She exhaled. “Okay. Back to you. What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “My head’s a mess. All I know is… staying away from him feels necessary.”
“You’re still not going to tell him?”
You hesitated.
“Because until you do,” Emily said gently, “this doesn’t resolve. And he’s clearly not going anywhere. He cares. You see that, right?”
You sighed.
A knock sounded.
“One sec,” you grimaced. “I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Okay.”
You ended the call and set your pedicure kit aside just as the door opened again.
Scarlet stepped inside, her expression sharp with concern.
“Darling,” she said softly. “Your gynecologist called me. You missed your appointment yesterday.”
Your stomach dropped. “My phone broke,” you said quickly. “The reminders were on the old one. I forgot.”
She stepped closer, hands settling on your shoulders. “You know these checkups matter.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I’ll go. I promise.”
“I made you an appointment for tomorrow morning,” she added, gentle but firm. “You’ll be there.”
You exhaled — she was always like this. Bossy. But caring.
“Okay,” you said. “I’ll be there.”
She turned to leave — then paused.
“Sweetheart?” she asked softly. “You’ve seemed tired. Distant. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Your heart pounded.
“No,” you said carefully. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
She smiled — practiced, protective. “Not tonight.”
She kissed your forehead. “Goodnight, my love.”
When the door closed, you sank back onto the bed.
You texted Ron quickly, telling him you’d bring the report by midday tomorrow — that you had something to take care of first.
Then you lay down, pulling the covers up.
Sleep came slowly.
And despite everything, the only thing you could think about was Harry.
The next morning.
The waiting room was hushed in a way only very exclusive places ever were. Soft neutrals. Polished stone floors. Individual seating spaced far enough apart that no one ever had to acknowledge anyone else’s presence. Conversations, if there were any, were kept behind closed doors. Privacy here wasn’t requested — it was assumed.
You sat with your coat folded neatly on your lap, fingers interlaced a little too tightly. A discreet television mounted high on the wall played the morning news without urgency, volume low, almost respectful. On the screen, New York appeared muted beneath a heavy blanket of clouds.
“Snowfall is expected across the city later today,” the anchor said evenly. “Icy conditions may develop rapidly due to a cold front moving in. Motorists are advised to exercise extreme caution, particularly during peak traffic hours, as accident risk is elevated.”
Your gaze lingered on the screen a second longer than necessary.
“Ms. Queen?”
You turned. A young assistant stood at the doorway, tablet in hand. “Dr. Wright will see you now.”
You nodded, rose, and followed her down the short, carpeted hallway.
Dr. Eleanor Wright’s office felt grounding. Warm lighting. Muted colors. Nothing sterile, nothing sharp. Every detail carefully chosen to calm rather than intimidate. On one wall hung a framed letter of referral — a familiar Swiss name signed neatly at the bottom. You recognized it immediately.
Dr. Wright looked up and smiled. “Good morning. It’s good to see you.”
“Good morning,” you replied, returning the smile — thinner this time.
“I’ve been in touch with Dr. Keller,” she added, settling into her chair. “We discussed your case and how best to continue your care here.”
Of course you had.
“Let’s take a look,” she said. “Same as usual.”
Later, the lights dimmed slightly as the ultrasound monitor came to life. The gel was cold against your skin. You flinched before you could stop yourself.
Dr. Wright noticed immediately. “Take a breath. You’re safe.”
You nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling as she worked with practiced precision.
“How have you been feeling lately?” she asked.
“Alright,” you said automatically. Then corrected yourself. “Mostly.”
She hummed, making a note.
“Any unusual pain? Changes in your cycle? Persistent cramping?”
You answered honestly. Some cramping. Nothing severe. More noticeable under stress.
“And intimacy?” she asked next — professional, neutral. “Have you been sexually active recently?”
Normally, that question barely registered. This time, it did. Your throat tightened.
“Yes,” you said quietly, a faint flush rising to your cheeks.
Dr. Wright paused — just briefly — then smiled. “Oh. That’s actually very good.”
She continued, attentive now. "How did your body respond? Any pain during? Bleeding afterward?"
You hesitated. "There was some discomfort at first. But afterward… no pain. No fear. Nothing alarming."
Her expression softened. “That’s a significant step forward for you. Given your history, that’s real progress.”
She finished the exam and stepped away. “You can get dressed.”
As you pulled your blouse back on, she spoke again. “Emotionally, have there been any changes recently?”
You paused mid-button. “Yes. Quite a few.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “Stress. Old trauma resurfacing. Even desire — they all affect the body.” She met your eyes. “But allowing yourself to trust someone again? To surrender control? That’s not a setback. That’s growth.”
“There’s nothing alarming,” she reassured you. “Your body is still sensitive — it remembers. But this is not regression.”
Your hands curled lightly at your sides.
“I’d like to see you again in a few weeks,” she added. “And if anything feels off before then, you call me.”
You nodded. “Thank you.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” she said gently. “And please — talk to your therapist about how this made you feel. Processing it matters.”
You had already stepped out of the clinic when it hit you that you hadn’t asked about protection. The realization came sharp and sudden, stopping you mid-step. You turned back instinctively — just to ask — when you heard voices.
Dr. Wright’s door was still ajar.
“…the scarring is still visible,” Dr. Wright was saying quietly. “The uterine lining hasn’t changed significantly since Switzerland.”
“So the risk profile remains the same?” the assistant asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Wright replied carefully. “Spontaneous pregnancy would still be difficult. And if it happened—” She paused. “—the risk of loss would be high.”
Your chest tightened.
No one said impossible. But no one said hopeful either.
You turned away.
Outside, the cold hit your face hard. Sharp enough to sting. Still, it couldn’t reach the fire burning inside you.
You walked without direction, thoughts folding in on themselves. Would there ever be a day you left a gynecologist’s office smiling?
It didn’t seem likely.
You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the black car parked across the street.
Didn’t notice Harry stepping out the moment he saw you.
Ron had told him you’d had “something personal” this morning. When he realized where you were, he’d followed without thinking.
“She—” he started. “Why does she look so upset?”
At the same time, a traffic officer up the street was shouting, “Careful! Icy road! Let the salt truck through—”
Neither of you heard him.
Harry’s attention was fixed on your face. Too pale. Too distant.
You stepped off the curb.
Behind you, the salt truck began to slide.
Slow at first. Then faster.
Someone screamed.
“Miss— get out of the road!”
Harry turned just in time to see it.
“Queen!” he shouted, panic ripping through his voice.
You froze.
The sound of scraping metal cut through the air as the truck skidded sideways, tires losing their grip on the ice. Snow began to fall — light at first, then heavier — snapping you out of your thoughts just as you looked up and saw it coming straight toward you.
Your body locked.
Harry didn’t.
He ran.
He reached you just as the truck lurched closer, arms wrapping around you, pulling you back. The ground was slick. Too slick.
You both went down hard.
Harry slipped first. His head struck the side of a parked car with a sharp thud as you fell onto him, his arms still locked around you.
“Harry!” you screamed, still in shock.
Snowflakes clung to his hair, melting instantly against his skin.
He groaned, one hand flying to the back of his head.
“Oh my God— Harry, are you okay?” Your voice echoed down the street.
People rushed toward you.
“Ma’am, are you hurt?”
“Sir— stay still!”
"Somebody help!"
“Call 911!”
You cradled his face between your hands, tears blurring everything.
“Harry, look at me. Please.”
He opened his eyes just enough to focus on you.
“Are you okay?” he asked hoarsely.
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous,” you sobbed. “I’m fine— but you? What did you do? Why?”
His eyes rolled back.
His body went slack.
“No— no, no,” you whispered, panic tearing through you as you pulled his head into your lap. “Harry. Please. Open your eyes.”
Someone screamed for an ambulance.
The snow was falling harder now — thick, relentless — catching in your hair, soaking into your coat. A few flakes landed on his cheeks, melting instantly against his skin.
You brushed them away with trembling fingers, as if that might wake him.
“Harry,” you cried, holding him tighter, your voice breaking completely. “Please. Don’t do this. Open your eyes.”
The ambulance had arrived within minutes, sirens slicing through the snow-filled air, and now everything moved too fast. Too bright. Too loud. Harry was rushed through the emergency doors on a gurney, and you ran beside him, struggling to keep up as doctors and nurses swarmed around him.
“Ma’am, you need to stay here,” someone said firmly, a hand stopping you at the threshold.
They surrounded him.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, wild, panicked, climbing straight up your throat. God, please. Please. Please don’t let anything happen to him.
Your hands trembled at your sides as they worked on him, voices overlapping, urgent and sharp. The memory crashed into you without warning.
Bright lights. Metal. Blood.
“She’s bleeding— she’s losing too much blood!”
“Prep the trauma bay, now— now!”
Your ears rang. The words reached you in fragments, distorted, as if you were submerged underwater.
“No— no—” you tried to say, but your voice broke.
“Multiple foreign objects,” a doctor shouted. “Likely glass— abdominal and uterine penetration!”
“Get suction ready!”
“Someone call OB— now!”
Your lips trembled, and the only sound that came out was a desperate, fractured whisper.
“My baby… please— my baby…”
“Save my baby. Please. Please.”
Over and over again.
Your hands reached out blindly, grasping at air, at scrubs, at anyone. Faces blurred together. Doctors’ expressions were tight, grim — moving fast, voices clipped, fighting time itself.
“We’re running out of minutes!”
“Pressure’s not stabilizing—!”
Somewhere behind you, the chaos cracked open. Scarlet screaming your name — raw, animal. Mikey shouting, frantic, breaking. Hands grabbed your arms, holding you back.
You couldn’t breathe. Your chest seized violently, air refusing to come in, your vision narrowing to pinpoints of white.
“I can’t— I can’t—” you gasped.
A nurse caught you just as your legs gave out.
“Ma’am— ma’am, look at me!” she said urgently, gripping your shoulders. “Your husband is stable. You need to breathe. With me. Right now.”
Another voice cut in sharply.
“She’s crashing— she’s going into shock!”
The ceiling spun. The lights smeared. And then everything went dark.
When you opened your eyes, the world was quiet. Too quiet. You were lying on a bed in the ER, an IV taped to your arm. A doctor stood beside you.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked gently.
You pushed yourself upright, panic returning instantly.
“Harry,” you said hoarsely. “Where’s Harry?”
Your eyes flew to the empty bed beside you.
“Your husband?” he asked, careful. “He’s being taken care of. Another team is with him.”
He reached for your arm, efficiently removing the IV from your vein.
“You fainted from shock,” he continued. “Your vitals have stabilized. There’s no reason to keep you here.”
You barely heard him.
“Is he okay?” you whispered.
A curtain rustled.
Ron stepped into view, worry etched across his face.
“Ms. Queen,” he said softly. “You okay?”
You swung your legs off the bed.
“Harry— where is he?”
Ron held up his hands, trying to calm you.
“He’s alright. They took him upstairs to a room. They did a CT scan — it came back clean. No internal injuries. Just a mild concussion from the impact. He’s awake, but they gave him painkillers. They’re keeping him overnight for observation.”
Your knees nearly gave out with relief.
“I need to see him,” you said. “Please.”
Ron nodded immediately. “Of course. Come on.”
The elevator ride felt endless. When the doors finally opened, Ron led you down the quiet corridor.
“This is his room,” he said, stopping at a door. “I can have someone drive you home later if you want.”
You didn’t take your eyes off the door.
“No,” you said quietly. “I’m staying. If I don’t… I’ll lose my mind. I need to see him open his eyes.”
Ron studied you for a moment — then smiled gently.
“Alright. Should I call his mother?”
You shook your head. “No. Vivienne will panic. I’ll call Sienna and explain.”
“Okay,” Ron said. “I’ll check in later. And—” he hesitated. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
He left you alone.
You stepped inside.
Harry lay motionless in the hospital bed, monitors softly beeping, an IV in his arm. His face looked pale under the harsh lights. You exhaled shakily and moved closer, sinking into the chair beside him.
“Why did you do that, Harry?” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “You didn’t even think. You just… ran.”
You closed your eyes, breathing deeply.
“You didn’t think about yourself at all,” you murmured. “You just tried to protect me.”
Your gaze traced his face.
“Do you really love me that much?” you whispered.
Hospitals had always been hard for you. But this… this was worse. Seeing him there. Fragile. Still. Your chest ached. And the guilt — God, the guilt — settled heavy in your throat.
“Sometimes…” your voice came out barely louder than a breath. “Sometimes I think about telling you. About everything.”
You swallowed, lips pressing together.
“Because I can’t forget,” you whispered. “It never left me. The pain didn’t fade. No matter how hard I tried, it felt like I was lying to myself.”
Your eyes burned.
“I wasn’t someone who didn’t believe in fate,” you continued, your voice trembling now. “But I didn’t understand why this happened. Why it had to be us.”
You lowered your head. Your vision blurred as tears gathered in your eyes.
“It hurt so much,” you murmured. “It still hurts so much.”
Your voice cracked on the second sentence.
“Even thinking about it feels like I’m drowning,” you whispered, breath hitching as if the air itself refused to reach your lungs.
You sniffed quietly, trying — failing — to pull yourself together.
“So many times,” you went on, voice shaking now, “I told myself this time I’ll tell Harry. No matter what. And every time…”
Your words faltered.
“…every time I stopped.”
Tears slipped free, tracing slow, helpless paths down your cheeks.
“I wanted to,” you admitted, barely holding it together. “I wanted to tell you so badly.”
Your fingers tightened around his hand.
“I even lied to Emily,” you confessed. “Not because I thought you didn’t deserve the truth — never that.”
Your breath shuddered.
“But because the pain was too deep. Because saying it out loud felt like it would destroy me.”
You squeezed his hand harder.
“I cried for both of us… I carried it for both of us,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I carried it alone. I told myself you didn’t need to know… because if one of us could be spared, it should be you.”
Silence filled the room — heavy, aching, unbearable.
Harry stirred. Just barely.
Your breath caught.
“Harry?” you whispered.
His eyes didn’t open. But his lips moved. Your name. Soft. Unconscious. Still finding you.
“I’m here,” you breathe. “I’m right here.”
Your fingers brushed his cheek, as if touching him might anchor him here with you. You leaned down carefully and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.
“Thank you,” you whispered against him. “For saving me.” Your voice trembled. “I owe you my life.”
Your hand slid into his hair.
“I never forgot you, Harry,” you admitted quietly. “And I think… I still love you.”
More than before. Deeper. Scarier.
“That’s why I keep running,” you confessed, your forehead resting against his.
“But I don’t want to run anymore. And, I promise,” you murmured softly, “I’ll tell you everything. No more silence. No more secrets.”
When morning came, you woke with your cheek pressed to Harry’s chest, his steady breathing beneath your ear. For one suspended second, you didn’t move. Just listened. Just felt. Alive.
You lifted your head slowly, careful not to wake him.
The door opened quietly. A doctor stepped in, glanced at the monitors, flipped through the chart at the foot of the bed.
“Good news,” he said. “Everything looks fine. No neurological issues, no internal bleeding. He can be discharged later today.”
Relief crashed through you so hard it almost hurt.
“Thank you,” you breathed.
The doctor nodded. “You can stay with him until then. And—” a brief smile, “—try to get some rest yourself.”
When the door closed, you turned back to Harry, your smile trembling.
“Did you hear that?” you whispered. “You’re okay. Completely okay.”
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, your fingers brushing through his hair, slow and tender.
“So reckless,” you murmured. “But apparently indestructible.”
A knock interrupted you. Before you could answer, the door opened. Lucy stepped in first — immaculate even this early — followed by John. Ron lingered just behind them.
“Queen?” Lucy said, surprise flashing across her face. “Were you here all night?”
You straightened, suddenly self-conscious.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “I— it was because of me. I couldn’t leave.”
John’s voice softened. “How are you?”
You nodded. “I’m okay. He’s okay. The doctor said he’s being discharged.”
Lucy slipped her coat off without another word and took the chair you’d vacated beside the bed, sitting like she belonged there.
“Alright,” she said calmly. “I’ll take over from here.”
John glanced between you and Harry, then gently touched your arm. “Come on. You need air.”
Ron didn’t say anything. He just looked at you — something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
You hesitated at the door, turning back one last time. Harry was still asleep.
You followed John into the hallway.
Halfway down, you stopped. “I forgot my scarf.”
“I’ll wait here,” John said.
You turned back. As you reached the door again, you slowed — something made you hesitate. You peered through the narrow opening.
Harry was awake. Lucy was holding his hand.
“Lucy?” Harry’s voice was rough, confused. “Were you here all night?”
She smiled, not answering directly. “Don’t worry about that. How do you feel?”
He looked at her for a second — then smiled.
“Better,” he said. “Thank you.”
Their fingers were still intertwined. The way they looked at each other made your chest constrict painfully.
You wanted to step inside. Wanted to clear your throat, to say I was here too, to remind him whose arms he’d woken up in just minutes ago.
But you didn’t.
Your feet stayed rooted.
You stepped back before anyone could see you — before your breath could break, before your eyes could betray you.
You turned to leave — and almost collided with Ron.
“Are you—” he started, then stopped. “Are you leaving?”
You nodded, forcing your voice steady. “Yeah. Harry woke up.”
Ron frowned. “Then why aren’t you going in?”
You hesitated for half a second. Just long enough.
“Lucy’s there,” you said quietly. Your voice barely held. “Looks like she’s acting like she was the one who stayed all night.”
Ron’s jaw tightened. “Ms. Queen—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in gently, not meeting his eyes. “Harry woke up. He’s okay. That’s what matters.”
You exhaled. “The rest… isn’t important.”
You adjusted your coat, already stepping back.
“See you, Ron.”
He hesitated, clearly wanting to say something — to stop you, to correct the story — but you were already moving.
“…See you,” he said softly.
As you walked away, Ron stayed where he was, watching you disappear down the hallway. He muttered under his breath, low and furious, “My heart breaks for these two.”
Then, quieter. Sharper.
“I’m not letting Lucy take credit for this,” he muttered. “I’d never be forgiven. Not by God. Not by karma.”
When you returned to the office, the questions followed you everywhere. People stopped you in the hallways, whispered near doorways, asked in lowered voices if he was really okay. You gave the same answer every time. Yes. He was stable. Discharged. Home to rest.
You didn’t even make it to your desk before spotting Dana. She looked up the second she saw you, concern written all over her face. “Is he alright?”
You nodded. “The doctor ordered two days of strict rest. No work. No stress. No screens.”
Dana let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s going to throw everything into chaos.”
Then she straightened. “Still—Mr. Castillo’s fine. Thank God. Everything else? We’ll survive.”
Her gaze shifted to you — lingering, thoughtful. "Someone should be with him, it seemed to say. But I’m stuck here. And Ron’s about to be buried in work."
You caught the implication immediately, grinning, already reaching for your coat. “Then I’ll go to his place. As his assistant. Make sure he doesn’t try to work himself into another hospital visit.”
Dana grinned.
“Oh,” she said, amused. “In that case—” She reached into her drawer and placed a key in your palm. “He’s definitely going to need you in that condition,” she added, giggling. “Consider this official.”
You closed your fingers around the key, grinning.
You arrived at the Harry's penthouse with your arms full — grocery bags cutting into your fingers. Fruit. Vegetables. Things you knew he liked without ever having to think about it.
The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside. Too quiet.
You dropped the bags in the kitchen and immediately started moving, muscle memory taking over. Washing. Cutting. Blending. You yawned as you worked, your lower back aching — a reminder that you’d spent the entire night half-asleep in a hospital chair.
You poured the mixture into a glass and held it up. “There,” you murmured. “Perfect.”
You took a sip. “Hm. Still good.”
Then, inevitably, a splash landed right on your dress.
“Oh— no,” you muttered. “Fantastic.”
You stared at the stain, then sighed. “This needs to come off.”
You hesitated outside his bedroom for half a second. “This is going to be weird,” you told yourself. “But whatever.”
You opened his closet, chose a soft black T-shirt, and pulled it on. It fell to your thighs.
You glanced at your reflection and snorted. “Of course.”
You tossed your dress into the washer and leaned against the counter, waiting.
That’s when you heard it. Harry’s voice. Then, a woman's voice.
Your stomach dropped. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Without thinking, you slipped into the bedroom and climbed straight into the closet, tucking yourself between hanging jackets. “Shit. This is awkward,” you whispered.
The front door closed. Footsteps. They walked into the living room.
You heard Lucy’s voice — curious, impressed — commenting on the space. You clenched your jaw. “What the hell is she doing here?”
Then a pause.
“What’s all this?” Harry asked.
You heard him move closer. A soft clink of glass.
“You didn’t have this prepared, did you?” he added, clearly directing the question at Lucy.
Your lips twitched as you whispered from your hiding place, “Oh please. Don’t tell me you’re about to take credit for this too, you annoying bitch.”
“No,” Lucy said after a brief pause, her tone uncertain. “But Dana probably had it arranged?”
Harry nodded distractedly. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
Still, he didn’t move right away. His eyes drifted over the counter — the neatly cut fruit, the carefully chosen snacks. Nothing random. Nothing indulgent. Everything deliberate. Thoughtful. Familiar.
Then his gaze landed on the glass. The color. The smell.
Something shifted.
Memory hit him all at once.
Harry was half-sitting in bed, pillows stacked behind his back. A laptop rested on his thighs, its screen glowing with numbers and charts scrolling past. His hair was slightly mussed, his voice a little rough. He was sick—just enough to be noticeable—but still working. As always.
You walked in holding a glass, a small smile playing on your lips. “Ta-daa,” you said lightly. “A miracle mix. Specially made for Mr. Castillo.”
He looked up at you, his expression softening instantly. “What’s that?” he asked, already sounding convinced.
You sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the glass. “Drink it. You’ll feel better. Everything will be gone.”
He took a sip. Then another. His brows lifted slightly. “Baby…” he said, tasting it again. “This is amazing.”
You reached for the laptop, trying to push the lid down just a little. “Come on,” you murmured. “Put this away. Rest for a bit. You work too much.”
Without looking away from the screen, he replied, “Just a little more. Then I’ll stop. I promise.”
The corner of your mouth curved, slow and mischievous. “Alright,” you said softly.
You lay down beside him. And very deliberately, you slid your skirt upward—just past your knee.
“I bought these recently. Thought I’d ask if you liked them— but don’t stop on my account. Keep working then.”
Harry’s gaze dropped. The glimpse of your garter. The lace. The deliberate tease.
He froze.
For a heartbeat, the room went completely still.
You shifted as if to get up, feigning innocence. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
The laptop snapped shut.
Before you could react, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back onto the bed. Your breath hitched.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice low and certain, “is more important than this, baby.”
His hand slid over your thigh, lingering at the edge of lace.
You laughed softly, a breathless sound.
Then he kissed you. Slow at first—decisive, warm—like he’d made up his mind.
He pulled back just enough to murmur, “But what if you get sick too?”
You grinned. “Then we get better together.” You met his eyes. “Didn’t we promise that? In sickness and in health.” Your fingers curled into his t-shirt, tugging it upward. “We heal each other.”
Harry laughed—real, unguarded. “If this is how you ‘heal’ me, I’m never letting you leave this bed, baby.”
Then he kissed you again, deeper this time. Hungrier. Like he’d forgotten everything else.
Lucy said something about nutrition—about how he should drink all of it, how it would help him recover faster.
You rolled your eyes in the dark. “Does she think she’s his nurse now?” you muttered.
Harry excused himself to change.
You stayed where you were, listening. His footsteps moved down the hallway. Slow. Familiar.
You pulled his jacket tighter around yourself, then his shirt too, burrowing into the fabric as if it could hide you. Your shoulders tensed when you heard the closet door slide open.
You froze.
A soft rustle—fabric shifting. Hands searching between hangers.
Then—
He startled. “What the—”
You calmly lifted a shirt off the hanger and stepped forward, holding it out to him like you belonged there. “This one,” you said casually. “Wear this. That color looks really good on you.”
Warm brown. Coffee-toned. Soft.
Harry stared at you, completely stunned. “…What—what are you doing in my closet?” His eyes dropped to you. “And why are you wearing my shirt?”
You lifted your hands in mock surrender. “I was prepping things for you. The fruit, the drinks… then I spilled some on myself. My dress is in the wash.”
