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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 long I wanted to rip you out of that dress?” 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...
Pairing: Clint Flood x f!reader
Prompt: “Call Me” by Blondie
Summary: Fresh out of a toxic relationship, you move in to the same apartment building as Clint and his three-year-old daughter. The ex-mob enforcer is nothing like anyone you have ever met before – steady, reliable, and entirely too generous. As you grow accustomed to living on your own for the first time, you find yourself leaning on your new neighbor for support.
Or
Five times you call Clint for “help,” and one time he calls you.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Please read the warnings – content may be triggering for some readers. Post-canon. Canon compliant. Dual POV. No use of Y/N. Minimal descriptions of reader character. Implied age gap, but nothing specific – reader is whatever age you want her to be. Slow burn romance. Alcohol consumption. Tobacco smoking. Some angst. Protective Clint. Dad Clint. Suggestive flirting and innuendos. Sexual tension. Canon-typical blood and violence. Depiction of a verbally and physically abusive past relationship. Discussions of the death of a spouse. SMUT (grinding/dry humping, vaginal fingering, unprotected P in V sex – vibes are touch-starved, intense, and a little emotional).
Written (and unforgivably late) for the Summer Tunes Writing Challenge hosted by @burntheedges. Dividers by @saradika-graphics.
Total Word Count: 21K
Status: COMPLETE
Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist
Chapters
Prologue: July 1990
September 1990
October 1990
November 1990
January 1991
February 1991
Epilogue: May 1991
We the fans declare our support for Pedro Pascal, condemning any malicious or biased comments against him. Showing affection is a human gesture, not a crime, and turning it into accusations IS distorting reality.
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