A tired, genuine laugh escaped him. “You’re unbelievable.”
Then you sobered. “Why is Lucy here?” you asked. “What is she doing in your house?”
“She was with me at the hospital,” he said. “She wanted to come.”
You tilted your head slightly, lips pressing into something sharp. “Oh. I see. So she stayed with you at the hospital all night?” you said coolly. “How kind of her.”
Harry’s expression darkened instantly. “No,” he snapped. “She didn’t.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
“You did.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“Don’t deny it,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “You stayed all night. And we’re going to talk about that—later.”
“What exactly are we going to talk about?” you asked, lips pursed.
He reached for another shirt—and winced.
You immediately leaned forward. “Hey—does it hurt?”
From the living room, Lucy’s voice floated in. “Harry? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he called back quickly.
As he pulled his shirt off, you instinctively grabbed a bundle of hanging shirts and pressed them to your face—shielding yourself. Except you still looked.
At his bare back. Broad shoulders tapering down into a strong spine, muscles shifting subtly as he moved. The lines of his arms were carved and controlled, strength held beneath skin that bore the quiet tension of restraint. Every motion made the muscles along his back flex and relax in smooth, deliberate curves—power without effort.
You swallowed.
“Do you need help?” Lucy called again.
You hissed under your breath to Harry, “Is she going to walk into your bedroom next?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “She’s just a friend.”
“So is John,” you shot back. “But he doesn’t wander into my bedroom.”
“That’s different.”
“How is that not a double standard?”
“Shh,” he warned. “She’ll hear.”
He looked at you once more—pointed, meaningful. “Stay quiet.”
Then he left the room.
You heard Lucy immediately. “This place looks very penthouse-catalog coded,” Lucy remarked. “I’m guessing somewhere around ten million?”
You scoffed to yourself. “Unbelievable,” you muttered. “She even asks the price.”
Harry answered politely, “A bit more than that.”
Lucy gasped. “Wow.”
Moments later, Harry’s tone shifted—gentler, final. “Thank you for everything, Lucy. I think I’m going to rest now. You must be tired too. You should head home.”
There was a pause. Disappointment—thinly disguised.
“Well… if that’s what you want,” Lucy said. “Take care of yourself.”
The disappointment in her tone carried all the way down the hallway, reaching the bedroom—and it was enough to make you smile.
When the door finally closed, you stepped out.
Harry looked you over—bare legs, his shirt on you—and shook his head slowly. “So you came,” he said. “And you made your miracle mix. For me.”
“I thought you might remember,” you replied without looking at him.
“How could I not?”
As he stepped closer, you swallowed. “I—I should change,” you said. “I’ll just—”
You grabbed your dress from the dryer, the fabric still warm in your hands, and disappeared into the bedroom. Your movements were rushed, clumsy with nerves. When you tried to pull the zipper up, it stuck. You tried again. And again.
Shit.
You exhaled sharply, panic creeping in just as—
“Do you need help?” Harry’s voice came from the other side of the door.
You startled. You opened it just enough to step out, clutching the dress to your chest. “I—um. I can’t get the zipper,” you admitted.
He didn’t hesitate. “Let me.”
He stepped closer, careful, and reached for the zipper. His fingers brushed your back as he pulled it up slowly, deliberately—until it was closed.
For a brief moment, he stayed there.
Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your neck. Just one. Enough to make your breath hitch.
“You stayed with me all night,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Ron told you?” you asked.
“Yes. But I already knew.”
He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out your scarf. “You forgot this.”
“Oh—right. Thank you.”
He looked at you like he wanted to say more. You looked away.
“I’m sorry,” you began. “Because of me— Ugh—I was so scared,” you admitted. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
He wrapped his arms around you. “Shh,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
“But how could you just jump in front of that snowplow?” you asked quietly. “Weren’t you scared at all?”
He took your hands in his. “I was,” he admitted. “Terrified.” His grip tightened slightly. “When that truck came toward you like that… I was so scared something would happen to you.”
He brushed his thumb along your cheek.
You turned your head away, your voice softer now. “Harry… I really should go.”
He caught your other hand before you could move. “Stay,” he said. “Please.”
“Harry, I—”
“You wouldn’t leave me alone while I’m injured, would you?” he added, pursing his lips like a little boy. Then, as if on cue, he shifted and let out a quiet groan. “Ah—wow. Okay. That just started hurting again.”
You looked at him for a second—then laughed despite yourself. “Fine. I’ll stay then.”
His face lit up immediately. “Great,” he said, smiling. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat together.”
He guided you to the couch, settling beside you as if that had always been the plan—easy, natural, unquestioned.
You reached for the snacks you’d prepared earlier, arranging them between you. When he hesitated, clearly still sore, you picked up a piece of fruit and held it out to him without a word.
“Wow,” he murmured, amused. “You’re feeding me now?”
“You’re injured,” you said simply. “Be good.”
He smiled at that—and leaned in, letting you feed him. Your fingers brushed his lips briefly as he took the bite, his eyes never leaving yours.
You must have fallen asleep on the couch with the TV still playing softly in the background.
Harry woke to the sound of his phone vibrating. He stirred carefully, instinctively freezing for a second—then slowly, deliberately, he stood. He eased you down against the cushions, making sure you were comfortable, making sure you didn’t wake.
He stepped a few feet away before answering.
“Castillo.”
A man’s voice came through the line, professional and calm. “Mr. Castillo. I tried to reach you last night, but your assistant informed me you’d been in an accident. Are you all right?”
“It’s nothing serious,” Harry replied quietly. “Thank you. Tell me—do you have an update?”
“Yes, sir. We know everything now. I’ve gathered all the files. I was meant to fly back tonight, but the flight was delayed due to weather. I’ll be on the first plane tomorrow morning.”
“Alright,” Harry said. “Send the documents to me.”
There was a brief pause on the other end.
“Sir… I really think it would be better if you saw these in person. This isn’t simple. I’ve only scratched the surface, and the file is… extensive.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “What do you mean?”
“I believe it’s best if you hear it from me directly.”
A moment passed.
“Fine,” Harry said. “I’ll have someone pick you up from the airport. Let me know when you land.”
“Yes, sir.”
The call ended.
Harry turned back toward the couch.
You were still asleep, curled slightly on your side, peaceful. He stepped closer, kneeling beside you. His fingers brushed gently through your hair, sweeping it back from your face.
“So close,” he murmured softly. “I’m so close to knowing everything. I won’t let the past come between us anymore, baby.”
He carefully lifted you into his arms, holding you as if you weighed nothing at all, a dull ache flared where his head had struck — not enough to stop him, not enough to matter. He carried you to the bedroom and laid you down gently, tucking the blanket around you.
Then he slipped in beside you.
He kissed your forehead once, lingering there, watching you breathe evenly in your sleep. The medication weighed heavily on him now, pulling at his limbs, slowing his thoughts.
series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter
Lesson 7
Summary: Old wounds resurface, questions go unanswered, and one mistake quietly leads to the next. When denial finally fails, desire takes over; and there’s no defense left. A bad move. Checkmate.
Warnings and WC: 16.7k, (oops) ⚠️ Content Note: Mature themes / 18+ I’ve placed the detailed content warnings at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers. Please read at your own comfort level. confession, argument, making out, rough kissing, yearning, mutual pining, divorce trauma, unfinished love, sharing a bed, sharing a room, forced proximity, pretending to be married, hate-to-need energy, dirty thoughts, lust, Alcohol use, Exes-to-Enemies Tension, “just kiss already” vibe, Corporate Drama, Flirting / Banter, Jealousy, Petty Revenge, denial of feelings, rom-com, comedy, idiots in love, lying, wealth, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, slow burn romance, manhattan aesthetic. OC Characters (Eloise: Harry's Grandmother, Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Harry's EA (Executive Assistant))
authors note: I won’t lie. I listened to a lot of music while writing that scene.
This one, though? The lyrics understood the assignment. Fire Meet Gasoline 🔥
Denial Is Not a Strategy, Darling
Morning came quietly to the house—far too quietly for Eloise’s taste.
She was already dressed, hair perfectly pinned, gliding down the hallway with purpose when she stopped a passing maid.
“Have they woken up yet?” Eloise asked, peering eagerly toward the bedroom corridor.
The maid smiled politely. “No, ma’am. Not yet.”
Eloise’s brows lifted in delight. “Still asleep? Ay, what kind of sleep is this—it’s nearly ten,” she said fondly. “I miss their faces.”
“Mama—” Vivienne appeared at the far end of the corridor, having heard Eloise’s voice, panic flickering behind her otherwise composed smile.
“What are you doing?”
Eloise waved her off.
“I won’t go in. I’ll just look. They’ll want to leave after lunch anyway—let me see them once.”
Vivienne swallowed.
She knew you weren’t really sleeping together.
She knew this was a performance.
And she knew exactly how catastrophic it would look if Eloise saw…
“Mama,” she hissed, lowering her voice. “Maybe that’s not a good idea—”
Sienna joined them then, coffee in hand, clearly entertained.
“What’s happening?”
Vivienne shot her a look. Help me.
“She wants to go into Harry’s room,” she murmured pointedly, nodding toward Eloise. “Say something.”
Sienna took one look at the scene and laughed softly.
“Abuela,” she said lightly, “we really shouldn’t… I mean, last night when we walked in, things were already a little… awkward.”
Vivienne nodded.
Eloise waved dismissively.
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “What is this, a honeymoon?”
Vivienne rubbed her temple.
“Mom, please… this is a bit… inappropriate.”
Eloise turned to her with mock offense.
“What do you mean? Am I not allowed to step into my grandson’s room now?” She said, clicking her tongue softly. “I used to change his diapers when you were fast asleep, remember? You were… such a peaceful mother. So trusting. So very relaxed.” Eloise patted Vivienne’s arm as if comforting her—while absolutely not. “Someone had to keep an eye on things, cariño. While you enjoyed your beauty sleep.”
Vivienne frowned. “How did this suddenly turn into a commentary on my parenting?” she muttered.
Sienna giggled into her coffee.
Mikey wandered in mid-yawn, hair a mess, voice instantly smooth.
“Good morning, ladies.”
Vivienne shot him a look.
He grinned—then froze, eyes landing on Sienna.
“Wow. Sienna… you look this gorgeous even in the morning? Are you wearing makeup already?”
“I’m not,” Sienna said calmly. “Just moisturizer.”
Mikey clutched his chest dramatically. “My God. An actual angel.”
Vivienne cleared her throat sharply.
Mikey swallowed. “Okay, what’s going on? Why are we all lurking outside a bedroom like it’s a crime scene?”
Sienna leaned in, whispering. “Abuela wants to peek.”
Mikey smirked. “Oh shit. If I know my sister, there’s no way Harry actually made it into that bed.”
Sienna exhaled softly. “Which is… unfortunately the problem.”
“I just want to take a quick look,” Eloise whispered urgently. “I’ll be quiet. Let me see my sweethearts.”
The door creaked open.
Everyone tensed.
“Oh,” Eloise breathed. “Look at them.”
Vivienne stiffened—then froze.
Because there you were.
Curled into Harry’s chest, your head resting there like it had always belonged. His arm was wrapped around you, loose and instinctive, his hand warm at your side.
Soft.
Peaceful.
It was exactly the scene Eloise had expected to find.
But for everyone else, it caught them off guard—
the kind of surprise that steals your breath for a second… and then makes it impossible not to smile.
Too tender to be planned.
Too intimate to be staged.
Too natural to be a lie.
Whatever panic they’d carried into the hallway faded the moment they saw you like that—
because no one could look at the two of you and not soften.
“They’re adorable,” Eloise whispered, a hand flying to her heart.
“Ay… qué dulzura. Mis bebés.” (Oh… how sweet. My babies.)
Mikey blinked. “No way. Let me see.”
Sienna leaned in too, her teasing smile melting into something softer.
“Aww.”
Vivienne felt the tight knot in her chest finally loosen, a helpless smile tugging at her lips.
Mikey murmured, eyes still on the bed, glancing at Sienna.
“You know… I should really get married. Waking up like this doesn’t seem like a bad idea.”
Sienna rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Dream on.”
Vivienne scoffed softly.
“Please. You’re exactly the type to settle down and commit.”
Mikey pressed a hand to his chest, wounded.
“Wow. Okay. Don’t be like that. I’ve changed, Vivienne. I’m serious now. A new man.”
She raised a brow.
“Terrifying.”
Mikey opened his mouth to protest—
You shifted slightly in your sleep.
The room froze.
“Shh,” Eloise hissed instantly, lifting a finger. “Quiet. Close it—don’t wake them.”
The door was pulled shut with careful precision, footsteps retreating, voices dissolving into hushed murmurs down the hall.
Inside the room, neither of you stirred.
Still wrapped around each other, breath slow and synchronized, bodies fitting together with an ease no one could have rehearsed.
The performance had done more than convince its audience.
The sounds from the corridor came first.
Muffled voices. Soft laughter. A door closing somewhere far away.
Distant at first—harmless.
And then, persistent enough to finally fracture the deepest part of your sleep.
You surfaced slowly.
Not awake—just aware.
The first thing you noticed wasn’t light.
Or sound.
It was warmth.
Solid. Steady.
Your cheek rested against something firmer than a pillow—warm skin beneath fabric, the slow, unmistakable rise and fall of breath. An arm around you. Familiar. Anchoring.
And the scent.
Clean. Heady. Masculine. So familiar it didn’t register as foreign at all—only safe and intriguing.
You hadn’t slept like this in years.
Not since a time when mornings began exactly like this.
Not since this room had held two bodies instead of one.
For a moment—just one—you thought you’d slipped backward in time.
Your lashes fluttered.
Before you even opened your eyes, you knew.
Harry.
Not because you’d seen him.
Because your body remembered him.
The way it had once woken against this same warmth. The way it had learned, years ago, to settle here without thinking.
And then—
Your body tensed.
Your eyes flew open.
There he was.
So close his breath brushed your forehead. His face softened by sleep, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen in years. No sharp edges. No games.
Just him.
He shifted slightly.
“Harry,” you murmured instinctively, stretching like a cat before your brain caught up.
He blinked.
“Mm.”
And then your mind rebooted—like a computer force-restoring data after a system crash.
The fuck?
You yelped, jerking back, sitting upright and dragging the duvet up to your chin. “Harry! What the hell is this? Why are you here?!”
He squinted at you, clearly still half asleep.
“Wha—good morning to you too.”
“Don’t good morning me,” you snapped, eyes darting around the room.
“You were sleeping on the chaise when I went to bed,” you said, gesturing at it. “So explain to me why you’re here—because this makes absolutely no sense.”
He sighed, rubbing his face.
“I couldn’t sleep and went outside for some air. When I came back, you’d kicked the covers off and-”
“And?” you cut in sharply. “Nobody asked you to tuck me in.”
He smirked, eyes flicking down briefly before returning to your face.
“You were… a little exposed.”
You grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
“Are you laughing right now?!”
“Yes,” he said easily, catching it. “Because you’re overreacting. And—”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Jesus, you’re blushing.”
“I am not—”
He tilted his head, that infuriating glint back in his eyes.
“Unless… you were dreaming about me?”
Your stomach flipped.
Because yes.
You had.
Every version of what could have happened if you hadn’t bitten his nose at that moment.
Every dangerous possibility your body had eagerly explored while your mind slept.
Damn it, he caught you.
Bastard noticed.
You scrambled to get out of bed—and Harry caught your wrist, pulling you back just enough to stop you.
“Oh no,” he said, amused. “I know that face. That’s your I had dirty thoughts and got caught face.”
You arched a brow.
“Bravo,” you said dryly. “Shall I clap, or are you done embarrassing yourself?”
He smiled, slow and knowing.
“You’re the one trying to escape, sweetheart,” he murmured. “So clearly, you’re the embarrassed one.”
Something shifted in you then.
Not panic.
Not fluster.
Decision.
You straightened, letting the moment stretch just long enough for him to wonder.
And then you smiled.
Then, to his surprise, you climbed back onto the bed.
Slowly. Deliberately.
With a dangerous calm, you leaned in, the duvet slipping from your shoulders. The satin of your nightgown caught the morning light as it spilled through the window—soft gold tracing the curve of your collarbone, your waist, your thighs.
His breath hitched.
“Interesting,” you said lightly. “Because I was about to ask you the same thing.”
His brow creased.
“What?”
“You said you couldn’t sleep,” you continued, voice calm, measured, as you placed your palm on the mattress—eyes never leaving his.
“You went outside. You were restless. Couldn’t settle.”
He opened his mouth.
You didn’t let him.
“Your body doesn’t react like that unless something’s already under your skin,” you added, almost thoughtfully.
Then, softer—but sharper:
“So maybe,” you said with a slight tilt of your head, “You're the one who's been dreaming.”
The smirk faltered.
Just for a second.
And that second gave you everything.
You moved.
One knee on the mattress.
Then the other.
You crawled toward him, catlike and unhurried, the strap of your nightgown slipping just enough to draw the light to you—
to the smooth line of your shoulder, the quiet confidence in every measured movement.
Damn.
You were devastating.
The kind of beauty that stole breath without asking.
The kind that could resurrect the dead and leave the living undone.
Any man would have faltered at the sight of you like that—
not trying, not performing—
simply being.
And Harry did exactly what any man would do.
He forgot how to breathe.
“…H-hey,” he said, suddenly very aware of his heartbeat.
You stopped inches from him.
Close enough for him to feel your warmth.
Close enough for the air between you to change.
Your hand didn’t rush.
Instead, your index finger traced a slow, idle path along his shoulder—light, deliberate—like you were deciding something. Like you already knew the answer.
Then your palm followed.
Flat against his chest.
Right where his heart was hammering.
You felt it beneath your hand.
Fast. Unsteady.
You smiled.
Harry swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
For half a second, instinct almost won. He leaned in—so close his lips hovered, pulled by something primal and stupid and loud.
But he wasn’t that idiot.
What little logic he had left screamed at him to stop.
The problem was—
his body wasn’t listening.
Blood wasn’t going to his brain anymore. It was pooling elsewhere, hijacking his focus, making it impossible to think straight, let alone everywhere at once.
This was how men lost wars.
With the last fragile scrap of reason he had, Harry decided to retreat.
He tried to put distance between you—
to reclaim ground you’d already stolen.
He shifted back too fast.
Misjudged where the bed ended.
Your palm was still on his chest—and you pressed just a little, almost casually, as if no one could tell you were pushing him back at all.
His calves hit the mattress.
Balance betrayed him.
And suddenly—
He was on the floor.
It was barely a push.
More suggestion than force.
Exactly what you’d intended.
You laughed.
Soft.
Sweet.
Almost fond.
Harry sat there in stunned silence, swallowing hard, heart still racing—humiliation tangling with disbelief.
“Nice attempt,” you said, smiling.
You slid to the edge of the bed and planted your feet on the floor, cool and unhurried, like gravity answered to you now.
“But next time you try to corner me—”
you glanced down at him, eyes gleaming,
“—make sure you’re not standing on the edge yourself. Unless you enjoy ending up on the floor.”
You reached for your robe, slipping it over your shoulders, the fabric settling over the satin of your nightgown with practiced ease.
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Point taken, your majesty.” He lifted two fingers in a lazy, mock salute—half teasing, half sincere.
You didn’t bother looking at him.
“Hm,” you hummed instead, something like a smile threatening at the corner of your mouth—quickly dismissed.
You stepped past him, close enough for him to catch the whisper of fabric, pretending you couldn’t hear the way your own heartbeat was pounding in your ears, pretending it hadn’t rattled you at all.
The bathroom door swung shut with a soft, decisive click.
Harry stayed there for a moment.
Staring after you.
Breathing hard. “…Damn,” he muttered to himself. Then, quieter, half a laugh: “She’s good.” He shook his head. “Well, you asked for it, Harry.”
Inside the bathroom, you leaned back against the door, heart racing.
“Perfect,” you whispered to your reflection. “I’m trying to stay away from him—”
your gaze dropped, remembering the warmth, “—and I wake up with my head on his chest.”
You exhaled slowly. “God. I need to get out of this house,” you murmured.
You came downstairs as the house slowly woke around you.
The dining room smelled of coffee and warm bread, sunlight filtering in through the tall windows.
Eloise wasn’t at the breakfast table yet.
She sat near it instead, settled comfortably into one of the single armchairs by the window, the morning light falling gently across her shoulders. A nurse stood beside her, fastening the blood pressure cuff around her arm—part of the quiet routine that framed her mornings, both before and after meals.
She looked content, unbothered, entirely at home in the small rituals of care.
“Good morning, cariño,” Eloise said the moment she saw you, her face lighting up.
You leaned down so she wouldn’t have to strain herself, and she wrapped her arms around you in a gentle, careful hug—light, mindful of her age, but full of warmth.
As you straightened, your eyes caught on the necklace resting against her throat.
It was exquisite.
A deep ruby set delicately at the hollow of her neck, its rich color standing in striking contrast to her finely lined skin. Elegant. Timeless. The kind of piece that didn’t shout wealth—only taste.
“Oh my God,” you said softly, smiling.
“The ruby is perfect,” you added, eyes lingering appreciatively. “It picks up the tone of your dress beautifully. It doesn’t compete—it completes it.”
Eloise’s lips curved with quiet pride.
“You like it?” she asked, fingers brushing the gem instinctively.
“Harold gave it to me for my birthday,” she added. “More than sixty years ago.”
Then she lifted her hand slightly, the light catching on the ring.
“And my ring?” she asked, smiling knowingly. “Do you remember this one?”
Of course you did.
You and Harry had found it together that summer, when you’d grown restless in New York and decided—on a whim—to escape to Europe.
It was still early days. You were dating then, not yet defined, not yet careful.
The trip wasn’t about plans or destinations. It was about space. About walking through unfamiliar cities, sharing long dinners, learning each other without the weight of expectation.
A quiet auction tucked into an old palazzo—private, discreet. The ring had once belonged to a minor royal house. Elegant. Storied.
You’d known immediately it was hers.
You remembered Italy too.
Verona.
The warm stone beneath your palms. The hush of the crowd below. And Harry—standing far too close, eyes brighter than the city lights—asking you to marry him beneath Juliet’s balcony like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For a split second, the memory tightened in your chest.
Then it passed.
“I remember,” you said softly.
Eloise smiled, pleased. “You both chose so well,” she said warmly.
“It was the very first gift you ever gave me together.”
She glanced down at the necklace, fingers brushing the ruby with quiet affection. “And look—it goes beautifully with my necklace, doesn’t it?”
She smiled at you, pleased. “You always had such good taste.”
You simply smiled back at her in return.
“Help me up, cariño. I’m starving. You know how it is—at my age, an empty stomach turns into a medical emergency. Ulcer first, pills second.”
You giggled and slipped your arm through hers, steadying her as she stood. She leaned into you comfortably, trusting your support without a second thought.
As you walked toward the dining table, she glanced up at you, eyes bright and mischievous.
“You slept well, it shows,” she said lightly. “Look at you—your face is glowing.”
You smiled, a little embarrassed—because when you thought about how and where you’d woken up, warmth still lingering in places it shouldn’t have, the explanation suddenly felt thin.
“Maybe it’s just the light,” you replied.
“Mm,” Eloise hummed. “Or maybe happiness.”
Breakfast was already being set. Plates clinked softly. Servants moved in quiet coordination.
Mikey was there, already hovering near Sienna. He pulled out her chair with exaggerated charm, then leaned forward to place her plate down—his fingers brushing hers just a second too long.
Vivienne snapped instantly. “I said no physical contact at the table.”
Sienna blinked, surprised. Mikey raised his hands in surrender.
“I was being polite.”
“You were being annoying,” Vivienne shot back.
Eloise giggled under her breath as you helped her into her chair.
“This brother of yours,” she whispered to you conspiratorially, “didn’t inherit a single gram of your elegance.”
You laughed quietly.
“Oh, absolutely not,” you murmured back, rolling your eyes in Mikey’s direction.
Just as you were about to sit—
“Wait,” Eloise said. “Where’s Harry?”
You froze.
Now that she mentioned it… you hadn’t seen him since you left the bedroom. He hadn’t been upstairs. Not in the hallway. Not here.
Before you could answer, one of the staff spoke up.
“Mr. Castillo is in the garden, ma’am. On the phone.”
Relief washed over you.
“Oh—right,” you said quickly. “Yes, he mentioned he was expecting an important call.”
Eloise frowned.
“On a Sunday morning?”
You glanced instinctively at Vivienne.
“Well, you know Harry,” Vivienne said smoothly. “Work never really stops. Could be someone calling from abroad.”
Eloise clicked her tongue. “I don’t care if it’s the Pope,” she said. “Tell him to come to the table. You know how I feel about everyone being together for breakfast.”
You did know.
“Okay,” you said, already standing. “I’ll go get him.”
As you headed down the corridor, you muttered under your breath,
“Honestly… what kind of call takes priority over breakfast at this hour?”
You slowed as you reached the garden doors.
Harry stood just outside, phone to his ear, back turned. He nodded as he listened—and then smiled.
The smile stopped you cold.
A flicker of something uneasy crept into your chest.
Who is he smiling like that for?
You eased the door open, careful not to make a sound, leaning just enough to hear.
“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave the office early. We’ll meet then.”
You were sure—absolutely sure—you heard a woman’s voice on the other end.
Your stomach tightened.
Meeting who?
Could it be—
Lucy’s name surfaced instantly.
You remembered the meetings—how she always parked herself right beside him, never across. The soft voice. The unnecessary lean. Fingers fixing her skirt, tossing her hair like it was a performance.
That bitch, you thought bitterly. She really thought that shit was subtle.
The call ended.
“Enjoy your Sunday,” Harry said, slipping his phone away.
“—What are you doing there?”
You jumped, then quickly composed yourself, turning to face him.
“Were you eavesdropping?” He asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
You let out a short laugh.
“Me?” you said incredulously. “Please. Why would I waste my time eavesdropping on you?”
Harry stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Oh yeah?” he said, stepping closer. “Then why were you standing there like that?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Because Eloise didn’t see you at the breakfast table,” you shot back. “She sent me to fetch you.” You jerked your thumb back toward the house.
“Coming or what?” you added lightly.
Then you turned on your heel and headed back toward the corridor without waiting.
Harry caught up in two long strides and reached out, fingers closing around your wrist.
“Wait,” he said quietly. “Can we talk for a second—”
Your phone buzzed.
You glanced down.
John.
Harry’s brows knit together instantly.
“Why is he calling you at this hour?”
You shot him a look. “Why do you care?”
Harry reached out and tapped the screen—declining the call.
“What the hell are you doing?!” you snapped, yanking your hand back.
“I’m not done,” he said, jaw tight. “There are things I need to ask you—”
“Don’t touch my phone again,” you hissed. “Ever.”
“Listen—”
“Where did you two disappear to?” Vivienne’s voice cut in sharply as she appeared at the end of the corridor.
“For God’s sake, do me a favor and come sit down before she gets any more impatient. I swear I’m going to lose my mind.”
She looked between the two of you, instantly clocking the tension.
“Now, please,” she added pointedly.
You straightened, slipping your phone into your pocket.
Together, you turned back toward the dining room—the conversation unfinished, the tension very much intact.
Harry followed you inside, jaw tight. He could feel it slipping away—the moment, the opening, the chance to ask what had been gnawing at him since last night.
As Eloise waited at the table, blissfully unaware of everything that had almost erupted in the hallway, Harry wondered grimly when—or if—he’d get another opportunity like that again.
The drive back was quiet.
Too quiet.
The city slipped past the windows in a blur of muted color, traffic lights blinking red, then green, then gone again. Neither of you spoke. You both stared out at opposite sides of the car, lost in separate thoughts that refused to intersect.
Harry’s hands rested on his knees, still—but his mind wasn’t.
Should I ask her now? he wondered for the hundredth time.
He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
You were still. Too still. Your gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass, jaw set, expression carefully neutral.
No, he decided. Not now. She looks… tired. Thoughtful.
His grip tightened slightly.
But why?
What happened?
She’s been off since breakfast. Quieter. Distant.
He replayed the morning in his head, searching for something—anything—that explained the shift. He came up empty.
Ask later, he told himself. Don’t push.
He looked at you again, unease settling in his chest for reasons he couldn’t quite name.
You, meanwhile, weren’t thinking about the road at all.
You were still at the breakfast table.
Still hearing Eloise’s voice—light, hopeful, oblivious.
“Ay…” she said softly. “I miss baby sounds in this house.”
She smiled, almost laughing at herself.
“The little cries, the little giggles,” she went on. “They’re such a blessing, you know. A home feels different when there’s a baby in it.”
Her gaze drifted fondly to Harry.
“I always prayed I’d get to see my grandson with a child of his own,” she said, voice gentle, unguarded.
“To hold a little one again… before God calls me home.”
The words had landed softly.
Too softly.
The table had gone tense. You’d felt it immediately—the subtle stillness, the exchanged glances. Someone had laughed. Someone had changed the subject.
But you’d barely heard any of it.
Because the word had already lodged itself somewhere deep and sharp.
Baby.
Even thinking it hurt.
Your mind, traitorous and cruel, did what it always did when you least expected it.
It took you there.
February 2020
You stood in the bathroom, the light too bright, the silence too loud.
The pregnancy test sat on the edge of the sink.
You’d just flipped it over.
You squinted, heart pounding, breath shallow. For a full second your brain refused to process what your eyes were seeing.
Then—
“Oh my God.”
The words left you on a breath, half-laugh, half-gasp.
You stared.
And then you grabbed the second test with shaking hands.
Please, you thought. Please.
You flipped it.
Positive.
You laughed—soft, disbelieving—and then suddenly you were crying. Happy tears, unstoppable, sliding down your cheeks as you pressed a hand over your mouth to quiet the sound.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
You leaned back against the counter, head tipping up, breath leaving you in a long, trembling exhale. When you looked at your reflection, your eyes were bright, your smile wide—almost unfamiliar.
I’m going to be a mother.
The realization hit slow, then all at once. Your hand drifted to your stomach, almost without permission.
God… I can’t believe it.
You thought of Harry.
Of his face when you told him.
Your heart kicked hard in your chest.
You’d need a blood test. You should call your OB-GYN as soon as possible. Do everything right.
Your eyes followed your hands where they rested, protective without thinking.
“Hey,” you whispered.
“You’re probably very small right now,” you said softly, almost amused.
“Still growing into yourself.” Your hand pressed a little more firmly over your stomach. “But I already know this much—I’m going to love you with everything I have.”
You laughed again, imagining it.
“Can you picture his face when we tell him tonight?” you murmured to the empty room. “He’s going to lose his mind.”
For a moment, you saw it—movie scenes you’d absorbed over years. Men stunned into silence. Women glowing. Joy unfolding exactly the way it was supposed to.
An idea sparked.
You called out, “Yuliana?”
She appeared in the doorway a moment later. Since your wedding, she’d been living with you—part assistant, part family, always steady.
When you told her, her face lit up.
She hugged you, already planning with you, already insisting Harry would cry.
Together, you cooked his favorite meal. You helped, chopping, stirring, tasting—everything feeling heightened, unreal. Dessert was ready. Candles set. The table perfect.
Harry would be home any minute.
The excitement kept building, humming under your skin.
Yuliana kept smiling at you, saying over and over how happy he’d be.
“You should rest,” you told her finally. “I’ll handle the service, the flowers. Tonight should be… just us.”
She nodded, squeezing your hand. Romantic, she’d said.
You practiced what you’d say while waiting.
Should I show him the test?
Should I just say it?
Should I take his hand and place it here?
Your phone rang.
You rushed to answer it, heart leaping when you saw his name. You bit your lip, smiling.
“Baby, where are you? I—”
The sound of his voice stopped you cold.
“Baby…” he said, something dark flickering across his face.
“My mom wasn’t feeling well. She passed out. We were at the hospital.”
Your smile faded instantly.
“Oh my God. Harry—what happened?”
He sighed on the other end—long, worn down, like he’d been holding his breath all day and only now remembered how to let it go.
“My dad…” Another pause. Another breath he couldn’t quite steady.
“He’s gone.”
You frowned, heart tightening.
“Gone?” you asked softly. “What do you mean, gone, Harry?”
A bitter laugh escaped him, humorless and raw.
“He left. Just—left her. Left us,” he said, the words sharp around the edges. “One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t. Didn’t wait. Didn’t explain.”
The anger in his voice cracked through the line, layered with something worse—hurt.
“I don’t even know where he went,” Harry went on, voice lower now, strained.
“Everything’s a mess. The company’s already on edge, my mom’s in a hospital bed, and I’ve been putting out fires since morning. Phones, doctors, lawyers—” He cut himself off with a tired exhale.
“But whatever. I’ll handle it.”
Your chest ached.
Your excitement collapsed in on itself, folding quietly, painfully.
“I’m coming,” you said immediately. “I’ll be right there.”
“No,” he said at once. Too fast. Too firm. Then softer—gentler.
“No, baby. They’re finishing up her evaluation. They’ll discharge her soon. I just called to let you know I won’t be back tonight.”
You hesitated.
“Besides, tomorrow—you have that meeting,” he continued, already thinking ahead for you. “You’ll be up early anyway. So, don’t worry about me. Go to sleep. Rest.”
There was a pause.
“And your mom?” you asked quietly. “Vivienne. Is she… is she okay?”
“She will be,” he said, though the certainty sounded practiced. “She’s stubborn. Strong. Like you.”You swallowed.
“Okay,” you said softly. “But if you need anything—call me.”
“I will,” he said. “I love you.”The call ended.
You stood there, phone still pressed to your ear.
“Love you too,” you whispered to the dead line.
Your knees gave out and you sank back into the chair.
Tears slid silently down your face.
“Harry,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”
You stayed there for a long moment, candles burning down, food untouched.
Eventually, you stood.
You blew out the candles one by one.
You turned off the lights and walked to the bedroom alone.
Tomorrow, you told yourself.
I’ll tell him tomorrow.
Unaware that tomorrow would never come.
Harry said your name.
Not softly. Not loudly.
Just the way he always did—like it mattered.
You didn’t hear him.
You were too far gone. Too deep inside your own head.
He said it again.
Still nothing.
Harry reached out then, fingers brushing your arm.
You flinched.
Not violently. Just enough to betray you.
His gaze lifted to your face—and he froze.
Your lashes were wet. Not crying. Not anymore.
Just holding on to something you refused to let fall.
For a suspended second, the world narrowed to the space between your eyes.
The car disappeared.
The city vanished.
And then—
you felt it.
The car had already stopped, parked near your residence off Fifth Avenue.
The moment snapped back into place all at once.
It was the sound of the door opening that brought you back.
Mikey was already out of the front seat, luggage in hand, holding the door open for you. “Your Majesty,” he said, motioning you out with a small, playful bow of his hand.
You inhaled once. Straightened.
The softness vanished like it had never existed.
You glanced back at Harry, composed again.
“See you tomorrow,” you said calmly.
Then you stepped out.
Harry leaned toward you instinctively, the words catching halfway between thought and breath.
“T-thank you for coming,” he said, quietly.
“Sure,” you replied easily—and closed the door yourself.
The sound was soft.
Definitive.
Harry stayed where he was.
Through the glass, he watched Mikey lift your suitcase, watched you fall into step beside him.
You slid your sunglasses on, shielding your eyes from the sun—
and from him.
The driver met Harry’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Shall we go, sir?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Just nodded.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
The car pulled away.
Harry leaned back against the seat, gaze lingering on the place you’d just vacated. And already; he missed you.
Monday
Monday morning settled into Harry’s office with the low hum of routine.
Lucy was already mid-sentence.
“…so we’ll coordinate the celebration press, maybe a short interview—”
Harry nodded absently, eyes on his laptop, mind clearly elsewhere.
“Harry? Harry, are you listening to me?”
“Hm?” He blinked. “Sorry—what?”
Lucy studied him. “You seem distracted this morning. Didn’t get much rest over the weekend?”
“No,” he said automatically. Then corrected himself. “I mean—yes. I was just thinking about something. Go on. What were you saying?”
Lucy flipped a page on her tablet. “The Q3. We should notify the press, arrange a photographer—”
“No press,” Harry cut in.
Lucy paused. “Okay, no press,” she agreed easily. “But we’ll still need a photographer. You know that. This will go on the company site. It’s not just any day—it’s the Q3 Earnings Celebration.”
She smiled, almost teasing. “The after party will be just us, though. No media. Very… intimate.”
Harry completely missed the implication.
“Fine,” he said after a second. “If you think it’s necessary. But keep it minimal.”
Lucy’s smile widened. “Thank you for trusting me.”
He nodded, already back to his screen.
Lucy left the office still smiling, and slowed just enough to let it linger.
Ron was waiting by Dana’s desk.
“Morning, Ms. Mason,” Ron greeted cheerfully.
Lucy didn’t stop.
She glanced at them over her shoulder, that polished, superior look she gave to everyone—
cool, assessing.
The kind she reserved for people she considered beneath her.
Sharp enough to remind you she noticed everything… and cared very little.
Then she disappeared down the hall, heels clicking with purpose.
Ron watched her go, then turned to Dana as he adjusted his tie, already moving toward Harry’s office.
“She’s putting way too much effort into this party,” he said. “Like it’s her birthday or something.”
Dana snorted. “Please. She’s probably already picturing her slow dance with Mr. Castillo.”
Ron laughed.
“Wouldn’t put it past her,” Dana added dryly. “Give it another hour and she’ll be slipping something into his drink. Honestly—anything’s possible with her.”
“Wow. That wouldn’t even cross my mind. You think she’d really do that?”
Dana snorted. “Please. She’s sneaky as hell.”
Ron blinked. “Damn.”
Dana shrugged. “You’ve been warned.”
Ron actually shuddered. “Noted.”
He didn’t wait another second before walking into Harry’s office.
Harry glanced up briefly.
"Morning, boss," Ron greeted with a smile as he strolled over and leaned casually against the desk, “So,” he added, smirking. “How was your weekend?”
Harry kept typing. “You mean aside from being forced to share a room with my ex-wife?”
Ron froze.
Then grinned like an idiot.
“Oh my God,” he breathed. “Don’t tell me. I knew you two wouldn’t last long apart. God bless your grandmother.”
Harry shot him a glare. “What the hell are you talking about? There was no reconciliation. Nothing happened.”
Ron’s smile faltered. Disappointed. “Oh.”
He looked back down at his tablet, scrolling through schedules.
Harry stared at his laptop for a second longer—then shut it.
“Ron.”
“Hm?” Ron answered without looking up.
“Do you think it’s normal,” Harry asked carefully, “for one colleague to call another colleague on a Sunday morning?”
Ron stopped scrolling.
Slowly, he looked up. Brow furrowed. “Are you… asking me seriously?”
Harry held his gaze. “Yes.”
Ron thought for a second. “I mean… I guess it can be normal?”
“Normal?” Harry repeated. “They barely know each other. And then there are messages. Late at night.”
Ron shrugged, eyes back on his tablet. “Then there might be other explanations, boss.”
Harry tensed. “Like what?”
Ron looked up again. “Are you asking if these two people like each other? Because I’m not sure why you’re asking me this.”
Harry scoffed, waving it off. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous. Maybe one of them does—but I doubt the other even realizes it.”
Ron blinked. “…Okay. Then what exactly are we talking about this? You have a meeting in an hour, and this feels wildly unrelated.”
“I saw something like this in a movie last night,” Harry said quickly.
Ron raised an eyebrow. “A movie?”
Harry avoided his gaze.
Ron stared at him for a long beat—then it clicked.
“Oh,” Ron said slowly. “So this has nothing to do with Ms. Queen? You’re not jealous or anything?”
Harry stiffened. “Queen, how many times—” He stopped himself. “I mean— Ron,” he corrected quickly, jaw tightening. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not jealous?”
“Ah, of course you’re not,” Ron said lightly. “That’s why you bring it up an hour before a board meeting. Totally normal behavior.”
Harry sighed. “Forget it.”
He reopened his laptop.
Ron was still smiling.
And Harry; kept typing, jaw tight, mind absolutely nowhere near the screen.
The buzz reached you before the details did.
At your desk, the girls were already talking—voices bright, overlapping. Dresses. Shoes. After-party jokes. Someone mentioned the venue, someone else groaned about heels.
You didn’t join in.
You never liked these kinds of events.
Not when it was your father’s company.
Not now.
Back then, you’d learned early what it meant to be seen.
Now, being seen felt riskier than ever.
Press would be there. Cameras. Questions.
Impossible.
So you pretended not to hear.
Lunch with John passed easily—too easily, sometimes.
He talked about his weekend, about getting dragged into brunch plans he hadn’t agreed to, about how he’d tried to make himself go for a run on Sunday morning and failed spectacularly.
“I actually called you,” he added casually, stirring his coffee. “Thought maybe we could run in Central Park. You know. Fresh air. Reset.”
You smiled, a little apologetic. “Next weekend,” you promised. “I mean it.”
He grinned. “I’ll hold you to that.”
John was… good.
Easy. Kind in a way that didn’t demand anything.
And that made the knot in your chest worse.
You didn’t like lying. Never had.
You found yourself wanting to tell him the truth—who you were, where you came from, why some days felt heavier than others.
But you couldn’t.
Not here. Not now.
So you let the conversation stay light. Safe.
When you returned to the building after lunch, the shift was immediate. Keycards beeped at the turnstiles as people streamed back in, laughter carrying through the lobby. Someone was already pointing up at the banners hanging above.
You and John slowed just enough to take it in.
“Well,” he murmured, glancing around with a faint smile, “looks like Christmas came early.”
You nodded, noncommittal, and scanned your badge.
The doors slid open.
“Something like that,” you replied lightly.
"You’re coming, right?” he asked, hopeful.
You didn’t even hesitate. “It’s not really my thing.”
His smile dimmed. “Oh. That’s a shame. It could’ve been fun.”
“Maybe,” you said lightly. “But I’ll pass.”
John nodded, disappointed but polite.
You didn’t notice Harry stepping into the building behind you.
Didn’t see the way he slowed when he heard your voice.
Didn’t see the way his attention sharpened.
You walked on, unaware.
Up on your floor, work swallowed you again. Focus. Files. Familiar comfort.
“Can you take this to Mrs. Reyes?” someone asked, handing you a folder.
“Sure.”
You stepped out of the elevator—and suddenly, a hand closed around your arm.
You startled, breath catching. “What—”
Harry.
Before you could react, he guided you into an empty office nearby and shut the door behind you.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you snapped, pulling back.
He immediately loosened his grip. “I—sorry. I just— I didn’t want anyone to see.”
You glanced at the file in your hand. “Harry, I don’t have time. I need to deliver this. If you have something to say, say it. Quickly.”
He hesitated. Then—
“I heard you and John talking,” he said. “You’re not coming to the celebration?”
You raised a brow. “Hold on. Were you watching us?”
“What? No,” he said too fast. “I just—happened to be walking in.”
“Hm,” you murmured. “Convenient.”
You shrugged. “And yes. I’m not coming.”
“Why?” he asked, genuinely unsettled.
You blinked. Once.
“Why?” you echoed, incredulous. “Harry—are you serious?”
You tilted your head slightly, composure perfectly intact.
“Because I don’t plan on being a headline at a Castillo Capital celebration,” you said coolly.
“And if I’m seen with you, it won’t take long for people to connect the dots. Ex-wife. Former marriage. Scandal doesn’t need an invitation.”
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
“There’s an after party,” he said finally, uncertain. “Just employees. No press.”
You studied him.
“What is your problem?” you asked calmly.
“My problem?” he echoed.
“Why do you want me there so badly?” you pressed. “You’re acting strange.”
He exhaled. “It’s not like that. You worked hard. You closed a major deal. You deserve to celebrate. That’s all.”
You held his gaze for a long second.
“Hm,” you said softly. “Thank you, Mr. Castillo. But I won’t be attending. Enjoy the celebration.”
You stepped past him and left the office.
Harry stayed behind, staring at the closed door.
It would work in his favor if you stayed away.
He knew that.
Less attention.
Fewer questions.
And yet—
Why did he still want you there?
He didn’t know.
Not really.
All he knew was that there were things he wanted to ask you—things that had been sitting between you for days, years.
Why your face had looked like that in the car.
Why you’d been at the hospital five years ago—and why you’d never told him any of it.
And why, standing in his apartment, you’d started to say because of you I— only to stop. Only to leave the sentence unfinished.
The questions crowded the back of his throat, heavy.
Harry exhaled sharply.
He needed answers.
He just didn’t know how to ask for them.
Wednesday
7:18 P.M.
Ever since Lara had admitted that your mother knew everything, a quiet tension had settled in your chest. You and Scarlet had danced around the truth long enough. She hadn’t confronted you—not really. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t demanded explanations. And that almost made it worse.
There would be a conversation eventually. You knew that.
You just didn’t know what she was waiting for.
Or what you were.
You chose not to dwell on it.
Richard being out of the country for a week should have been a relief.
Instead, it only made the house feel too quiet.
Scarlet, at least, was spared the evening. She’d left earlier with Lara for a charity event—another room full of polite smiles and practiced sincerity.
None of it appealed to you.
Not the events. Not the company celebration. Not any of it.
Ever since the visit to Eloise, something felt… off.
The way he’d softened without warning. The absence of sharp edges. The lack of strategy.
It unsettled you.
Harry’s behavior wouldn’t leave your mind.
Was this a new game?
If it was, there were no tells. No moves. No cracks.
And then there was John.
Had Harry been jealous?
The thought sat strangely in your chest.
It would have been easier if he’d been cruel again. Cold. Dismissive.
At least then you’d know how to fight back.
This version of him—quiet, unreadable—left you nowhere to push.
No battle to prepare for.
No armor to put on.
And that, somehow, was worse.
You were in your room, laptop balanced on your knees, pretending to work.
A knock sounded.
Mikey didn’t wait for an answer.
He walked in, phone already in hand, holding it up like evidence. On the screen: Castillo Capital — Q3 Earnings Celebration.
“So,” he said lightly, “you’re actually not going?”
You didn’t look up from your laptop. “No, Mikey. I told you.”
He studied you for a moment, then let out a quiet breath.
“You’re worried that if Mom or Dad finds out—”
“Yes,” you cut in, lifting your gaze to his. “That’s exactly it.”
Mikey’s lips twitched. “In that case…” He straightened. “I guess it’s time to activate Plan B.”
You frowned. “Plan B?”
He was already opening the door.
“Surprise!”
The door flew open.
“TA-DAAA!”
Chloe and Emily burst into your room like a coordinated attack.
Chloe was holding a garment bag like it contained a national treasure. Emily followed close behind, arms full of shoe boxes.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “What— how— why are you here?”
“You said you weren’t going,” Emily said cheerfully. “So we took matters into our own hands.”
Chloe unzipped the garment bag just enough to reveal silk—rich, dark, unmistakably new.
Chloe’s mother was one of those names people on the Upper East Side mentioned quietly.
An original designer. Discreet. Impossible to copy.
Her pieces didn’t chase trends—they set them.
And every now and then, when something felt right, Chloe would show up with one of them for you.
Not as a favor.
As a given.
So when she held up the garment bag now, her expression almost reverent, it didn’t feel out of place.
“This,” she announced, “is one of Maison Duval’s most prized pieces.”
She smiled, proud and unapologetic. “My mom designed it herself. It won’t even be in the windows until the New Year.”
Emily let out a low breath. “On her? It’s going to be lethal.”
You reached for the fabric before you could stop yourself.
Your fingers slid over it—and you froze.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “This is… insanely sexy.”
The dress was a deep, midnight blue, the kind that shifted with the light. The fabric was heavy in the right way—luxurious, fluid, unmistakably high quality. Not something that clung. Something that followed.
You traced the delicate spaghetti straps, already imagining how they would sit against your shoulders.
You glanced up at Chloe.
“Your mom outdid herself. But I can't. I-"
“Don’t argue,” she cut in. “The fabric alone is obscene. The cut? Criminal. And on you?” She smiled. “Devastating.”
Emily lifted a pair of heels. “And these? You won’t breathe properly for at least an hour. Worth it.”
“Guys,” you laughed, a little overwhelmed. “I know I’d look incredible in this—” you gestured to the dress, still half in awe, “but why should I go?” You shook your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “I mean… what’s the point?”
“Because you deserve to be there,” Emily said simply.
“And because,” Chloe added, eyes sharp, “we planned this. The Vanderholt situation is handled. You need to show up.”
Emily grinned. “Also—weren’t you supposed to be in full revenge mode?
You hesitated. “I mean… yeah. But honestly, I don’t really feel like it anymore. It feels like a waste of energy.”
Chloe and Emily exchanged a look.
Then, in perfect unison—
“Who are you,” Emily said slowly,
“and what have you done with our Queen?” Chloe finished.
You laughed despite yourself. “I’m still me. Just—tired.”
Chloe grabbed your wrist and pulled you off the bed. “Nope. You can be tired after the after party.”
Emily plugged in the curling iron. “Hair first. No excuses.”
Mikey watched from the doorway, arms crossed, clearly entertained.
“Okay,” he said thoughtfully, “this is either going to be legendary or catastrophic.”
Then his phone lit up.
A familiar beat filled the room.
🎶 Pretty woman, walkin’ down the street… 🎶
You, Chloe, and Emily all turned to stare at him.
Mikey lifted the phone slightly, unapologetic.
“I just felt like this moment needed a soundtrack.”
Emily didn’t miss a beat.
“Do you have literally anything better to do?” she asked sweetly—then planted a hand on his chest and shoved him toward the door.
“Out,” she said firmly.
Mikey laughed as the door closed in his face.
The music cut off.
Chloe grinned. “Okay. Now we can work.”
You looked around—at the dress, the shoes, the girls already moving like a well-rehearsed team.
Emotion rose unexpectedly.
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around them.
“Thank you guys. I love you so much,” you said softly. “I think… I think you’re right. I should be there.”
Chloe squeezed you tighter. “Of course you should.”
Emily grinned. “Now let’s get you dressed. The after party’s not going to survive you.”
And just like that; the night changed course.
9:58 P.M.
The rooftop was alive.
Music pulsed through the space—DJ set smooth and deliberate, bass rolling low beneath laughter and clinking glasses. City lights stretched endlessly beyond the railing, Manhattan glittering like it knew it was being admired.
Everyone was talking about Harry’s opening speech at the Q3 earnings presentation—delivered earlier that evening, in front of the press.
It had been sharp. Unshakeable. The kind of speech that would dominate tomorrow’s headlines.
Clusters formed and dissolved—some dancing with drinks in hand, others leaning over cocktail tables, conversations overlapping in a soft, constant hum.
Harry stood near one of the high tables with Ron and John, a drink untouched in his hand.
His gaze kept drifting.
Scanning.
As if, if he looked long enough, you might simply appear.
“You’re sure everyone’s here?” Harry asked, trying—and failing—to sound casual.
Ron took a sip of his drink. “Everyone?” he echoed. Then, almost to himself, “Feels like someone’s missing.”
Harry shot him a sharp look.
John glanced between them.
“Actually… yeah. Not everyone,” he said. “Queen didn’t come. She wasn’t at the cocktail reception either. Said she wouldn’t make the after party.”
Harry’s grip tightened slightly around his glass.
“Oh,” he said. “Did she say why?”
John shook his head. “No. Just said she wasn’t coming. We talked about an hour ago.”
Before Harry could respond, John laughed and nodded toward the bar area.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Look at that. Mrs. Reyes and—the girl whose name I keep forgetting—are wearing the same dress.”
They stood side by side, staring at each other in disbelief while everyone laughed hard.
“They told me this was the last one in the store,” one of them said, laughing in shock.
“That’s funny,” the other replied, mortified. “They told me the exact same thing.”
John took a long drink. “Second worst thing that can happen at a party,” he declared.
Ron snorted. “At least the shoes are different.”
Dana, hovering nearby, tilted her head. “Sweetheart, that does not save the situation.”
Harry glanced at John. “You said second worst. What’s the first?”
John sighed. “When the one person you actually wanted to show up… doesn’t.”
He tipped his glass back and finished it.
Harry felt it like a physical hit.
He raised his own drink and drained it in one go.
That was when Dana froze.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Ms. Queen. She made it!”
Ron followed her gaze—and broke into a grin.
“Ah. Finally.”
Harry turned.
And for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.
You stood near the entrance, the city lights framing you like they’d been staged. The dress moved with you, fluid and precise, elegance in motion.
Every head turned.
Every conversation softened.
You smiled when you saw their reactions—subtle. Knowing.
Then you started toward them.
Not walking.
Gliding.
Harry’s heart slammed so hard he was convinced everyone could hear it. His mouth went dry. He looked at John—then immediately looked away, jaw tightening as he forced his gaze back forward.
People murmured as you passed.
“She came.”
“Of course she did.”
“Wow.”
Even the men who’d been mid-conversation forgot to finish their sentences.
Harry reached for another drink from a passing tray and took a sharp sip.
Ron and Dana instinctively shifted closer, as if pulled into your orbit. “Welcome, Ms. Queen,” Ron said smoothly.
"Welcome," Dana said grinning.
You stopped in front of them, composed and radiant. A soft smile curved your lips—effortless, practiced, warm in that unmistakably you way.
“Oh my God,” Dana breathed, genuine admiration in her voice. “Your dress is absolutely blinding.”
“You’re very kind, Dana,” you said lightly. “Thank you.”
Then you turned to Harry.
“Good evening, Mr. Castillo,” you said, politely—professionally.
Only then did your expression soften as you looked at John.
“Hey.”
John stared at you like he’d forgotten his lines. “Wow,” he said honestly. “You look… incredible. I mean— I actually forgot how to breathe for a second.”
Harry’s head snapped toward him.
Ron stiffened. Dana’s brows lifted.
You laughed lightly.
“You’re very sweet, John. Always such a gentleman.”
Harry’s jaw tightened.
John grinned. “Well, being a gentleman requires commitment.” He gestured toward the bar. “Can I get you a drink? Maybe keep you company?”
You smiled and slipped your arm through his.
“Sure.”
Harry watched, face carefully neutral—eyes anything but.
Ron leaned in, voice low.
“I think I understand that movie you mentioned now, boss.”
“Ron,” Harry muttered. “Don’t.”
From across the rooftop, John pointed discreetly toward Mrs. Reyes and her accidental twin.
You followed his gaze—and burst out laughing, leaning in to murmur something in his ear.
Whatever you said made him laugh too, softer this time, closer.
The sound carried.
Harry heard it.
His fingers curled tighter around his glass, knuckles paling as the ice inside chimed sharply. His jaw locked, a slow, familiar pressure building in his chest—hot, irrational, unwelcome.
He told himself it was nothing.
That it meant nothing.
And yet his eyes stayed fixed on you, on the way your head tipped toward John, the way your smile lingered a second too long.
The room felt suddenly too loud, too bright, like the music was pressing in on him from all sides.
“Easy,” Ron murmured beside him. “Breathe.”
Harry didn’t answer. He just watched—jaw set, eyes dark—as you laughed under the city lights with someone else’s arm linked through yours. And the night, which had started as a celebration, suddenly felt like a test he hadn’t prepared for.
10:45 P.M.
As the night wore on, the party found its rhythm.
People loosened. Laughter grew louder. Someone from accounting had clearly had one drink too many—and when he stumbled toward the pool that was very much not meant for swimming and promptly fell in, the entire rooftop erupted.
Cheers. Laughter. Phones already out.
You laughed too, covering your mouth with your hand as John laughed beside you, the two of you clinging to your drinks while security rushed in.
Lucy’s laugh cut through the noise as she stood next to him, her hand brushing his arm—lingering, possessive—but it might as well not have been there. Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t look down, didn’t react at all.
His attention never left you.
The way you smiled.
The way the city lights caught in your hair.
The way your laughter seemed to tilt the night slightly off its axis.
The touch on his arm meant nothing.
You took another sip, warmth spreading, when the urge hit.
“I need the restroom,” you said, leaning toward John.
He pointed down a corridor. “That way.”
You followed it, the music fading with each step. The air grew quieter. Emptier.
Too empty.
You slowed, frowning.
That’s when you realized—you’d taken the wrong turn.
You turned to head back—
and a hand closed around your wrist.
Again.
Harry.
He really needed to stop doing that.
“Wait,” he said, already pulling you along.
“Harry—what the hell?” you demanded as he guided you through a side door and out onto a smaller terrace at the back.
The door shut behind you automatically.
He turned to face you.
“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
You yanked your hand free. “Excuse me? You drag me out here and ask me that? What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not going to dance around this,” he said. “I don’t tolerate this kind of thing in my company.”
You stared. “What kind of thing?”
“John,” he said flatly.
You blinked. “John?”
“You and him,” Harry went on. “Is there something going on?”
You actually laughed. “What? Where did that come from?”
“Where do you think?” he shot back. “You’re together all the time. Lunches. Jokes. Laughing like there’s nothing else to laugh about.”
You crossed your arms slowly, head tilting, a smile playing on your lips.
“Harry,” you said lightly, “You were watching us.” His jaw tightened.
“You’re jealous,” you added, giggling now.
He laughed—sharp, almost hysterical. “Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh?” you teased. “Because you keep asking about him. Watching me. Questioning who calls me and why. Want me to keep going, or is that enough?”
“Enough,” he snapped. “I don’t care about either of you. I care about avoiding a scandal. You know how strict I am about work.”
You nodded slowly, mock-serious. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“I’m warning you,” he added. “Do whatever you want. I’m just making myself clear.”
You leaned in slightly. “Harry, you’re lying. Even your breathing has changed. I can see it.”
“Dream on, princess,” he said coldly, turning for the door.
“Admit it,” you called after him.
He stopped. Turned back.
“You haven’t forgotten me,” you said softly. “You still feel something.”
For a moment, his expression faltered. Then he scoffed. “You wish.”
Before you could respond, a voice cut in.
“There you are!”
John stood in the doorway, surprised. “What are you two doing back here?”
You and Harry stiffened at the same time.
You recovered first. “I got lost looking for the restroom. Mr. Castillo was—”
“On a call,” Harry cut in quickly. “It’s quieter back here. I just ran into her.”
John studied him for a beat—then smiled. “Well, come on. Slow song’s playing. Want to dance?”
You glanced at Harry, just long enough for him to see the challenge in your eyes.
Then you took John’s hand. “Of course.”
Inside, the rooftop had shifted.
The lights were softer now. Couples had started to move. Not many—but enough.
“But no one else is dancing,” you whispered.
“They will,” John murmured. “They just need someone brave enough to start. Do you know how captivating you are?”
You laughed. “I suppose I do.”
He placed one hand at your waist, the other warm around yours.
People followed.
The after party slowly transformed into something that felt dangerously close to a wedding dance floor.
Harry stood rigid by a cocktail table, fingers digging into the edge as Thinking Out Loud filled the air.
🎶 Will your mouth still remember the taste of my love… 🎶
He couldn’t look away from John’s hand on your waist.
🎶 Will your eyes still smile from your cheeks… 🎶
Another drink. Harder this time.
🎶 And darling I will be loving you ’til we’re seventy… 🎶
Dana elbowed Ron sharply.
Ron leaned in. “Boss… maybe don’t make it this obvious.”
“Obvious?” Harry snapped.
“That you’re jealous,” Ron whispered. “I mean—anyone could tell.”
Harry’s jaw flexed. He inhaled, chest tight, hands trembling.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I’m leaving.”
“Leaving where?” Ron asked.
Dana sighed, watching you dance. “Oh my God. His hands were literally shaking.”
Harry strode past you toward the exit. He made it three steps before Lucy caught his arm. “Harry—where are you going?”
He didn’t look at her right away. His eyes stayed trained on the doors, as if if he kept moving, the night couldn’t touch him.
“I need to go,” he said finally.
Lucy’s grip tightened. “Why? The party’s still going.”
He swallowed, searching for something clean to say—something that didn’t sound like I can’t watch her with him anymore.
“I’m tired,” he muttered. “Long week. I’ve got an early morning.”
Lucy blinked. “You’ve had, what, three drinks? You’re fine.”
Harry’s mouth twitched, humorless. “I’m not.”
“Please,” she said softer now, stepping closer like she could block him from leaving. “One dance. That’s all. Just… don’t leave like this.”
He hesitated.
For a second, you thought he might pull away—might choose the doors anyway.
Instead, Harry exhaled slowly, like he was giving up something he didn’t want to surrender. “…Fine,” he said. “One dance.”
They joined the floor.
You smiled at John—but your eyes flicked back to Harry and Lucy.
Your turn. And the jealousy hit hard, lighting a fire in your chest you hadn’t expected.
Ron and Dana exchanged a look.
“Oh no,” Ron muttered. “The dance phase.”
“Don’t worry,” Dana said. “I’ll keep him distracted.”
She grabbed Ron’s hand. “Come on, princess.”
“Me?” Ron choked.
“Yes, you,” she laughed. “Didn’t know you were the damsel type.”
Dana was already pulling him closer, guiding him onto the floor with decisive confidence. They started moving just as Harry and Lucy drifted toward you and John from the opposite side—four trajectories on a collision course.
Dana smiled like she’d planned it.
At the last second, she spun Ron, turning them neatly between the two couples, skirts and shoulders narrowly missing, like a perfectly timed waltz maneuver.
Ron blinked, eyes darting left and right as they passed between you and Harry.
“Okay,” he muttered, half laughing, half panicked, “I really hope we’re not about to become collateral damage.”
Dana twirled him again, unfazed. “Relax. Think of it as… strategic positioning.”
Harry and Lucy moved past on one side.
You and John on the other.
Ron’s eyes flicked between the two couples, shoulders tensing.
“Oh God,” he muttered, “we’re about to get caught in the crossfire, aren’t we?”
Dana leaned in with a grin, completely unfazed.
“You know,” she said lightly, “New Year bonuses are coming up. The better mood Mr. Castillo is in, the better our raises tend to be.”
Ron let out a short laugh, half impressed, half alarmed.
“Wow,” he said. “You’re really good at hyping this up.”
Dana squeezed his hand. “Focus, Ron. Think long-term.”
And when your wedding song began to play—the one you’d both avoided for years, the song from your first dance—At Last—the room seemed to slow.
🎶 At last… 🎶
Across the moving bodies, you and Harry found each other’s eyes.
🎶 My love has come along… 🎶
The lyric drifted through the rooftop like a memory neither of you had managed to bury. Couples swayed. Glasses clinked. And yet, for a suspended beat, it felt like the night had narrowed to just the two of you—years folding in on themselves.
🎶 My lonely days are over…🎶
Neither of you smiled.
Neither of you looked away.
The song kept playing.
So did everything you’d spent years trying not to feel.
Not even while dancing in someone else’s arms.
John leaned in. “Look—Harry’s dancing with Lucy. Didn’t see that coming. They actually look good together, don’t they?”
Something in you snapped.
“If you say so,” you replied lightly, already turning away.
Lucy followed Harry’s line of sight—and stilled.
She forced a small smile, adjusting her grip on his hand.
“I thought you said John was a bit of a flirt,” she said casually, as if it didn’t matter. “But he seems pretty taken with Queen.”
Harry didn’t answer right away.
Lucy tilted her head, watching you and John sway together across the floor, your laughter soft, your posture effortless.
“I mean,” she added, a touch too lightly, “I get it. She’s stunning. They actually look good together, don’t they?”
Harry’s gaze drifted once more—then he caught himself.
He cleared his throat, easing his hand from Lucy’s.
“Sorry,” he said lightly. “I need to use the restroom.”
Lucy paused, the smile on her lips holding a fraction too long.
“Oh—of course,” she said quickly. “Go ahead.”
Harry nodded once and stepped away.
Lucy watched him go, then followed the direction his eyes had already taken—
to you.
11:23 P.M.
By the time the party began to thin, exhaustion settled into your bones.
You sank down beside the girls at one of the low tables, heels kicked off beneath your chair. John dropped into the seat next to you, already laughing as someone suggested shots.
“Tequila,” someone announced.
You didn’t even hesitate.
One shot turned into two.
Then three.
“Queen! Queen! Queen!”
The chant rose, playful and loud, applause breaking out around the table. You laughed, head tipping back as you swallowed another, warmth spreading fast and careless.
Across the rooftop, Harry clenched his jaw. “Why is she drinking so much?” he muttered under his breath. “She’s going to get herself drunk.”
He started toward your table just as a nearby group drifted into conversation—voices loose, praise flowing easily.
“You know,” someone said, swirling their glass, “I still don’t get how a man that successful doesn’t have someone on his arm.”
"Mr. Castillo?"
"Yep."
“And that handsome,” another added. “It makes no sense.”
The annoying girl laughed too loudly. “Oh please. Some women just don’t know what to do with a man like that. His ex-wife, for example—how do you divorce that? Insane.”
Your smile vanished.
John stiffened beside you.
You reached for another shot and downed it.
Someone tried to signal her—eyes wide, finger pointing behind her—but she was far too drunk to notice.
“I mean,” she continued, slurring slightly, “she must’ve been one of those Manhattan elite types. Cold. Stuck-up. Thought she was better than everyone.”
You and Harry locked eyes across the table.
John leaned in. “Hey—maybe you should stop talking.”
“What?” she scoffed. “Why?”
Then she turned—
And saw Harry standing right behind her.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Mr. Castillo. I— I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— I just meant it’s crazy someone would leave you.”
Lucy stepped in smoothly. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Of course, Ms. Mason,” someone mumbled.
Lucy reached for Harry’s arm. “Come on, let’s get another drink.”
And that’s when you couldn’t stop yourself.
“Maybe,” you said clearly, “we should hear the story from the other side.”
Every head turned.
Harry looked at you.
“So interesting,” you continued, calm but sharp, “because I spoke to someone who knows your ex-wife well. She said your ex-wife wasn’t cold at all. She said she made sacrifices while you were building the company.”
You tilted your head. “But you were such a workaholic that you neglected her.”
Mrs. Reyes nudged your arm hard. “Queen, stop. You’re crossing a line.”
Ron and Dana exchanged a tense look. John leaned closer. “I think you’ve had a bit too much,” he murmured gently.
Lucy looked straight at you. “Maybe your friend was a liar.”
You didn’t look away from Harry.
“My friend doesn’t lie. Ever.”
Then, softly—dangerously—
“Mr. Castillo… do you think my friend is lying?”
The silence was brutal.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know who you spoke to,” he said coldly. “But whoever it was had no right.”
Then he turned away.
Lucy shot you a look—sharp, disapproving—as she followed him.
People stared. Whispered. Wondered how you’d dared.
John clapped his hands once, forcing a smile. “So—amazing night, right? DJ’s been incredible.”
Grateful voices jumped in.
“Yeah, so good.”
“Such a great party.”
The moment dissolved.
Your head spun.
You stood, gathering your bag with unsteady hands. “I should go,” you said quietly.
John rose instantly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you said, though the room tilted. “I need to leave.”
“Let me take you,” he offered. “You drank… a lot. I’ll call my driver.”
Your temper flared. “I said no.”
He blinked. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’ve handled everything on my own my whole life,” you snapped. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
His expression softened. “I don’t know what upset you, but at least let me walk you to a taxi.”
You shook your head. “John, please. I need to be alone.”
You turned and walked toward the exit, stumbling once—but you didn’t look back.
John stayed.
Across the room, Harry had seen everything.
His eyes followed you until the doors closed behind you.
Lucy leaned in. “Harry, don’t let her get to you. That was completely inappropriate.”
He exhaled slowly. “It’s fine.”
Then, quietly—
“I’m leaving. See you tomorrow.”
Lucy didn’t argue. She just watched him go, lips pressed thin.
Ron and Dana exchanged grins.
“Well,” Dana murmured, lifting her glass, “Mr. Castillo’s leaving. Aren’t you going to escort him?”
Ron chuckled. “Didn’t you see who he just followed?”
Ron chuckled. “Looks like Lucy lost. So… love: one.”
Dana smiled, wicked. “Lucy: zero.”
They clinked their glasses.
11:36 P.M.
Outside, you didn’t even think about calling a cab.
You just wanted air. Cold air, as it turned out.
You stepped onto the sidewalk, muttering under your breath as you walked, arms wrapping around yourself.
“Of course it’s freezing,” you grumbled. “Great timing.”
Your steps weren’t exactly straight. You swayed a little, correcting yourself each time, vaguely aware of the sideways looks people gave you as they passed.
You kept going anyway.
Only after a few minutes did it register that the building behind you was much farther away than it should’ve been.
You slowed, frowning.
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “I’ve walked way too far.”
You drifted toward the curb, fumbling for your phone.
“I just need a cab,” you told yourself. “Go home. Hot shower. Immediately.”
Your heels protested with every step. “These shoes are incredible,” you sighed, “but they’re officially trying to kill me.”
Head bowed, you barely noticed the car pulling up beside you.
A black Mercedes eased to the curb. The window rolled down.
“Get in,” Harry said simply. “I’ll take you home.”
You turned, squinting at him.
“No,” you said. “I’m getting a taxi.”
“You’re standing in the middle of the street like you don’t know where you are,” he replied tightly. “Before someone recognizes you—get in the car.”
“I don’t need your help,” you snapped, voice louder than you intended. “And you don’t need to play husband anymore. You’re not.”
Two people walking past slowed, clearly listening.
Harry muttered something under his breath, got out of the car.
“Before we both embarrass ourselves,” he said lowly, taking your wrist, “get in. Now. I’m already angry—and if this turns into a headline, you’ll be the one on page six tomorrow.”
You yanked your arm back.
“I’m the one who’s angry,” you shot back, words tumbling out faster than your thoughts. “Aaand—” you paused, swaying slightly, “—my feet hurt.”
Harry closed his eyes for a second, like he was counting to ten.
“Are you getting in,” he asked evenly, “or not?”
You hesitated, blinking at him longer than necessary.
There really wasn’t a better option.
“Fiiiine,” you drawled, the word stretched and stubborn. “But I’m getting in myself.” You lifted a finger at him, slightly off-balance. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”
He lifted both hands in surrender. “Okay.”
You walked around to the other side, climbed in, and slammed the door harder than necessary.
Harry got in after you, shifting slightly—but his shoulder brushed yours.
“Move,” you said immediately. “Don’t get close to me.”
He shot you a look. “I’m not dying to touch you.” He shifted away.
The car pulled into traffic. The movement made your head feel heavy, swaying gently with each turn. Your eyelids drooped despite your best efforts. “About what you said back there,” Harry began, voice lower now. “That thing about knowing someone who ‘knew’ you—do you have any idea how close that was to outing us?”
You scoffed weakly.
“You’re worried about the scandal,” he murmured. “If people find out my your ex-wife, who do you think gets hurt more?”
Your head tipped sideways.
Then it happened.
Your temple rested against his shoulder.
Harry froze.
“Queen?” he said softly.
You didn’t answer.
Instead, your arms slid around his, loose and instinctive, as sleep pulled you under. He exhaled slowly.
“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered. “You need to wake up. I can’t take you home like this. If your mother sees you—if she sees me—”
You stirred, barely conscious.
He sighed and lifted a hand, resting it gently at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Mr. Castillo?”
Harry hesitated. Then- “Home."
12:49 A.M.
By the time the car rolled into Tribeca, Harry was already trying to wake you.
“Hey,” he murmured. “We’re here.”
You stirred, incoherent, a soft sound slipping from you that wasn’t quite a word.
He sighed, got out, and came around to your side.
When he helped you up, your knees buckled immediately.
You were far too drunk to stand on your own—but you tried anyway.
His arm came instinctively around your waist.
“Slow,” he said quietly. “Easy.”
You mumbled something unintelligible as he guided you into the building, across the marble floor, and into the elevator.
The ride up felt endless.
Somewhere between floors, you muttered, half-asleep, half-resentful,
“You’re awful, Harry… I hate you.”
He huffed.
“Of course I am. So awful I’m bringing you to my place.”
When the doors opened at the penthouse, you stumbled again.
“My foot,” you whimpered.
“Fuck,” he muttered—and without another word, he scooped you up.
You barely noticed as he carried you into his bedroom and laid you gently on his bed.
He knelt to remove your shoes, movements careful despite his irritation.
When he did, he paused—eyes catching on the redness along the side of your little toe where the heel had rubbed raw.
He exhaled softly.
You murmured again, voice thick with sleep.
“You have no idea what I’ve been through… You don’t know how much it hurt.”
Harry froze.
“Right,” he said quietly, more to himself. “You must’ve been so hurt. You even talk in your sleep.”
He sat beside you, eyes fixed on your face.
“Maybe you could tell me,” he added under his breath. “What hurt you. I just don’t know how to ask.”
You shifted suddenly, rolling onto your side.
The deep line of your back, the bare skin revealed by the dress, caught his breath short.
For a second, he leaned in, too close—close enough to feel the pull of something dangerous.
“How do you do this?” he whispered.
“Make it feel like my heart never broke at all. Like I—”
He stopped himself.
Shook his head once.
Then he stood, carefully pulling the covers up around you.
In the quiet after, he found himself at the bar cart, pouring a whiskey he didn’t really want.
He sat there, glass in hand, staring into nothing.
You slept in his bed.
It was the first mistake.
3:49 A.M.
A brutal headache dragged you back to consciousness. You blinked, disoriented, pushing yourself upright with a groan, one hand pressing to your temples.
“God… my head is splitting.”
The room was dark. Smaller. Low-lit. And unmistakably not yours.
Harry’s bedroom.
Your breath caught. You glanced down—your dress was still on. Relief came, but not enough to settle the unease. The clock on the nightstand read 3:50. Too early to relax.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, feet protesting as they touched the floor—heels had done real damage. You picked them up anyway and padded toward the gold-lit hallway.
Where was Harry?
Probably another room.
Good. No need to check. You just needed to leave. Quietly.
You were halfway to the door when you heard it—
footsteps.
“You’re awake.”
You froze.
Slowly, you turned.
Harry stood at the end of the hall, coming from the kitchen, eyes alert, voice low.
“Were you… leaving?” he asked. “At four in the morning?”
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt. “I—I drank too much. This is awkward. I shouldn’t have stayed. And I displaced you. From your bed." You bit your lower lip. "I did, didn’t I?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you asking if I slept with you?”
You nodded, mortified.
“Relax,” he said. “Nothing like that happened.”
He paused, then gestured back toward the kitchen. “But don’t go now. You’re still drunk. Sit. Please.”
Your feet throbbed. Pride lost. “…Okay.”
The second mistake.
He poured you water. You sat at the counter and noticed the whiskey bottle—nearly half gone.
“You didn’t sleep,” you said softly.
He handed you the glass. “Couldn’t.”
“Why?”
He leaned back against the counter, arms braced wide, trapping the space without touching you. Watching you—too closely.
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
“Five years ago,” he said.
You froze.
“I found out you weren’t staying at a hotel in Switzerland,” he continued, voice measured, controlled with effort. “Not once. Not for five months.”
Your heart slammed so hard it stole your breath.
“You were at a hospital.”
The word cracked something open—sharp and sudden.
Harry didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes searched your face relentlessly, like he’d been waiting years for the smallest reaction. A flinch. A lie. Anything.
“Why?” he asked quietly. Too quietly. “Why were you there?”
A beat.
“Why did you lie to me?”
You couldn’t look at him. You kept your gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but his eyes—because if you met them, you knew it would all spill out. Years of silence. Of careful distance. Of a truth you’d buried so deep you’d almost convinced yourself it was gone.
You couldn’t run.
And you couldn’t let him see you break.
So you stayed perfectly still—
holding everything in.
You made the decision all at once, rising from the chair with practiced composure—too quickly. The world lurched, betraying you as you swayed. Harry reached, fast, grabbing you, his hand slid from your wrist into your palm, fingers threading with care, as if he were learning how to touch you again.
He turned you to face him.
“Why did you leave me?” he asked.
The question landed like it had been waiting years to be heard.
You tore your hand free.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, voice steady.
“I told you on the courthouse steps then—” you met his gaze without blinking, “—I couldn’t stay married to a man I wasn’t in love with.” Five years ago, you’d rehearsed that sentence until it no longer trembled. Until your voice didn’t crack. Until your face learned exactly how to look when you said it—detached, resolved, believable.
The lie came easily now.
Old muscle memory.
Harry’s eyes hardened. “Same story. You really couldn’t come up with a better one?”
You reached for your phone. “This was a mistake. I’ll call Mikey—”
He grabbed the phone and hurled it. It shattered against the wall.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you gasped.
He caught your shoulders as you backed into the wall, stopping inches from you.
“Harry—”
He leaned in. Too close.
“You didn’t leave because you stopped loving me,” he said, his voice cracking through the anger. “You left because of what sent you to that hospital.”
“No—” Your voice rose, sharp and raw. You shoved at his shoulders, trying to break free. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Tell me!” he shouted back, finally losing control. “Just once—tell me the truth!”
“You’re insane,” you snapped, breath shaking as you shoved at him again.
“Yes!” he barked back, louder—raw.
“Yes?” you yelled, incredulous. “Yes what?”
“Yes—you made me that way!” His voice cracked, fury and something dangerously close to pain tearing through it. “Yes, I’m jealous. Yes, it hurts when he touches you. Yes, I can’t stand not being the one who does.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“And yes,” he went on, words spilling now, unstoppable, “I built this damn company for you. Because it was your dream—yes. Because you believed in me when I had nothing—yes. You stood there and backed me every step of the way.”
Your voice collided with his, both of you speaking at once—
“—Is this what you want to hear?”
“—Is that what this is about now?”
You laughed sharply, breathless, shaking your head. “I never helped you like that—”
“That’s what you think?” he shot back, just as loud.
You fired back, just as loud.
“You said you felt nothing! You said I never even crossed your mind—that you’d forgotten me.”
Your voice broke, sharp and accusing. “You didn’t want me anymore. So what happened? What changed?”
“I never forgot you,” he said hoarsely. “I loved you like a damn idiot.”
A beat. Pain flickered across his face.
“But you left. You walked away, and I spent months tearing myself apart trying to understand why.” His voice roughened. “I blamed you. I tried to hate you. I couldn’t forget you.”
He swallowed, eyes shining now, raw and unguarded.
“And it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said quietly. “None of it does.”
He moved that last inch closer.
“The only thing I’ve ever wanted is you.”
Your breath stuttered, chest tight.
“And you want me,” he added, softer now, deadly certain.
“Harry—stop.” You turned away.
He caught you, pulling you back into him, forehead resting against yours. His hand came up over your chest, not claiming—listening. The contact sent a shock through you, heat and panic colliding, your heartbeat loud enough to feel under his palm.
“I can feel it,” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “Your heart’s still beating for me.”
A breath. Barely there.
“Just like mine is still beating for you.”
“I don’t—”
“Liar.”
The word barely left his mouth before his hand closed around you.
He pulled you to him—hard, abrupt—so sudden you didn’t even have time to inhale.
His mouth crashed into yours.
Not a question. Not a warning.
Your eyes flew open in shock, the world tilting as his lips pressed into yours with bruising intent, all frustration and restraint finally snapping at once.
For half a heartbeat, you froze.
Then your body remembered him.
The anger melted first. The resistance followed. Your fingers curled into his shirt without permission, your breath breaking as the kiss deepened, rough and desperate, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
You softened against him before you could stop yourself.
And he felt it.
He pushed you back up against the wall and grabbed at your sides pulling your pelvis towards his hardening groin.
His kisses trailed to your neck and you gulped back a lustful sigh. He couldn’t know how much you were enjoying it.
The kiss broke into something darker—rougher.
There was no tenderness in it now. No hesitation.
Tongues fought for domination, teeth clashing, bites and nips bruising one another's lips. Just teeth and breath and the sharp pull of years spent pretending you didn’t want this.
Harry’s hands slid to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise later, as if he needed to remind himself you were real. You answered by yanking at his shirt, buttons giving way under impatient fingers.
“God,” he breathed against your mouth, frustration threaded through the sound.
“Shit,” you snapped—and kissed him harder. Having gotten that familiar taste of his, you couldn't hide your hunger.
Clothes became obstacles.
Annoying.
Unnecessary.
Your back hit the wall again as fabric slipped away—
Harry’s hands finding the thin straps of your dress, dragging them down your arms, letting the fabric pool at your waist with no care for grace or restraint.
Every movement was fueled by anger, by wanting to prove something neither of you could say out loud.
This wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t loving.
It was need colliding with resentment.
He pressed his forehead to yours for half a second, breath uneven, eyes dark.
You swallowed, forcing the words out even as your body betrayed you.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you said, voice unsteady but resolute.
His breath hitched. He didn’t move away. Didn’t move closer either.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked quietly, chest rising and falling too fast.
The question hurt more than you expected.
You felt it in your chest, sharp and immediate, like a bruise pressed too hard. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Instead, you shook your head—once, small, unmistakable.
No.
The third and final mistake.
A slow, crooked smile tugged at his mouth—not cruel, not mocking. Knowing.
He lifted you with a sharp inhale, movement rushed and unrestrained, like he’d run out of patience for pretending this wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted all along.
Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, anchoring yourself there as he moved, hands locked tight at your lower back. You clung to him for dear life, nails digging in, not to slow him down—but to keep up.
“Jesus,” he muttered, anger and longing tangled in the word.
His mouth found your neck once again as he carried you across the room, breath hot, unsteady. The kiss there was rough—almost punishing—like he was trying to mark time, erase years, reclaim something he’d lost.
You gasped, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
Everything about it was rushed.
Unfiltered.
Starved.
By the time he reached the bed, you were both shaking—not from uncertainty, but from the force of finally giving in.
The bed caught you hard.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
Like neither of you had any patience left for restraint.
Harry shrugged out of his open shirt and flung it somewhere across the room, the motion sharp, almost angry. Before you could even catch your breath, his weight was there—crowding your space, demanding your attention.
One knee pressed into the mattress between your legs, pinning you in place as his hands roamed with reckless intent, like he’d waited years to touch you and had finally lost the right to be gentle.
His fingers caught in your stockings, gripping them far rougher than necessary, you gasped when fabric gave way under his grip, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“Are you fucking serious?” you snapped, breathless and furious. “That was vintage chanel!”
He didn’t even look at you.
“Too late,” he muttered, already discarding what stood between him and you, like it offended him to have anything in the way.
You cursed him out loud.
His gaze dropped to you—dark, heated, unrepentant.
“Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to tear that dress off you?” he said, voice rough. "Any idea how hard I had to restrain myself from dragging you into the restroom, having you right there, and making you scream until you came hard around me?”
His words sent shivers of excitement down your spine, and you could feel the heat building between your thighs.
You leaned back against the bed, consumed by lust, feeling your sex throbbing, aching.
“Less talking,” you shot back. “More doing, Castillo.”
A sharp smile tugged at his mouth as he leaned closer.
“Bossy,” he murmured, the word deliberately chosen—
a callback, not an insult.
“Bold words for someone who used to like pretending she didn’t want control taken from her.”
You pushed yourself up, eyes blazing.
“Don’t-”
“Oh?” he challenged softly, unmistakably aware of what he was doing.
“You don’t remember how that used to go? Dom/sub dynamic-”
“Shut-“ You were cut off when he cupped your face and forced his lips onto yours. He lips were soft but the kiss was forceful and sloppy this time. You bit his lower lip without thinking.
He hissed through his teeth, the sound sharp, almost pained—almost pleased. For a split second, he pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, dangerous. And then he kissed you again—harder. You could feel him, heavy and hard against you, rutting rhythmically against the junction of your legs. And you heard him swear under his breath between kisses.
His hands roamed your body, squeezing your soft spots, groping your ass, weaving his fingers through your hair, remembering the places that made you squirm when he gave them attention.
He had pushed your panties aside and was now stroking your naked flesh, teasing circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves, dipping just inside of your slick wetness, you sucked in a sharp breath, anger and heat tangling until they were indistinguishable.
You tried to push him back—meant to—but the moment shattered when his touch turned deliberate, knowing exactly how to undo you. Your resolve faltered; your grip tightened instead, guided his hand down to your blushing core.
A low sound escaped him, satisfied, almost amused.
“Still acting mad when you’re really this wet for me,” he said, leaning in close enough that his words barely touched your lips.
“I’m not—” you started, but your legs began to tremble, the protest dying in your throat as he steadied you. He begins to pump his fingers in and out until he finds a steady rhythm, your hips moving in time with his hand, moaning with every thrust. “God, I missed hearing you like that. Do it again.”
You tried to glare back at him but your brows knitted softly together and your mouth fell open as his long finger curled up, granting him a surprised squeak from you. You gritted your teeth, refusing to obey him but he only shook his head and inserted another finger. The vibrations shook your core and were sent up into your stomach where a terrible and wonderful sensation began to build, causing you to crack out a broken moan. You latched your hand on to him, digging your nails into his arms. You were sure you broke the skin because he growled and grabbed your wrists and pinning you against the bed.
The rhythm between you turned relentless, breath stuttering, tempers flaring, control slipping in equal measure.
“That’s it baby, you don’t have to act like you don't want this,” he said, hungry kisses ravishing your neck. He bit down hard and you tried to grab him away but his hold on your arm was hard to pry and when you pulled his hair with your free hand, that only seemed to encourage him more.
“Harry—slow down, I—”
You never finished the sentence.
Not because you didn’t want to speak—
but because your body betrayed you first.
“Oohhh...” You were filled in dread when your walls caved in and clenched around his thick fingers. You never came that fast.
"God...."your breathing was labored while his head was so close to yours. He watched your face contort from fury to a mixture of delirium and euphoria.
He kissed you roughly, eating you out, drinking your mewls, swallowing pleas for more or... for no more, you were very unsure and quite frankly, at a loss for understanding how this even happened.
You let your head fall back against the mattress, eyes closed, trying to steady your breathing—trying to convince your body to slow down.
It didn’t listen.
Somewhere near the floor, something hit softly—fabric, maybe—and the sound carried louder than it should have in the quiet room. A second later, you heard it again: the muted shift of movement, the unmistakable rustle as he freed himself from his pants.
Your pulse spiked.
The anticipation curled low in your stomach, sharp and electric, making you inhale too fast, too shallow.
You opened for him like a flower, allowing him access to your core. He wasted no more time and moved to enter you.
Your lips parted in a moan as you felt him reach all the way, deep inside of you. He retracted for a second, and then plunged back in, relishing your cries. The feeling of you was just as he had remembered it. Your voice, distorted by sentient static, filled his ears, making his head swim.
He took hold of your legs and lifted them a bit, adjusting the angle. Your breath hitched, his name slipping from you before you could stop it—soft, broken, disbelieving. You hated how easily it came. Hated how your body responded as if no time had passed at all.
As wrong as this felt, it also felt devastatingly familiar.
You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation of recognition—by the way your body seemed to remember him better than your mind ever could. Like it had been waiting, patiently, all these years, to belong there again.
You’d missed him so much your body still felt like it belonged to him.
Like it had never learned another language.
It felt so wrong.
And it felt just right.
And that contradiction—
that was what undid you most.
He dipped his head and claimed your neck again -never get enough of doing this-, mouth hot and insistent, teeth grazing before he licked around your ear next, breathed a soft sigh into the delicate whorls inside as he thrust into you deeply. His breath was rough now, uneven, like he was running out of air and you were the only thing keeping him upright.
So amazing as he went in and out of your tightness, his strong arms wrapped around you possessively, his thrusts become more violent as you squirmed under his hold.
You tried to move against him, gasping for breath but he only held you there—steady, assured—as if he’d always loved having you exactly like this.
Of course he did.
He remembered it all. More than you did. The way control had always been part of the language between you. The way giving in felt like choosing, not losing.
And as memories and desire surged back into the open, neither of you resisted. You surrendered to the place where you’d stopped all those years ago—where dominance blurred into want, and want became the only rule.
Bodies moved together in the dim hush of his bedroom, shadows stretching across the walls as the city’s glow filtered in through the glass. In the low light, you watched his brown eyes fall shut, your name leaving his lips like a confession—soft, reverent, undone.
Harry's body shuddered and you knew he was close. His hands left your sides to brace against the bedpost. You held him tight and kissed him feverishly as he spilled his seed into you. You came not too long after once he yank your bra down, and took your nipple in his mouth.
Pleasure ripped through you, electrifying every nerve as Harry's tongue swirled around your breast, his fingers still rubbing your clit, his length still thrusting inside of you. You tipped over the edge, crying out his name.
His movements were practiced, effortless—muscle memory taking over, precise in a way that told you he remembered exactly what worked, exactly how you liked it. He knew.
If you hadn’t been so drunk on pleasure, on him, you might have asked how he could still be so sure.
But your thoughts were scattered, unfocused—like fireworks going off too early in your head, a New Year’s celebration no one had planned for yet.
His manhood soften and he pulled out, went down, landing on his back, pulling you with him so you were pressed against his chest. He held you there, arms locked around you, keeping you close for as long as you let him—your breaths mingling, the air between you warm, both of you panting in the quiet of the room. He clung to you for as long as you allowed him to, your breaths heating the air between your shaking bodies.
Your breathing slowly found its rhythm again, and you couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
You could feel Harry’s chest rising and falling behind you, right there—steady, solid.
You had forgotten how beautiful this was.
And maybe that was exactly why it hurt.
You slipped from his arm slowly, carefully.
And then—
you pulled away.
The silence that followed was heavier than the moment before. Too loud. Too real.
You sat up first. You adjusted your bra, fingers trembling as you pulled the straps back over your shoulders, as if that small, careful motion could restore something that had already slipped out of reach. Your dress followed, fabric settling against your skin again. You leaned forward to reach for your shoes, grounding yourself in the simple act of putting distance between your bare feet and the floor.
Your hands didn’t quite feel like yours.
There was a tightness in your chest, something sour and unfamiliar curling in your stomach, making it hard to breathe properly.
Behind you, Harry shifted. He propped himself up on one elbow, the sheets rumpled around his waist, staring at you as if he’d lost his bearings entirely. For a moment, he seemed unable to find words—caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to fear.
“Don’t,” Harry said quickly.
Not sharp.
Not commanding.
Just scared.
You paused, your back still to him.
Then you bent down again and continued putting on your shoes.
When you stood, he moved. Too fast. He stepped off the bed, bare feet silent against the floor, closing the distance between you in three long strides. Just as you reached the door, his arms came around you from behind, firm but careful, his chest pressed to your back.
“Please,” he murmured, his lips close to your ear. “Don’t leave like this. I can’t— I won’t let you go.”
You felt his heart against your spine, frantic, desperate, fighting to pull you back into something neither of you could name. You closed your eyes, forcing your voice to stay steady, forcing yourself not to lean into him.
“I have to,” you said quietly, keeping your tone cool despite the ache spreading through you. “This is wrong.”
He froze.
Slowly, he loosened his hold.
He stepped back, then moved around you, placing himself in front of the door as if instinct alone had guided him there. His face was open now, stripped of defenses.
“Then let me fix it,” he said, words tumbling over each other. “Let me do this right—let me—”
“Harry, stop.” Your voice cut through him, gentle but final. “There’s no fixing this.”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you went through,” he said, quieter now, raw. “But let me be there. I meant what I said. I love you, baby. I never stopped. Not once.”
You looked at him, trying to keep your expression neutral, even as something inside you splintered.
“I know,” you said softly. “And that’s exactly why I can’t do this. I can’t say it that easily. Not after everything. So if you really love me—if you’re serious—then you’ll let me go.”
The words landed hard.
Harry lowered his head.
That small gesture—so unlike him—nearly broke you. But you didn’t let it show. He stepped aside, slowly, opening a path to the door without looking up.
You walked past him.
At five in the morning, you left his penthouse to the soft click of the door closing behind you. The hallway was quiet, the world holding its breath. His scent still clung to you—warm, familiar, unmistakable. His touch lingered in places you refused to acknowledge. You carried him with you whether you wanted to or not.
Harry remained where he was.
Five years ago, this might have shattered him beyond repair. Tonight, he only dragged a hand down his face, wiping at the tears he refused to let fall freely. He sniffed once, steadying himself, then gave a slow, deliberate nod—as if sealing a decision.
“This time,” he said to the empty room, voice low and unyielding, “I won’t let you walk away.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’ll face the past. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Lucy noticed it all night.
The way Harry looked at you.
How his gaze lingered a second too long, how his attention kept drifting back to you no matter who was speaking.
It caught her interest because it didn’t make sense.
She had known him for three years—through board meetings, charity galas, crisis calls at impossible hours. Not once had she seen him look at anyone like that.
Not with hunger.
Not with nostalgia.
Not with something so painfully… personal.
And the thought crept in, slow and unwelcome:
Why her?
And whose were you, really?
Lucy had learned long ago to trust her instincts. Especially the quiet, dangerous ones.
The next morning, she reopened your file.
Not the surface version.
The one beneath it.
She combed through financial references, background checks, archived attachments—and then she saw it.
Queen.
The name.
The surname.
Identical to Richard Queen’s daughter.
Lucy’s fingers stilled above the keyboard.
“No,” she murmured.
“That’s not possible.”
But the denial didn’t last.
She reached for her phone and called a friend in PR—Castillo Capital’s PR. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. Someone who had access to what had been erased.
“What I need,” Lucy said calmly, “are the marriage files. Everything that never made it to the press.”
Minutes later, her inbox filled.
And Lucy felt the air leave her lungs.
QUEEN AND CASTILLO FAMILIES CONSOLIDATE POWER THROUGH MARRIAGE
An elite union reshapes Manhattan’s financial landscape.
Subheadline:
Sources confirm the marriage was strategically designed to merge influence across global markets.
Lucy scrolled.
Another headline—lighter in tone, sharper in intent.
MANHATTAN’S QUEEN CHOOSES CASTILLO’S GOLDEN HEIR
A match of pedigree, power, and undeniable chemistry.
And then one more. Older. Carefully buried.
A PRIVATE CEREMONY, A PUBLIC STRATEGY
Why one of Manhattan’s most powerful marriages vanished from the headlines overnight.
She scrolled further.
And then she found the divorce.
CASTILLO–QUEEN MARRIAGE ENDS IN SILENCE
Sources cite a sudden split between Manhattan’s most strategic union.
Another one. More pointed.
POWER COUPLE NO MORE: QUEEN AND CASTILLO FINALIZE QUIET DIVORCE
No statements. No appearances. No explanations.
Lucy’s jaw tightened as she read the next.
FROM ALLIANCE TO ABSENCE
Why Manhattan’s most talked-about marriage disappeared—and why no one was allowed to ask why.
And then the one that made her pause.
CASTILLO CAPITAL FOUNDED WEEKS AFTER HIGH-PROFILE DIVORCE
Coincidence—or calculated reinvention?
Lucy leaned back slowly.
Marriage.
Disappearance.
Divorce.
Reinvention.
Now the timeline made sense.
Harry hadn’t just been looking at you.
He had been remembering you.
“It was right in front of me,” she whispered to herself.
“All this time… right in front of me.”
This chapter ended up very long — honestly, I could’ve split it into three separate parts.
But I really wanted it to feel like watching a film or an episode unfold in one sitting, without breaking the tension or the mood. I hope you enjoyed experiencing it that way.
Your thoughts, reactions, and feedback mean so much to me and truly shape how this story continues. Thank you for being here and reading...
series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter
Lesson 6
Summary: You set out determined to make Harry regret every word he said that night—only to end the day worrying about him instead. A “simple” visit to Eloise spirals into something else entirely, and sharing a memory-filled room with your ex-husband proves that pretending is harder than revenge.
Warnings and WC: 10.6k, FEELINGS, revenge arc, reputation sabotage, office chaos, public humiliation (temporary), wrong assumptions, this chapter hurts on purpose, angst, emotional damage, mutual pining, divorce trauma, unfinished love, sharing a bed, sharing a room, forced proximity, pretending to be married, hate-to-need energy, dirty thoughts, embarrassing situation, intense sexual tension, unresolved desire, mention about miscarriage, mention about assault, Alcohol use, Exes-to-Enemies Tension, “just kiss already” vibe, Corporate Drama, Flirting / Banter, rom-com, Jealousy, Petty Revenge, denial of feelings, rom-com, comedy, idiots in love, lying, wealth, divorce, modern au, rich people problems, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, tension, slow burn romance, manhattan aesthetic. OC Characters (Eloise: Harry's Grandmother, Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Harry's EA (Executive Assistant))
authors note: This chapter was written with a toothache and a lot of heart — it’s a long one again... If you enjoy it, your likes, comments, and reblogs truly mean the world to me and help me keep going 🖤 Thank you for being here.
Never Share a Room With Your Ex
Saturday
Fifth Avenue glimmered in arrogant weekend sunlight, the kind of morning that made the city feel expensive on purpose.
And then—
Click. Click. Click.
A woman strode down the sidewalk, heels slicing the air with a confidence that didn’t match the chaos of her disguise:
A platinum-pink bob wig.
Oversized sunglasses swallowing half her face.
A beige trench coat shapeless enough to offend every designer in a five-block radius.
People stared.
You kept walking.
Your fingers lifted your sunglasses just enough to peek over the frames — scanning, calculating, dodging danger.
And there:
Some of your Upper East Side friends, laughing as they spilled out of The Mark Hotel, already dressed for the brunch you had gracefully declined with a last-minute “prior commitment” excuse.
Panic shot through your chest.
“Oh, no--absolutely not—”
You speed-walked.
Then jogged.
Then full-on sprinted toward the black Mercedes waiting at the curb.
You flung open the passenger door — and dove inside.
Right into Harry’s lap.
“Jesus— what—?!” Harry sputtered as you crashed into him, half your body still hanging out the door, your heel scraping the pavement, your ass practically in his face.
“It’s ME!” you hissed, trying to drag your remaining limbs into the car.
Harry blinked hard, still holding you by the arms.
“…W-What are you—?”
“Shut the door!”
He slammed it shut, you collapsed into the seat beside him, breathless and furious.
Harry stared at you.
Then at the wig in your hand.
Then at the trench coat.
“…What are you even wearing?”
You shoved the wig onto the seat.
“It’s called a disguise.”
“In a pink wig?”
“Yep.”
“In a coat that looks like you mugged a tourist?”
“It worked, didn’t it? Nobody saw me.”
Harry sneezed violently.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, louder.
You sighed, leaning closer.
“Ohh, still sneezing? Poor thing.”
You reached for his wrist.
Red patches.
Irritated skin.
He pulled his arm back instantly.
“I’ve been like this for two days,” he muttered. “My skin is burning. I can’t breathe. I can’t concentrate—” A sharp glance. “—thanks to you.”
You blinked, then bit your lip, caught somewhere between guilt and something far less innocent. “I didn’t know it would affect you that much,” you said quietly. “I mean… how was I supposed to know?”
Harry’s eyes flicked to your mouth.
Then up to your face.
The look he gave you was anything but forgiving.
You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in the street ahead, turning your head away as if the city had just become fascinating.
A beat passed.
The car kept moving.
You were both looking out different windows now, the city sliding by in opposite directions—but thinking of the same thing….
Back to Tuesday
“Fine,” you whispered. Then, quieter: “I’ll go.”
Harry exhaled — not just because he was relieved, but also feeling a bit thankful, like someone who hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that yes until he heard it. “Saturday morning,” he said, already reaching for it again. “I’ll pick you up at nine.”
You nodded once and stood, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.
“And listen,” he added, his tone shifting — guarded now, deliberate. “Whatever this is between us… I think we should stop it. This back-and-forth. The games.”
A pause.
“It’s childish,” he continued. “We should be professional. Adults.”
You turned back to him slowly.
Then you smiled.
Not soft. Not warm. The kind of smile that made men miscalculate.
“Of course,” you said lightly. “You’re absolutely right.”
Harry frowned.
He didn’t like that tone. Or that smile.
“And thank you,” you went on, sweetness sharpened just enough to cut, “for reminding me what you think adulthood looks like.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying you.
“Looking at me like that,” he said slowly, “smiling like that — and saying all this… it’s not very convincing, Queen.”
Your smile didn’t fade.
You reached the door, fingers closing around the handle.
Then you looked back at him.
Calm. Composed. Deadly.
“When someone tells you to be professional,” you said smoothly,“ it usually means they’re losing control of the situation.”
And with that, you slipped out — elegant, effortless, dangerous.
The door closed.
Harry stood there, hands on his hips, brows drawn together as if he’d just been handed a riddle with no solution.
“…Was that a movie quote?” he muttered to himself. “What the hell did she mean?”
That night
Your bedroom looked less like a place meant for rest and more like a place where secrets were planned, calculated, and executed.
Laptops open.
Printouts scattered.
The revenge mood board now fuller than before — fresh Post-its layered over old ones, red marker notes added with intention, connections drawn like quiet threats.
You stood in front of it, posture straight, one hand holding a thin metal pointer — the kind professors used when the room was about to go very quiet.
Emily sat cross-legged on your bed, wine glass in hand.
Chloe hovered near the armchair, curiosity practically vibrating off her.
“So…” she began cautiously, “does this mean a ceasefire now?
You know. Weekend. Rhinebeck. Truce?”
Emily snorted softly. “The Queen I know never stops before she wins.”
You pointed at Emily with the metal stick.
“Exactly.”
You turned back to the board.
“No ceasefire. At least not until the weekend.”
Chloe frowned. “Until the weekend?”
You smiled faintly.
“We have three days.”
“Three days for what?” Chloe asked.
Emily rolled her eyes. “Oh, I can feel it. She’s about to say it.”
You didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to destroy him,” you said calmly.
Emily sighed, lifting her glass. “And there it is. My favorite sentence.”
“…Okay,” Chloe said carefully. “Define destroy. Because there’s emotional destruction, reputational destruction, light public humiliation—”
“He deserves all of it,” you cut in.
You lifted the pointer and tapped it once against the board.
Tap.
“He humiliated me,” you said, voice cool but eyes burning.
“At that dinner. In public. On purpose.”
Emily’s expression softened. “Hon—”
You didn’t look at her.
“So I’m returning the favor.”
The pointer slid to Harry’s photo.
You circled it once.
Slowly.
“Revenge Act Two,” you announced.
“Objective: reputation.”
You smiled.
“Specifically,” you added, “the precious, polished image of their beloved, devastatingly handsome CEO.”
Chloe gasped — delighted.
“Oh my God,” she said, already digging into her bag. “Wait. Hold on.”
She pulled out a notebook and clicked a pen.
“Let me write this down. This feels… educational.”
You shot her a look.
She grinned. “What? This is basically Revenge 101. I want notes.”
Emily laughed, shaking her head, then lifted her glass toward you.
“So, Queen-sensei,” she teased, “what’s your next move?”
You reached for the chessboard on the table. "My next move is..."
Your fingers closed around the knight.
With a calm, deliberate motion, you moved it across the board —
L-shaped. Unavoidable.
The piece landed.
The bishop toppled onto its side with a soft, final click.
You didn’t even look down.
“Knight takes bishop,” you said lightly.
Wednesday
Castillo Capital started the day like any other.
At least for now.
You arrived, greeted a few people casually, exchanged a smile here and there — calm, unbothered, almost bored.
Before sitting down, you pulled out your phone and typed a single message.
Now. Do it.
You slipped the phone back into your bag, settled at your desk, opened your laptop like a model employee…
and smiled to yourself, already imagining what was about to unfold.
Just slightly.
Mischievously.
Your heart was racing.
A few minutes passed.
Then—
“Wait… what?”
An analyst a few desks away frowned at her screen. She clicked again. Leaned closer.
“Oh my God.”
Down the hall, someone else paused mid-walk, tablet in hand.
“No way.”
On another floor, laughter burst out — quickly stifled. Then again. Louder.
The company website refreshed itself across screens, devices, tablets, phones.
A video.
And it was spreading.
Harry arrived later than usual, still on the phone with his mother.
“Yes, Abuela, I’ll come this weekend. I promise,” he said. He slowed, glancing around instinctively, lowering his voice as he turned toward the windows.
“Sí,” he added quietly, almost smiling despite himself.
“Of course I’m bringing her. I know,” he murmured in Spanish.
“You’re excited. I just—” He exhaled softly.
“Yes. She’ll be there. Te lo prometo.”
Security greeted him.
“Good morning, sir.”
Harry nodded and stepped inside.
That’s when he noticed it.
A woman sitting on one of the lobby sofas, laptop open, eyes flicking between the screen and him.
She smiled. Then quickly looked away.
Harry frowned.
What was that?
He continued toward the elevators.
Two employees stood nearby, staring at a tablet.
“Oh my God—”
They burst out laughing — then froze the second they saw him.
“Morning, Mr. Castillo,” one said too quickly.
They turned away the moment his back was to them… and immediately started laughing again.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
What the hell is going on?
He stepped into the elevator.
Inside, a group of employees were openly laughing at their phones.
One of them let out a snort.
The moment Harry entered, the laughter died.
Phones vanished. Screens went dark.
Silence.
Harry glanced down at his suit.
Did someone spill something on me?
Nothing.
He exited on the main floor again, deciding coffee might fix whatever this was.
At the company café, you stood near the counter, coffee in hand.
The moment you saw him, you covered your mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Good morning, Mr. Castillo,” you said, trying — and failing — not to laugh.
Harry stopped.
Stared at you.
You walked past him, still giggling softly, and he turned to watch you go, completely baffled.
Around him, people smiled.
Then quickly looked away.
Harry’s irritation sharpened into something darker.
He turned around only to see a group of people laughing.
"What the-"
John caught up to him, grinning.
“Didn’t know you were a singer, man.”
Harry stopped dead.
“…What?”
John pulled out his phone.
“You really don’t know?”
Harry shook his head.
John hit play.
HARRY CASTILLO SINGS BADLY AT 16
The screen filled with grainy footage.
A teenage Harry stood on a brightly lit stage, wearing an oversized black suit, button undone, drowning in fabric.
Spotlights too harsh. Too white.
He gripped the microphone like it might escape.
The music started.
Harry sang with confidence.
Too much confidence.
His voice cracked on the second verse.
There was a feedback squeal from the mic.
In the front row, his mother smiled proudly, clapping along.
Then—
Harry froze.
“…Uh—wait—sorry—can we… start over?”
The audience laughed.
The video cut.
Harry stared at the screen.
“No.”
John winced.
“Yeah…”
Harry didn’t say another word.
He turned and walked straight back to the elevators.
He stepped onto his floor, expecting relief.
Instead—
Ron stood near Dana's desk, doubled over with laughter.
The video played out loud.
Young Harry’s voice echoed through the office.
“Oh my God,” Dana wheezed. “He’s adorable. I cannot believe that’s him.”
Ron was losing it. “I’m dying. I’m actually dying. This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen—”
Harry stopped, leaning over them from behind, his hands firmly on his hips. “Enjoying yourselves?”
Still laughing, they both nodded automatically.
“Yeah—”
Then his voice hit them at the same time.
Dana snapped the tablet shut and shot to her feet like she’d been electrocuted. “Mr. Castillo.”
Ron didn’t move.
At all.
He went perfectly still — mid-laugh, mouth half open, eyes wide — like a man whose soul had left his body but whose chair hadn’t gotten the memo yet.
Harry stepped in front of him and slowly crossed his arms.
“…Having fun?” he asked.
Dana swallowed. Hard.
Ron finally blinked.
Once.
Then twice.
“Boss—” he started, voice cracking. “I can explain—”
“Dana,” he said sharply, without raising his voice — nodding once toward the phone on her desk, “Call IT. Now. Take it down.”
She dropped into her chair, pushed her glasses up with one hand, and grabbed her phone with the other. “On it, Mr. Castillo,” she said quickly, already dialing.
“I was literally about to tell Dana that,” Ron blurted, trying to keep up.
“Like— right now—”
“Mm-hm. Of course you were,” Harry said flatly, not slowing down.
“I swear—” Ron said, half-jogging.
Harry slammed the door and immediately began pacing, one sharp turn after another.
“This is too far,” he muttered to himself.
“This is way too far.”
Ron cleared his throat carefully. “Uh… boss. Your voice back there was a little—”
Harry shot him a look that could’ve shattered glass. “I was sixteen,” he snapped. “My mother forced me. I had no training.”
“I mean—” Ron let out a nervous laugh, quickly trying to rein it in.
“Technically speaking, that’s some very impressive confidence for a sixteen-year-old.”
He pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking as he fought the laugh.
Harry stopped pacing.
Exhaled sharply.
“She did this,” he said, jaw tight. “She went too far this time.”
He grabbed his phone and dialed.
Your name lit up the screen.
Ron didn’t just watch — he leaned slightly, curiosity getting the better of him.
Harry lifted the phone to his ear. “You did this, didn’t you?”
You leaned back in your chair, smiling lazily. “Did what?”
“Don’t play innocent,” Harry snapped. “I don’t know how, but you did this.”
“Mr. Castillo,” you replied calmly, almost bored, “I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Harry’s grip tightened. “I’m not an idiot, Queen. And I’m not ashamed of my past.”
“That’s wonderful,” you said sweetly. “I’m so proud of you.”
And then—
You hung up.
Harry stared at the phone.
Ron blinked.
“…Ouch.”
“She hung up on me,” Harry said flatly. His jaw clenched.
He slammed his hand onto the office phone. “Get to the terrace. Now.”
You glanced around your desk, then answered lightly,
“Can’t. I’m busy.”
“Now!”
You sighed theatrically.
“Mr. Castillo, yelling is terribly un-zen. Might I recommend a basic Kyoto monk principle? Anger is a choice — and not a flattering one.”
You hung up.
The dial tone echoed in the room.
Ron covered his mouth, barely holding himself together.
Harry turned slowly.
“She hung up,” he said. “Again.”
Ron coughed.
“Boss… may I speak?”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Speak.”
“She’s hurt,” Ron said carefully. “This is revenge. And honestly? She’s probably done now. What else could she possibly do?”
“…Ron.”
“Yes?”
“If you say one more word,” Harry said calmly, dangerously,
“I will personally demote you to printing emails for the rest of your natural life.”
Ron made a dramatic zip motion across his lips with two fingers, threw the imaginary key over his shoulder, and straightened like a statue.
Harry ignored him, his fingers began drumming against the edge of the desk.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One by one, like a countdown he hadn’t agreed to start.
He stared at nothing.
He's right. She’s made her point, he thought grimly.
Humiliated me. Shaken the floor. Stirred the entire building.
That should be enough.
What else could she possibly do now?
Back to Tuesday Night
A yellow post-it was slapped onto the glass board with dramatic precision.
You tapped it once with the marker.
“Revenge Act Three,” you announced.
Under it, written in neat, merciless handwriting:
Objective: Retaliation.
Chloe squinted at the word, then laughed softly. “I think I’ve used that word maybe… twice in my entire life.”
Emily glanced at Chloe, amused, then looked back at you. “Okay,” she said, smiling. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
You leaned back against the desk, arms folding loosely.
“He tried to unsettle me with lilies and blue cheese,” you said lightly, as if discussing the weather. “So now I return the favor.”
Emily frowned. “But— as far as I know, Harry’s not like you. He doesn’t have allergies.”
Chloe tilted her head. “And also… you’re not even having dinner together again. And I’m pretty sure he likes blue cheese.”
You laughed under your breath.
“Oh, come on,” you said. “Use your imagination, ladies.”
They exchanged a look. Still lost.
“It doesn’t require an allergy,” you continued calmly. “Just something that irritates everyone.”
Emily blinked.“ …I’m listening.”
You turned back to the board and wrote one word beneath Retaliation:
Dry cleaning.
“Residual solvents,” you explained. “Perchloroethylene. It’s commonly used. Perfectly legal. Also notorious for causing skin irritation if not fully aired out.”
Chloe’s eyes widened. “Wait— like itching?”
“And sneezing,” you added. “Redness. That uncomfortable, crawling feeling you can’t quite place.”
Emily stared at you. “…That’s vicious.”
Chloe broke into a grin. “I love it.”
Emily shook her head, half-laughing, half-terrified. “You are dangerous. I would never want to be your enemy.”
You smiled—sweet, charming, entirely unapologetic.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, honey.”
Thursday
The car idled at the curb like it was waiting for secret instructions.
Which, technically, it was.
Mikey had somehow secured one of Queen Financial’s black company sedans. The kind with tinted windows, a silent driver, and the faint aura of we’re definitely hiding something.
You slid into the back seat, right next to Mikey.
Both of you.
Dressed like two deeply unqualified secret agents.
Mikey mirrored your posture perfectly—sunglasses on, back straight, jaw set like he was about to defuse a bomb or ask for a raise he didn’t deserve.
You caught your reflection in the window.
Two idiots.
In couture espionage.
You glanced at him.
“Ready?”
Mikey nodded once, gravely. Too gravely.
Then—slowly, ceremoniously—he reached beside him and lifted a dry-cleaning garment bag, holding it up between you like classified evidence.
“It’s here,” he whispered. “The package.”
You groaned. “Please don’t call it that.”
“If I get caught—” he continued, lowering his voice even more.
“I don’t know you,” you cut in instantly.
“Good,” he said, relieved. “Tell Mom I died bravely.”
“Oh my God, Mikey,” you muttered, yanking the bag from him. “You’re not in a spy movie.”
He grinned, unbothered. “Still. Good luck, Agent Queen.”
You rolled your eyes and opened the door and stepped out without another word.
As you shut it—
“WAIT!” Mikey leaned halfway out the window.
You turned.
“Do not smell it,” he warned urgently. “You’re allergic already. That thing will absolutely take you out.”
You rolled your eyes. “Relax. I won’t.”
Castillo Capital’s underground garage swallowed you whole—concrete, steel, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped inside alone, garment bag draped over your arm, face calm, pulse very much not.
As the elevator rose, you exhaled slowly.
In and out. Simple.
The doors opened onto the floor.
You didn’t hesitate.
Phone out. Chloe’s name. One ring.
“Now,” you whispered.
On the other end, Chloe laughed softly. “Copy that. Releasing the distraction.”
A few minutes later, you spotted him immediately.
Adrian Vale.
Early thirties. Recently impossible to ignore.
A film actor whose latest release was still plastered across billboards from SoHo to Milan—the kind of face Scarlet recognized from premiere seating charts, not IMDb searches.
Impossibly handsome.
Camera-trained.
Unfair.
The kind of man who belonged on a red carpet, not standing inside a Manhattan corporate office pretending to be lost.
He’d come up from the garage just like you’d planned—jacket slung over one shoulder, stride unhurried, already slipping seamlessly into the role. You fell into step beside him as you headed toward the executive floors, voices low, movements casual.
“Okay,” you murmured without looking at him, eyes forward. “You distract. You smile. You let her talk. Five minutes. Ten, if she forgets her own name.”
He glanced at you, amused. “And while I’m committing a public service?”
“I’ll be committing a felony,” you replied lightly. “So please don’t rush.”
You’d learned everything you needed to know about Dana’s weakness entirely by accident—
a casual hallway conversation,
a flustered Instagram like,
Dana saying, “If I ever met him, I’d literally forget how to breathe.”
You walked straight up to him and nudged his arm.
“Show time."
Adrian smiled down at you, lazy and confident, falling effortlessly into step beside you.
“After this,” he murmured, “you owe me dinner.”
“Oh, please.” You gave him a sideways glance, unimpressed.
“How many times do I have to say it? You’re not my type, Adrian.”
He chuckled, unfazed.
“Yeah. I know exactly what your type is,” he said easily. “That’s why I’m here.”
You stopped so suddenly he nearly walked into you. You turned toward him, eyes cool, assessing.
“No. You’re here because you owe me a favor,” you said calmly.
You placed your hand against his chest and pushed him back a step, already angling him toward Dana’s desk. “So,” you continued, voice silky but sharp, “Now take that charm of yours, use it on her—” you nodded toward Dana and gave him another push.
“Hey,” he protested, stumbling a half-step. “Don’t push me.”
"Move."
Adrian straightened his jacket, shaking his head with an amused grin, but he went exactly where you sent him.
And the moment he stepped into the corridor—
Dana froze.
Not subtly.
Not gracefully.
She stopped mid-step, fingers still hovering over her keyboard, brain visibly blue-screening.
“Oh my—” she breathed, hand flying to her chest. Then quieter, reverent: “Is that… is that actually....You-you?”
Adrian smiled at her, easy and polite, like he was used to reactions short-circuiting around him.
“Hi,” he said warmly. “I’m so sorry—wrong floor, I think. I’m looking for the executive elevators?”
Dana nodded far too enthusiastically.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Absolutely. Executive. Elevators.”
She stood up so fast her chair rolled back slightly.
“This way,” she added, already walking. “I’ll show you.”
Her entire focus locked onto him.
Eyes wide.
Smile fixed.
Zero peripheral awareness.
Which meant she didn’t notice—
You slipping past behind her.
Head down.
Garment bag held close to your side.
You moved like you belonged there. Like you’d done this a thousand times.
Dana was too busy whispering:
“I loved your last film,”
“And I don’t normally say this at work but—wow,”
“And no, I’m totally being professional right now.”
Adrian chuckled, playing along just enough to keep her distracted.
And while she escorted him down the hall—
You turned smoothly into Harry’s office.
You slipped inside, shut it gently behind you, and went straight for the wardrobe.
One shirt.
Then another.
Your hands moved quickly, precise, practiced. The treated shirt slid neatly into place. The others disappeared into your oversized bag. You smoothed everything exactly as it had been, adjusted a hanger, checked the desk—
Perfect.
You left without a sound.
Back on the floor, chaos had bloomed.
Adrian stood surrounded by analysts like he was a museum exhibit.
“Oh my God, you’re even taller in person.”
“You were in that film with Leonardo DiCaprio, right?”
“I cried during that scene—no, sobbed.”
Dana hovered nearby, glowing like she’d just won the lottery.
“Damn,” you muttered under your breath, clocking the situation instantly.
You started toward them.
You needed him out. Now.
Adrian caught your eye across the crowd.
“Okay, I really have to go,” he said pleasantly, hands raised.
The analysts groaned in unison.
You reached him in the corridor, just as he stepped free.
“Time to leave,” you murmured.
He leaned in slightly.
“Dinner. You promised.”
“I didn't,” you said, already steering him toward the elevators.
John appeared out of nowhere.
“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Adrian. “Who’s your friend?”
“Hi! This is—” you waved vaguely, not slowing, “—leaving.”
Adrian laughed.
John frowned, clearly filing that away for later.
The elevator doors opened.
You practically shoved Adrian inside.
John stared at the elevator, then back at you.
“…Did you just shove a movie star into an elevator?”
You didn’t break stride.
“Later, John,” you said lightly. “I’ll explain.”
The doors closed between his laugh and your heels clicking away.
Glass doors sliding open—
Harry stopped.
You and Adrian stepped out together.
For one suspended second, everything slowed.
Harry stared.
He knew him.
Scarlet had once starred opposite him.
Same film. Same premieres. Same headlines.
Ron blinked beside him.
“Isn’t that—?”
“Yes,” Harry said flatly. “What’s he doing here?”
Ron tilted his head, understanding dawning.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “I see.”
Harry didn’t look at him.
“This is her next move?” Ron went on, amused. “Making you jealous? I mean… he’s Brad-Pitt-level handsome.”
Harry shot him a warning look.
“I’m not saying you should be jealous,” Ron added quickly. “You’re also handsome. Very. Objectively.”
“I’m not jealous, Ron,” Harry snapped.
You hooked your fingers around Adrian’s arm, firm and unapologetic, and pulled him sharply to the side, steering him away like an accessory you were done displaying. Adrian stumbled half a step, startled—then glanced down at you with a crooked smile as he let himself be dragged.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Not my business.”
He turned toward the elevators.
Ron followed, smirking.
“Sure,” he said lightly. “Totally not your business. And you’re definitely not jealous at all.”
Later that day
You reapplied the lipstick one last time.
Not a touch-up.
A decision.
Glossy red. Precise.
You pressed your lips together once, twice, letting the color settle, then leaned back against the corner wall to wait.
Down the hall, Harry and Ron approached the elevators.
Ron had his tablet out, already mid-briefing.
“If we push the timeline, we can frame it as risk mitigation—”
Harry nodded, distracted but focused.
“We’ll need legal in the room.”
They stepped inside the elevator just as the doors started to close.
You moved.
“Ah—please, could you hold that?” you called out, hurrying forward, folders clutched to your chest.
Harry reacted instantly, reaching out to stop the doors and stepping aside to make room.
“Thank you,” you said lightly, slipping in beside him.
"Sure," he murmured.
Ron, now forced to step back toward the panel, paused—watching you with open curiosity.
The elevator moved.
Then stopped.
More people stepped in.
You shifted deliberately, exaggerating the imbalance as the space tightened, swaying just a little too much—
and tipped forward.
Harry caught you by reflex, one hand firm at your waist.
“Careful—”
You didn’t fall.
Your face brushed his chest, right at the collar of his crisp white shirt.
Perfect.
You pulled back instantly.
“Oh—” you gasped.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Castillo. I didn’t mean to—”
Harry looked down.
The red mark stood out vividly against the white fabric.
Ron froze.
“Damn,” he said, staring. “That’s… aggressively red.”
You followed Harry’s gaze, eyes widening.
“Oh no. I—I’m really sorry.”
You were already digging through your bag, pulling out a wet wipe—conveniently ready.
“Let me fix it, I swear—”
You dabbed at the collar.
It smeared.
Worse.
The elevator stopped at the next floor.
The employees who had squeezed in moments ago stepped out, a couple of them exchanging amused glances—one even letting out a quiet, badly suppressed laugh.
Harry caught your wrist sharply.
“Stop,” he said. “You’re making it worse.”
Ron squinted at the stain, then tilted his head.
“Well,” he said slowly, “white shirt, red lipstick—classic cheating cliché.”
A beat.
“Coming from your ex-wife, though?”
He winced.
“That’s… impressively ironic.”
Both you turned to look at him.
Ron swallowed.
“I’ll shut up.”
Harry dragged a hand over the stain, then scowled when his fingers came away red.
He looked at you. “You did that on purpose,” he said flatly.
“Didn’t you? Still sabotaging me with lipstick? Seriously—what is this, are you five? The lipstick, the videos—”
“What are you even talking about?” you snapped, genuinely offended now.
You turned toward the elevator’s mirrored wall, leaning in to inspect your reflection, irritation flashing across your face.
“My makeup is ruined,” you said sharply, gesturing at your lips.
“And if anyone’s the victim here, it’s me.”
You pressed the button.
“I need to reapply,” you added, nudging Harry aside with your shoulder. “Excuse me.”
Harry stumbled half a step back and muttered under his breath,
“…Unbelievable.”
The doors slid open.
As you stepped out, you heard Harry panic behind you—
“Meeting starts in, like, twenty minutes—”
“It’s fine, boss,” Ron said quickly. “You’ve got a spare shirt in the office.”
You didn’t look back.
The doors closed.
You made your way to the restroom, perfectly composed, lips curving just slightly—
because you’d gotten exactly what you needed.
Back to Saturday
Harry shifted next to you, absently scratching at the side of his neck.
You noticed immediately.
Your gaze lingered.
Then you leaned closer—too close for comfort, too familiar.
“Harry,” you said softly, reaching out.
“Stop scratching. You’re going to break the skin—it’s already red.”
He turned his head toward you, just slightly.
“You should’ve thought about that,” he said dryly, “before you plotted to make me wear chemically weaponized shirt.”
You winced.
“I thought a cream would fix it,” you murmured.
He let out a quiet, humorless huff.
“You always have an excuse,” he said. “Always.”
You leaned back, exhaling sharply, crossing one leg over the other.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
And then, uninvited, the image slipped in — Harry at the conference table, jaw tight, fingers brushing his collar again and again.
The faint hitch in his breathing.
The way the room had gone quiet every time he sneezed.
Guilt settled low and unwelcome.
Not triumph. Not satisfaction.
Just that small, sharp awareness that you’d gone further than you meant to.
He kept scratching.
And just like that—
The memory surfaced.
Six years ago.
Same irritation.
Same patch of angry skin.
Harry perched on the edge of the bed while you settled beside him, the cool cream the doctor had prescribed soothing beneath your fingertips.
Two small tubes lay open on the nightstand—you’d already mixed them carefully, exactly the way the prescription had instructed.
“Baby,” you said gently, catching his wrist,
“don’t scratch. You heard what the doctor said.”
You dipped your fingers back into the blended cream and smoothed it over the irritated skin, slow and deliberate, as if touch alone could calm it.
“I know,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“It just itches so much—I can’t stop myself.”
His eyes never left your face.
You dabbed the cream carefully onto his neck.
He gazed at you as if you were the very heart of his universe.
“Maybe I should start having allergic reactions more often,” he chuckled.
You let out a soft laugh and leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“No, don’t say that. I can’t stand it when you’re in pain,” you replied.
You smoothed the cream in, slow and careful.
“Done,” you murmured.
He hummed.
“Yeah?”
Before you could move back, his hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer.
“Let me thank you properly.”
You gasped as he tugged you into him, the cream still in your hand as you lifted your arms helplessly.
“Harry—” you laughed, breathless. “What are you—”
He kissed your neck—slow, lingering—then traced a line down to your collarbone, pressing warm, unhurried kisses there before drifting up again, brushing your skin all the way to your ear.
You let out a soft laugh, a giggle you just couldn’t hold back.
“Harry—” you said, your breath hitching as his lips lingered, teasing and warm.
“Just stop—”
Another laugh slipped out, mixing with his.
You melted.
The memory faded.
You realized you were smiling.
Just for a second—soft, unguarded.
Then it vanished.
Your eyes stung.
You turned back to him now, the present version—older, guarded, still scratching at the same spot and awkwardly applying the cream.
Your chest tightened.
“Harry,” you said quietly, reaching out again despite yourself.
“You’re using the wrong one.”
He paused.
“You forgot,” you added softly.
“You’re supposed to mix the two—remember?”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Something flickered—recognition, maybe.
“Pull over,” you said abruptly, leaning toward the driver.
“To the pharmacy right there.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he began to protest.
The car slowed down.
Ignoring his words, you stepped out before he could say anything more.
Rhinebeck was known for its historic estates—quiet, expansive homes tucked along the Hudson Valley, where old New York families had settled for generations. The Castillo residence was one of them. Built in the late nineteenth century and carefully restored by Harry’s grandfather, it stood as a place where legacy met modern power.
The house rose quietly behind its iron gates, old stone, ivy climbing the façade, wide windows catching the soft morning light.
Grand, but lived-in. Warm.
Eloise lived here now, with a nurse and a caregiver moving through the halls with gentle efficiency. Since Harry was her favorite grandson, Eloise had always been especially eager to see you too—welcoming you not as a guest, but as someone she considered her own.
You’d been here before—years ago, when you were still married, when weekend visits were routine and laughter filled these rooms.
She was his father’s mother.
And perhaps because Vivienne had lost her own mother when she was very young, she had never seen Eloise as a mother-in-law, but as family—something she had been missing for most of her life. Over the years, that bond only deepened.
Well, Eloise was impossible not to love.
A housekeeper—older, brisk, familiar with the rhythm of the place—opened the door.
“Welcome, Mr. Castillo,” she said warmly.
Her gaze shifted to you, softening with recognition.
Ms. Queen—ah.” She hesitated, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I suppose I should say Mrs. Castillo.”
Harry glanced at you.
You met his eyes, then smiled easily.
“Yes,” you said lightly. “Just like old days."
Before you could step inside, Harry caught your arm.
“This thing between us,” he murmured quietly, “you’re not going to continue it here. Right?”
You tilted your head, composed.
“Ceasefire,” you said. “For Eloise. I’m behaving. For now.”
You slipped your arm free with practiced grace and glided inside.
Sienna appeared immediately, bright and familiar.
“Hey—you made it!” she said, pulling you into a hug. “How are you?”
“Good,” you smiled. “And you?”
She stepped back, squinting at Harry.
“I’m fine. But—” she frowned, “—what’s wrong with your eyes? They look red.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, kissing her forehead. “Just allergies.”
“Come on,” Sienna said cheerfully. “Breakfast’s ready. We were waiting for you.”
You exchanged a glance with Harry and followed her toward the dining room.
Eloise sat at the head of the table, small but regal, posture perfect despite her age.
The moment she saw you, her face lit up.
“¡Mi reina! (My Queen)” she exclaimed, opening her arms wide.
You crossed the room in two steps and hugged her tightly.
She smelled clean and familiar, like comfort itself.
“Oh my God, Eloise,” you said warmly, smiling as you took in her elegant outfit.
“You look amazing,” you added softly.
“Did you dress up just for me?”
She laughed.
“You’re always flattering me, cariño. Finally—you came.”
“I know,” you said softly. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“It’s only been two months,” she said lightly. “But it feels like years.”
Your smile froze.
Two months.
You caught Vivienne and Sienna exchanging a glance.
It had been five years.
You swallowed, then smoothed your expression back into place, leaning in to squeeze Eloise’s hands.
“I should’ve come sooner,” you said gently.
“I’m sorry.”
Eloise waved it off with a dismissive little laugh.
“Oh, don’t be silly. You’re here now—that’s what matters.”
Then she reached out and gave Harry’s shoulder a light swat.
“I told him to bring you every time,” she scolded, shaking her head.
“But he didn’t. Sometimes he’s just like his father.”
“Abuela,” Harry protested, half-amused, half-resigned.
Vivienne stepped in smoothly, ever composed.
“He promised—and he brought her, mama,” she said gently.
“Now come, let’s sit. You need to eat and take your medication.”
Everyone moved to the table.
Harry pulled out the chair beside him.
Before you could sit—
“No, no,” Eloise said firmly, tapping the chair across from her, just off to Harry’s side. “Come here. I see these faces every day—I want to look at you.”
Eloise didn’t even blink.
“Oh, please,” she said dryly, waving a dismissive hand.
“Don’t get jealous—there’s enough of me to go around.”
A beat, then with a sly little smile, “Mostly.”
She turned to you, eyes softening.
She took your hand, squeezing it warmly.
Vivienne watched the exchange for a second longer than necessary, then smiled to herself, almost shy.
“Ah,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else,
“I’d forgotten how much she loves you.”
Harry shifted slightly in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“If I’d known she’d be this happy,” he said lightly, “I would’ve brought you sooner.”
You didn’t look at him.
Inside, something twisted.
Ah, Eloise, you thought.
You’re exactly as I left you.
You couldn’t tell whether it made you want to smile—
or break.
“You’ve gotten even more beautiful in two months,” she said proudly.
“Marriage suits you.”
A strange silence settled.
Vivienne cleared her throat.
As plates were set down, Eloise leaned in, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“He treats you well, right? And if he doesn’t—tell me. I’ll beat his ass myself.”
You laughed.
“Don’t worry,” you said lightly.
“If he misbehaves, you’ll be the first to know.”
Harry forced a smile.
For a while, everyone simply enjoyed the breakfast—the clink of cutlery, the smell of coffee, the easy rhythm of a Saturday morning.
Eloise talked happily, recounting the last two months as she remembered them, filling the table with small stories and familiar laughter—
unaware of everything that had come before.
You listened, heart aching, as she kissed your cheek again and again, her hand never leaving yours.
She was radiant.
Happy.
Vivienne glanced at Harry, her brow knitting with concern.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked. “It’s really red.”
You kept talking to Eloise as if you hadn’t heard a thing, nodding along, smiling at the story she was telling—
but you bit down on your lower lip all the same.
“It’s nothing,” Harry said quickly.
“Just an allergic reaction.”
Eloise stopped mid-sentence. Her fork came down against the table with a sharp tap.
Everyone looked at her.
She stared at your hands.
Then Harry’s.
Her smile slowly faded.
“…Your rings,” she said, blinking. “Neither of you is wearing your rings.”
Your stomach dropped.
You and Harry looked at each other at the exact same time.
Damn it.
It hadn’t even crossed your minds.
“Oh—” you said quickly, forcing a laugh.
“I must’ve left mine at home. My finger was sore.”
Harry nodded a beat too fast.
“Same,” he added. “I… took it off last night. Swelling.”
Eloise frowned, eyes narrowing as she looked between the two of you.
“You two didn’t fight, did you?”
“No,” Harry said too quickly. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re cold with each other,” Eloise said decisively.
“You definitely fought. I can tell.”
“That’s not—” you started, shaking your head. “There’s nothing like that.”
Vivienne stepped in softly.
“Mama, I think you’re worrying for nothing. There’s no reason they would be fighting.”
Eloise straightened in her chair, undeterred.
“Enough,” she declared. “Whatever it is, fix it now.”
She pointed at Harry.
“Apologize and kiss your wife.”
Harry choked on his coffee.
Sienna’s eyes went wide.
“Mama—” Vivienne sighed. “This is breakfast—”
“I don’t care,” Eloise waved her off, eyes fixed on the two of you.
“I can tell just by the way you look at each other. You’re hurt. Both of you.”
Vivienne tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle but pointed as she glanced at you.
“Well,” she said mildly, “it might not be Harry who’s at fault this time, Mama.”
Eloise considered that for half a second, then shrugged.
“Ay, por favor. She’s not the kind of woman who hurts a man without reason—if anyone’s been hurt here, it isn’t because of her."
You let out a soft, amused laugh, leaned in to hug her, and murmured,
“Oh, Eloise… you always know exactly what to say.”
Vivienne glared.
“The first step should always be taken by the man.”
She leaned back slightly, eyes distant for a moment.
“Even when your grandfather was wrong,” she continued calmly,
“he knew how to make it right. One apology. One kiss.”
A small, nostalgic smile tugged at her lips.
“He never let the day end with distance.”
She clicked her tongue.
“Your father, Eduardo,” she added with a dismissive wave, “didn’t take after him much, though.”
The room froze.
Vivienne slowly set her fork down, her bite forgotten mid-chew.
Sienna let out a quiet huff, rubbing her face.
“Oh boy…”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Abuela—” he started.
Eloise ignored them all, looking at you.
“Come on, cariño,” she said kindly. “Forgive him. My grandson sometimes behaves like an idiot—but his heart is good.”
You laughed cheerfully.
Sienna laughed too—then immediately sobered when she caught her mother's look, turning her head away far too innocently.
“Well,” you said lightly, tilting your head, a touch of performative sadness in your voice,
“yes… sometimes he says things without thinking about how they’ll sound.”
You sighed.
“Almost like he’s doing it on purpose.”
Harry’s mouth twitched.
“Maybe,” he said, meeting your eyes, a smile playing at his lips.
“But forgiveness is a virtue, isn’t it, darling?”
Your brows lifted—you’d been bracing for sarcasm.
Of course he’s acting, you told yourself.
Even the warmth in his eyes is part of the role.
Right?
Eloise clapped her hands once, delighted.
“Perfect! So. Whatever your problem is—solve it. Now. Kiss her.”
Harry finally turned to you.
You leaned toward each other with identical, painfully polite smiles.
Sienna stared openly, fascinated, like she was watching live television.
Vivienne closed her eyes for a brief second.
Eloise, meanwhile, clasped her hands together at her chest, leaning forward in her chair, eyes bright with anticipation—utterly invested in the moment.
Harry slipped an arm around you.
“Come here, baby,” he murmured.
You leaned in just enough to whisper through clenched teeth,
“Touch my lips and I will end you.”
His breath hitched.
He shifted at the last second, careful—too careful—and pressed his lips to your cheek instead.
The contact was brief but unmistakable: the warmth of his mouth, the faint brush of stubble, the soft exhale he didn’t quite manage to hide. He inhaled without meaning to, catching the familiar trace of your perfume—something floral and clean—and it unsettled him more than it should have.
You held your breath the entire time.
When he pulled back, your eyes met.
Too close.
Too fast.
Your heart was pounding—so loud you were sure he could hear it.
His jaw tightened.
For half a second, neither of you moved.
Eloise let out a satisfied sigh.
“There,” she said happily.
“Much better. Rings matter, you know. Married couples should remember that.”
Harry’s arm was still around you—he hadn’t even noticed.
You jabbed him lightly in the ribs with your elbow.
He flinched and pulled away at once.
Breakfast continued.
And somehow—between the comedy, the tenderness, and the quiet ache—you survived it.
Lunch passed gently.
Eloise ate little but happily, commenting on the bread, the soup, the way things tasted “just right today.”
Vivienne retreated to the sunroom with a book she’d already read twice, glasses perched on the edge of her nose. She wasn’t really reading—just enjoying the silence, the comfort of routine.
Sienna disappeared into the kitchen with the housekeeper, insisting on helping with dessert despite being repeatedly told she was in the way. Laughter drifted down the hall anyway.
Harry shut himself into the study.
Laptop open.
Phone buzzing intermittently.
Work, as always, refused to wait.
Afterward, the nurse coaxed her toward Eloise afternoon rest.
You walked her upstairs, slow and careful.
She squeezed your hand before lying down.
“Don’t disappear,” she murmured sleepily.
“I’m right here,” you promised.
She fell asleep quickly, peaceful—
and you stayed a moment longer than necessary, watching her breathe.
Vivienne appeared quietly in the doorway.
She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at Eloise.
“Thank you,” she said finally.
“For coming.”
You nodded.
“If I’d known sooner,” you said softly,
“I would have come.”
Vivienne’s gaze lingered on Eloise a moment longer.
“When he walked away, he left her behind too.”
A pause.
“I couldn’t do the same. I couldn’t just abandon her to her own confusion.”
You turned to her fully now.
“You don’t see him?” you asked quietly. “Not at all?”
Vivienne’s mouth tightened.
“He doesn’t have the courage to come back,” she said flatly.
“Not in his heart. Not in his spine.”
Silence stretched between you.
“Some people leave,” she added, voice steady,
“and never look back at the wreckage they leave behind.”
The words landed heavier than she probably intended.
You felt it immediately.
You met her eyes.
She looked back at Eloise instead, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders.
Something in your chest tightened—sharp, unexpected.
Your eyes stung. “You know,” you said quietly, “not everyone who leaves is cruel."
She looked at you then—really looked.
“I know you’re not.”
The words landed gently. Almost kindly.
“Which is why,” she added, after a beat,
“I’ve always wondered…”
She hesitated—just long enough to matter.
“Why did you leave my son?”
For a fraction of a second, you froze.
The question landed exactly where it hurt most—
a place you never let anyone touch.
You hadn’t expected it.
Not here. Not now.
Your chin lifted automatically.
“When Harry lost you,” she said, “he was worse than her.”
She nodded toward Eloise. “For months, he barely functioned. He wandered around like a ruin. I watched him try to put himself back together piece by piece.”
You swallowed.
“I spent years,” Vivienne continued, the words coming faster now,
“trying to make sense of it. Trying to be reasonable. Trying to understand. And I couldn’t.” Her voice didn’t rise—but it cut. “I know you’re not cruel,” she said. “I know you loved him. I saw that. So... why did you do it?”
Silence pressed in.
From the hallway, Sienna froze.
She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
But she couldn’t move now.
You felt the weight of the question settle in your chest.
The question hung in the air.
You felt it land—deep, precise.
For a second, your throat tightened.
Your eyes burned.
You reached up and brushed beneath them quickly, as if it were nothing.
As if you were simply tired.
Then you straightened.
Your smile came easily—too easily.
“You don’t get to put all the aftermath on me,” you added, voice calm, polished. “And I don’t owe anyone a post-mortem of my marriage.” you turned to her met her gaze. “And if we’re assigning damage,” you finished coolly, “Harry wasn’t the only one who didn’t survive it intact.”
Then you turned toward the door and left the room without another word.
Your posture never faltered.
Only in the hallway did you let yourself breathe.
You wiped at your eyes, quick and controlled—
and looked up to find Sienna watching.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you straightened, composure snapping back into place, and walked past her without a word.
Sienna let out a quiet sigh, eyes following you until you disappeared down the corridor.
Eloise woke brighter than before.
After a short walk through the garden, you were back in the sitting room, tea cooling on the table, sunlight pooling at your feet.
Eloise patted your hand, pleased.
“I had your room prepared,” she announced happily.
“For tonight.”
The words carried.
Your eyes widen.
Vivienne looked up.
Sienna blinked.
Harry froze mid-step.
“Abuela, but—” he started.
Eloise tightened her grip on your arm.
“No buts,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. You’ll stay one night.”
She smiled at you.
“You always did.”
You forced a smile.
“The room is exactly the same,” Eloise added proudly.
Vivienne crossed her arms. “Oh, so, that’s why the room’s been cleaned since yesterday…”
“I insist,” Eloise said, final.
You tried gently.
“I didn’t come with a suitcase,” you said lightly. “I don’t even have clothes.”
Eloise waved that away.
“Harry will bring them from home,” she said matter-of-factly.
Harry nodded slowly, a bit unsure. “Sure thing.”
You turned slowly to him. “Darling,” you said through your teeth, eyebrows lifting toward the hallway, “a word?”
He followed.
In the corridor, you stopped, making sure Eloise couldn’t hear.
“I thought this was a day visit,” you whispered sharply.
“No one mentioned staying the night.”
Harry sighed.
“What do you want me to do? She missed you. You know how stubborn she is.”
You crossed your arms.
“I don’t have clothes. I can’t go home for them.”
“I can have them brought over,” he offered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you shot back.
“If my mother finds out I’m here, she’ll lose her mind.” You sighed. “And it’s not just clothes,” you said sharply. “My makeup, my things—there’s a lot I actually need.”
Harry raised a brow. “For one night?”
You gave him a sharp look. “Let’s pretend you didn’t just ask something that ridiculous, Castillo.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Right,” he said quietly. “You were always like this—you’d bring two suitcases, even for a single night.”
“Preparation is not a flaw,” you said coolly. “It’s a lifestyle.”
“Alright,” he said, amused. “So what are you going to do, princess?”
You exhaled slowly, already pulling out your phone.
“I’m going to call the only person who can actually help me.”
The doorbell rang just before dinner.
You didn’t even hesitate—you sprinted to the door, relief written all over you, and swung it open.
Mikey stood there with a wide grin, two garment bags slung over his shoulder.
“Delivery for the lady,” he announced proudly. “Handle with care, ma’am.”
You sagged.
“Oh my God, Mikey, thank you. Mom didn’t notice, right?”
“Relax,” he waved you off. “She’s at some black-tie thing tonight. Film gala, donors, suffering in heels. She’ll come home late and pass out.”
“Perfect,” you breathed. “You’re a lifesaver. Okay, you can go now.”
Mikey sniffed the air.
“…Are you guys eating?”
You opened your mouth to shut him down—
and then Sienna appeared behind you.
“Hey, Mikey,” she said casually.
He froze.
Eyes wide.
“…Sienna was here and you didn’t tell me?” he hissed at you.
“Mikey,” you said through your teeth, “now is really not—”
“Too late,” he declared. “I’m staying.”
Before you could stop him, he bounced inside.
“Mikey!” you hissed.
He was already waving enthusiastically at Eloise.
“Oh—hi Eloise, long time no see!”
Eloise smiled, delighted.
“Ah! Mikey! Is that you? What are you doing here?”
“I brought my sister’s things,” he said smoothly, winking at Sienna.
“Because I’m an excellent brother.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes.
Eloise clapped her hands. “Oh, you brought them? How sweet.”
Mikey opened his mouth.
“Well, my mom would’ve noticed—”
You stepped on his foot.
Hard.
“Aah—!” he yelped.
You smiled brightly.
“I mean—yes! He was nearby. Had a key. So, excellent brother indeed.”
Mikey glared at you in pain.
Sienna laughed.
Harry nodded once. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Mikey replied, instantly cool again.
“Sit with us,” Harry added, gesturing to the table.
Eloise beamed. “Yes, stay for dinner, cariño.”
Mikey didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled out the chair across from Sienna, grinning shamelessly.
Harry leaned toward you.
“Is your brother flirting with my sister?”
You sighed. “Don’t ask.”
Dinner somehow managed to be even stranger than breakfast.
Mikey talked too much.
Sienna smirked.
You shot Mikey warning looks.
Eloise was thrilled.
By the end of the night, Eloise insisted Mikey stay too.
Rooms were prepared.
Goodnights were said.
Eventually, the house fell quiet.
You slipped into the bedroom that had once been yours.
One of the suitcases sat on the bed. You opened it absently, exhaustion finally catching up, and pulled off your blouse—
The bathroom door opened.
You turned.
Harry stepped out, hair damp, a bathrobe loosely tied around his waist.
You gasped and yanked the blouse back up.
“Oh my God—what do you think you’re doing?!”
He frowned, glancing down at himself.
“Showering,” he said flatly. “You know. Soap. Water. Basic hygiene.”
“That’s not what I meant!” you snapped.
“Why are you in this room?”
He blinked, genuinely confused.
“…Because we’re staying here?”
You let out a sharp, almost hysterical laugh.
“We? No. We don’t exist. That’s a lie we told your grandmother. Get out.”
He smiled, maddeningly calm.
“I would, but Mikey took the last clean room.”
You stared at him like he’d just confessed to arson.
“…We are not sharing a room.”
He shrugged, walked over, and opened his suitcase with infuriating ease.
“Looks like we are.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m extremely serious,” he said, folding a shirt.
“This is the face I make when I’m being reasonable.”
You scoffed.
“Great,” you said. “Then enjoy being reasonable alone.”
You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom.
Behind you, Harry watched you go, the corner of his mouth lifting.
You headed for the bathroom and shut the door behind you a little harder than necessary.
The click echoed.
Harry’s gaze drifted—against his better judgment—back to your open suitcase.
Clothes spilled across the bed.
Silk. Cotton. Lace.
He looked away immediately.
Then something caught his eye.
Tucked between your clothes, half-hidden in its minimalist packaging, lay the soap.
Organic. Dermatologist-approved. pH-balanced.
The kind of understated luxury that didn’t need a logo.
He stepped closer before he could stop himself.
Picked it up.
Of course.
The same one.
You’d used it for years—ever since you’d complained that everything else dried your skin out, left it tight and uncomfortable.
He turned it over in his hand, a familiar weight.
The bathroom door opened.
“What are you doing?” you demanded.
He didn’t jump. Just glanced up, soap still in his hand.
“You’re still using this,” he said mildly.
“You literally can’t shower without it.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Put. That. Down.”
“You hate how your skin feels after if you don’t,” he went on, infuriatingly calm.
“You complain for hours.”
“I do not complain.”
“You absolutely do.”
You crossed the room in three quick steps. “…Stop remembering things.” You said and snatched the soap out of his hand. “Don’t touch my things.”
He smiled, victorious.
“Some things never change.”
You turned back to him slowly.
Met his eyes.
“Well, memory isn’t the same as relevance,” you said calmly.
You held his gaze as you closed the bathroom door—
unhurried, deliberate.
The click echoed.
Harry stared at the door for a second longer than he meant to.
“…Ouch,” he muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Your phone buzzed on the bed.
Once.
Twice.
Then a call.
Harry hesitated… then glanced.
Names flashed on the lock screen—Chloe. Emily. John.
He frowned.
“Why the hell is he texting her this late?”
Another notification popped up. Dr. S. (OB-GYN).
Harry swallowed. “…Gynecologist?” His thumb hovered over the screen.
Ms. Queen, this is a reminder for your appointment this month…
That was all he could see from lock screen.
He tapped the passcode prompt—then stopped.
Of course.
Someone like you wouldn’t have a simple code. Not a birthday. Not a pattern. Nothing breakable.
He let out a quiet breath.
“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head, turning away.
Later, you emerged in a robe, tightly wrapped.
Harry was at the other end of the room, pulling on a shirt, clearly in the middle of getting dressed.
“This night is cursed,” you muttered.
You grabbed a change of clothes and headed back toward the bathroom.
Harry moved toward the bed—
and when you saw his hand grip the edge of the duvet, you spun around.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you snapped.
“Getting into bed,” he said coolly.
“You are not sleeping there.”
He frowned.
“…I don’t understand?”
“I’m not getting into the same bed with you!”
He sighed.
“Then where?”
You scanned the room and pointed to the leather chaise by the window.
“There.”
“There?” he echoed, incredulous. “My back will be destroyed.”
“Not my problem,” you said flatly.
“Right. My neck and my back are already red and sore because of you, and now you want me to sleep on a leather torture device?”
“Consequences, Castillo. You earned them,” you said coolly. “You shoved those lilies in my face at that dinner. I spent the whole night itching too.”
Harry frowned.
“Those aren’t the same thing,” he said sharply. “What you did was crueler.” He pulled his sleeve back, pointing at the redness along his arm and neck. “Look at this. Does it look the same to you? Look at what state I’m in.”
Your gaze flickered—just for a second—before you looked away.
Your chin stayed lifted.
Harry watched that tiny movement.
Then he nodded once, slow and tight.
“So that’s how it is,” he said quietly, irritation settling in.
Then, just to spite you, he climbed onto the bed and dropped his head onto the pillow.
You lost it.
“What the- Get out of my bed!”
He laughed and stretched out on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head as he settled in. “Oh please, princess. For the last five years, this has technically been my bed.”
“Oh, really?” you said sweetly.
You grabbed the sheets and yanked.
“Hey—stop—”
You pulled harder.
He laughed.
You shoved, trying to force him off the mattress.
He caught your wrist.
“Harry—let go of the sheet!”
“Then get out of the bed!”
You both lost balance—
and tumbled to the floor, wrapped up in the sheets, arms and legs hopelessly tangled.
“Get off me!” you shouted.
“I can’t—” he protested, laughing now. “You’re on top of me!”
“Help me out, we’re wrapped up!”
“I’m trying—everything’s tangled!”
“You—Harry—!”
The door flew open.
"What was that sound-"
"Why were you yelling-"
“OH MY GOD.”
Eloise.
Vivienne.
A maid, frozen mid-step.
Sienna, already doubled over.
You froze—wrapped in sheets, limbs tangled, very much on top of Harry.
“Eloise! I can explain—this is not what it looks like!” you blurted.
Harry, still half-laughing beneath you, let out an unhelpful chuckle.
Eloise gasped softly and brought a hand to her cheek, eyes wide.
“Oh—ay,” she said, turning her face away with theatrical modesty.
“I’m blushing.”
Harry laughed beneath you.
“We’re embarrassed too, Abuela,” he said lightly.
You, meanwhile, completely lost it—thrashing, trying desperately to untangle yourself.
“No—no—Eloise, Vivienne, this is really not what you think!” you said frantically, tugging at the sheets. “We weren’t doing anything. I swear. Nothing like that!” You looked mortified, cheeks burning, trying to free an arm and failing spectacularly.
Eloise peeked back through her fingers.
“Oh, please, cariño,” she added cheerfully. “Explain what? You’re all wrapped up like a burrito.”
“Mama,” Vivienne muttered, pressing her lips together—fighting a smile and very clearly losing.
Sienna had completely given up, laughing so hard she had to grab the doorframe for balance.
Eloise waved them all back with a delighted little shooing motion.
“Come on, come on,” she said briskly. “Let’s give them privacy.”
She herded everyone out like an audience leaving a theater—
the maid stumbling backward,
Vivienne shaking her head,
Sienna wiping tears from her eyes.
The door closed.
From the other side, you heard Eloise’s fond, amused sigh. “Ay… la juventud.” (Ah… youth.)
Mikey skidded in behind them, open the door, phone already out.
“What is that noise—?” he started.
Then he saw you.
“…Wow.”
He snapped a picture, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “looks like I’ve got blackmail material now.”
“Mikey, I will end you!”
He laughed, already backing toward the door.
“Kidding! Mostly.”
The door closed again.
Silence.
You stared down at Harry.
He was grinning.
“You’re enjoying this?”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted.
You tried to push yourself up—and froze.
His hand had landed in entirely the wrong place.
“Hey,” you snapped. “Move your hand.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly—then didn’t. Not immediately.
You shifted, trying to untangle yourself, suddenly far too aware of how hard he was.
“Control yourself,” you hissed.
“I’m trying,” he said—
and then his hand slipped.
Not the sheet.
Your skin—warm, bare—under the edge of the robe.
The contact was brief. Accidental.
But his eyes darkened instantly.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
For half a second, neither of you breathed.
The moment he touched you, it hit him.
Sharp. Immediate. Fighting what it woke in him stole the air from his lungs. Desire pressed in, heavy and insistent,
and for a second, breathing felt like a conscious effort.
You felt it then—the shift.
The way the air changed.
You didn’t think. You reacted.
You leaned forward and bit his nose.
Hard.
“Ow—what the hell?!” Harry yelped, recoiling. He sucked in a sharp breath, clutching his nose. “Have you lost your mind?”
You finally managed to wriggle free of the sheets. The moment you were loose, you scrambled upright, your womanhood burning.
Without looking at him, you gathered the fabric around yourself and bolted for the bathroom.
“I— I need to get dressed,” you said, mortified, already shutting the door behind you.
The lock clicked.
Harry stayed where he was for a second, staring at the rumpled sheets on the floor, heart still pounding. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
A heavy warmth followed you into the bathroom, deliberate and unforgiving. It didn’t disappear when you shut the door. You braced your hands against the sink, breathing slowly,as if steady breaths could undo what had already been set in motion. Cold water ran over your wrists, over skin that still felt too aware, too alive. You told yourself it was nothing.That bodies remembered things the mind had outgrown. But the truth lingered anyway—that one careless touch had been enough to wake something you weren’t ready to face,and no locked door could quite put it back to sleep.
Sleep refused to come.
Harry slipped outside sometime after midnight, the house finally quiet, the windows dark. The gardens were washed in moonlight, hedges casting long, orderly shadows.
He poured himself a drink and sat on the stone steps, glass resting between his palms.
Whiskey burned on the way down.
Good.
He welcomed the sting—anything to keep the thoughts from spilling over.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the nights you used to spend here—
the way that bed had never really been for sleeping,
the way bodies used to find each other in the dark without a single word needing to be said.
The way you’d pull him closer, restless, impatient,
the way laughter would dissolve into quiet breaths,
into tangled sheets and the kind of closeness that left marks no one else could see.
Back when that room had known heat instead of distance.
Back when silence had only come after, never before.
Now you were there again—
same walls, same bed—
and he wasn’t even allowed to touch you.
He hated that more than anything.
He took another sip, jaw tight, fighting the familiar pull of memories he didn’t want to name.
His phone rang.
The sound cut clean through the night.
Harry straightened instantly.
“Castillo.”
“Mr. Castillo,” the voice said. “Sorry to call so late. You asked to be notified immediately if there was any movement.”
Harry set the glass down.
“Yes. Go on. Is there something?”
“Yes, sir. We have updates."
“…Go on.”
“We’ve confirmed where Ms. Queen actually was during that period,” the detective said. “As you know, we couldn’t find a single hotel record under her name—or any alias—during those five months. No long-term rentals. Nothing that matched her usual patterns.”
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“Where?” he asked.
A brief pause.
“She was admitted to a hospital, Mr. Castillo,” the detective continued. “We can now confirm that with certainty.”
The word hospital barely left the detective’s mouth before Harry was on his feet.
The world tilted.
Harry’s hand tightened on the phone.
“What did you say?” His voice dropped. “Hospital? Why was she there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” the detective replied carefully. “The hospital won’t release details under a standard inquiry. The records are sealed. Professionally sealed.”
Harry’s pulse hammered.
“Sealed by who?”
Another pause—longer this time.
“Our preliminary conclusion,” the detective said, “is that the records were deliberately restricted. Someone requested they be buried.”
Harry’s throat went dry.
“Who?” he asked.
“…Scarlet Queen, sir.”
Everything went still.
Harry didn’t breathe.
“I want those records,” he said quietly. “Whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The call ended.
Harry stood there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, night air cold against his skin.
Hospital.
Switzerland.
Five months.
Why she didn’t tell me?
He went back inside.
The house was silent as he crossed the hallway, footsteps soundless on the rug. He paused outside the bedroom door, something tightening in his chest.
He opened it.
The room was dim, lit only by moonlight spilling across the bed.
You were there—tangled in the sheets, breathing unevenly.
Harry hesitated, then stepped closer.
“What are you hiding from me, Queen?” he murmured under his breath.
He turned toward the chaise—
“Harry.”
Your voice stopped him.
Soft.
Unconscious.
He turned back.
You shifted restlessly, rolling onto your back, the blanket slipping lower.
“No,” you whispered. “No… I can’t.”
Harry’s chest tightened.
You stirred again, brow creasing.
“You have no idea,” you whispered. “No idea what I went through…”
Harry sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.
You shook your head faintly.
“I couldn’t tell you,” you breathed. “I never could.”
Harry swallowed.
He reached out, careful, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingers lingered, gentle as if you might break.
He pulled the blanket up, covering the exposed skin, grounding himself in the simple act.
And then—
Your hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Instinctive.
Harry sucked in a breath, startled—but he didn’t pull away.
He stayed.
He sat there, letting you hold him, watching your breathing slowly even out.
“I’ll find out,” he said quietly. “Whether you tell me or not.”
He shifted, easing down beside you, careful not to wake you.
Your hand never let go.
Eventually, despite himself, Harry closed his eyes.
Sleep came easily—too easily—once he was beside you.
He barely had time to register it, the way his body relaxed, the way the tension finally loosened its grip, before he slipped under.
He didn’t fight it.
He couldn’t.
Not with you that close.
Queen residence.
Lara found her in the sitting room, the lights low, the city muted behind the glass.
Scarlet was standing by the sideboard, a wine glass in her hand.
She turned the moment Lara stepped in.
“How long have you been making decisions behind my back, Lara?” Scarlet asked quietly.
Lara stilled.
“She needed things,” she said after a beat. “It was just—”
“Don’t,” Scarlet cut in sharply. “You had no right.”
Lara frowned. “She went there anyway. To see Eloise. You know her condition.”
“You let her back into that house,” Scarlet snapped. “Back to him.”
Lara held her ground. “She’s not a child, Scarlet.”
“No,” Scarlet said coldly. “But she is my daughter.”
Lara exhaled.“ And I love her like one. You know that.”
Scarlet looked away, muttering more to herself than to Lara, “The Castillos keep forcing their way back into our lives. And I can’t even protect my own daughter anymore. She didn’t ask me. She just went.”
“Because you don’t listen to her,” Lara said, sharper now. “You don’t talk to her like a friend. You push. You control. You were the one who pushed her into that marriage in the first place.”
Scarlet laughed once—short, humorless. “You’re right. If I had known this is how it would end, I would never have done it.”
Lara took a deep breath. “Scarlet… they still love each other. Maybe it’s time you stop pretending this can be handled without them. Maybe you should talk to them.”
“Never,” Scarlet said instantly. “They have no idea what I went through as a mother. They don’t deserve that access.”
“That’s exactly your problem,” Lara shot back. “You pass that same stubbornness on to her, and it’s not a good trait. She still loves him. Let her stop running. Let the man she loves help heal her—because you know as well as I do, this kind of wound only heals that way.”
Scarlet straightened, fire flashing in her eyes.
“So he can break her again?” she said. “Absolutely not. As long as I’m alive, that will never happen.”
She set the glass down and walked past Lara.
Behind her, Lara muttered under her breath, frustration spilling over.
Scarlet didn’t turn back.
The door to her room closed.
The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet.
She leaned her forehead briefly against the wood, eyes shut—
and remembered the day that had shattered her more than any other.
This continues Harry’s flashback from Lesson 2, now from Scarlet’s POV.
March, 2020
“What happened? Scarlet? Just tell me—”
Scarlet cut Harry off.
“She’s not here. She won’t be back tonight. Or tomorrow. And don’t come looking for her.”
She ended the call.
Harry’s voice still rang in her ear—confused, desperate, demanding to speak to you.
But he wouldn’t.
Not now.
Not after what you’d been through.
Scarlet turned toward the hospital bed.
You lay there, pale and frighteningly still, surrounded by machines that beeped far too loudly in the quiet room.
It had been a brutal week.
The assault.
The miscarriage that followed.
The nonstop bleeding.
Emergency transfusions.
Drifting in and out of consciousness while doctors spoke in careful, measured tones.
And Scarlet—refusing to sleep, refusing to leave your side for even a second.
All the while, she worked relentlessly to keep everything hidden.
From the press.
From the Upper East Side circle.
From the Castillos.
And especially from Harry.
Because in her eyes, he was the reason you were in that bed.
And she would rather burn Manhattan down brick by brick than let him anywhere near you while you were bleeding.
A soft knock broke the silence.
The doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Queen,” he said gently, “we’re prepared for the transfer. The medical jet to Switzerland is ready whenever you are.”
“We’re ready,” Scarlet said firmly.
The doctor nodded and motioned for the nurses to prepare your bed.
Scarlet swallowed, then faced him directly.
“And if the treatment doesn’t work over there,” she asked quietly,
“my daughter… will she still be able to become a mother?”
The doctor hesitated.
Just a second—
but enough.
“The trauma from the fall,” he said carefully, “caused internal damage. There were foreign objects embedded that injured the uterine wall. We’re concerned about scarring—conditions like Asherman syndrome are a possibility.”
Scarlet felt the words land like blows.
“We hope the treatment succeeds,” he continued softly.
“But you should be prepared for every outcome. Including the worst.”
Scarlet’s hand trembled as she brushed a loose curl from your forehead.
You didn’t stir.
You didn’t even know Harry hadn’t been allowed to call.
That Scarlet had intercepted every message.
You were too deep in shock to know anything at all.
Your body had simply… shut down.
The doctors had made the call quietly, urgently—
sedation, for your own safety.
To stop the trembling.
To stop the panic your body couldn’t process.
So they let you sleep.
While your world shattered around you,
you were held under by medication, drifting somewhere between pain and nothingness—
too broken
too emptied
to even realize what had been taken from you.
As the nurses began moving your bed toward the elevator, the doctor asked gently,
“Will the patient’s husband be joining us for the transfer?”
Scarlet froze.
Then her expression hardened into ice.
“No,” she said sharply.
“I’ll be accompanying her.”
thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️
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Summary: Born and raised on the Upper East Side — mother’s an actress, stepfather runs an empire that’s suddenly “under review,” and your brother’s the reason you have gray hair. You married perfection in your 20s Years after your picture-perfect marriage went up in smoke, you left New York to “heal.” Now you’re back, in your 30s — and saw your ex-husband on the cover of TIME. Wow.
He got richer, your family’s going down, and somehow, you ended up working for him. Cried? Yes. Bad idea? Definitely.
What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 🔞 (EXPLICIT CONTENT, Smut, MDNI) rom-com, fluffy, angst, comedy, lying, grumpy Harry Castillo (because reader broke his heart), Reader is kinda selfish, little bitchy and bratty, wealth, divorce, exes to lovers, modern au, rich people problems, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, office tension, slow burn romance, revenge, manhattan aesthetic, luxury angst, sharp dialogue, hurt, workplace power imbalance, boss!Harry Castillo, expensive gifts, drinks, money, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, hate sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some ? Each chapter will include its own warnings.
authors note: Welcome to my new Harry Castillo fanfic, I'm sooo excited! hope you all like it!
This fic is not connected to the movie at all — completely original AU vibes.
So don’t worry, there are zero movie spoilers, and definitely no leg-surgery plotline here!!! OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister)
Bonus:
The playlist: that inspires me while writing. 🤗
My chaos playlist: Used exclusively for dumb decisions, sibling fights, embarrassing situations, awkward moments. 🫣 🫢
ao3 link
Lessons:
Lesson 1: Never Call Your Ex When You’re in Trouble
Lesson 2: Don’t Underestimate an Ex With a Plan
Lesson 3: Don’t Poke a Queen in Heels
Lesson 4: Don’t Show Up at Your Ex’s House Unannounced
Lesson 5: You Can’t Hurt Your Ex Without Bleeding Too
Summary: Harry finds someone who wants him for something other than his money.
Warnings: no spoilers!, language, flirting, rom-com meet-cute vibes, food and alcohol consumption, reader has two roommates that fit the rom-com vibe, smut (18+ MDNI), dry humping, unprotected piv sex, longing/yearning
WC: 7.6K
A/N: I haven't seen the movie yet so there's no spoilers, don't worry! This is written just knowing what we know from the trailers.
The first day he came into your diner, it was raining.
Well, more like pouring, actually.
You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.
Harry.
He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.
That's when he spotted you.
He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.
"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"
You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"
He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.
"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.
You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.
"This is... good."
You giggled. "Thanks."
"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."
"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.
"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.
"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.
The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.
There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.
And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.
Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.
"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.
He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.
"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."
"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.
He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.
When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.
"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."
He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.
"I learn from my mistakes."
He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.
You had hoped it was the latter.
About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.
You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.
Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.
Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.
"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.
"Nothing that can't wait."
"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.
"You're worth waiting for."
It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.
"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."
"So what if I am?"
You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.
"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.
"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.
"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."
He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.
When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.
"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.
"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"
"Is that when you're free?"
You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.
"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."
You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.
"Anywhere?"
He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.
"Anywhere."
"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.
"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.
"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.
"Nova it is."
You laughed and shook your head.
"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"
"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.
"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"
"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.
"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."
He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."
He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.
You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.
"He's here!"
"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"
You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.
"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.
"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.
"It's Harry."
You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.
"What does he do again?"
"Who fucking cares!"
"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.
"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.
"I'm Harry—"
"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."
Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.
"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"
"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.
"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.
"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.
"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"
The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.
Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.
"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.
An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.
Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.
"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.
"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.
If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.
"You look—"
You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.
"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."
He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.
"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."
Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.
"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.
"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.
"Thank you," you murmured shyly.
The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.
"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.
You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.
"What? I never told you?"
You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.
"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.
And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.
"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.
"You said—"
"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"
You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?
Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.
"Ready?"
You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.
It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.
A far cry from your diner.
"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.
Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.
"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.
Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.
"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"
You giggled and nodded.
"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."
"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."
Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.
"Do what?"
"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."
"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."
"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.
When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.
"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"
"Red."
"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.
You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.
"That sounds really expensive."
"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.
"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"
He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"
You nodded and leaned forward, as well.
"I can't tell the difference, either."
You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.
"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.
"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."
After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.
"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."
You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.
"Amber."
He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.
"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"
"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"
"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.
Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.
"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."
He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.
"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.
You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.
"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.
"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.
"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.
"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.
You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.
"Sounds... interesting."
"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.
"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"
He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.
"I'm good at it."
"But do you like it?"
"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."
"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"
You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.
After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.
Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?
"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"
He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.
"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."
Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.
The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.
It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.
"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.
"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."
You frowned, confused.
"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."
"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.
"Yeah. Of course."
He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"
He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.
"I sure as hell hope so."
He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.
"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.
Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.
"Can I kiss you?"
He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?
You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.
He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.
You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.
He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.
Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.
You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.
That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.
"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.
"Maybe I should — I should take you home."
You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:
"Or you can show me where you live."
He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.
"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.
"Yep."
"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.
The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.
"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.
Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.
"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.
"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."
They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.
The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.
"Penthouse?" you squeaked.
He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.
Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.
You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.
Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"
He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.
"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.
"Do you like it?"
It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.
"Yes. I do."
You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.
"Then I like it, too."
His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.
When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.
"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.
"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.
You grinned. "I don't care."
Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.
In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.
You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.
His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.
Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.
"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"
You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.
"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."
You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.
He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.
When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.
He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.
He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.
"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.
You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.
"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.
He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.
He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.
"You borrow these, too?"
You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.
"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.
"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.
"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.
"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."
You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.
"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.
"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."
It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.
He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.
"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."
He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.
So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.
"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."
The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.
He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.
"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"
His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.
He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.
"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.
"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.
"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."
Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.
"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.
"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.
You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.
He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.
"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.
"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.
Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.
In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.
"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.
You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.
"Did you just move in?"
He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."
He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.
"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."
"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"
His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.
"Yeah, that's right."
You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.
"I have a confession to make."
Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.
"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.
"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.
"How about both?"
You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."
As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.
"Harry?"
"Hm?"
He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.
"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.
"What is it?"
"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."
Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.
"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."
You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.
"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.
"I know."
Truthfully, he knew before he even asked you out on a date. The months he spent getting to know you at the diner had him convinced. But when he told you what he did and showed you where he lived and your only reaction — your first concern — was did he like it? Well, that gave him all the hope in the world that you just might be that someone to help him decorate his home one day.
