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IF YOU WERE MINE || CEO Harry x Reader

characters count: 9729

summary: your husband opens your marriage, while his best friend Harry is determined to steal you

masterlist || part 2:

Harry’s POV:

The next morning unexpectedly doesn’t start with Tom shouting. I wake up to the smell of something tasty — I don’t even know when the last time I ate something home-cooked was. I mean, I do know how to cook, but when you operate a billion-dollar company, you don’t really have time to use all of your skills.

I rub my eyes softly, assessing the situation. I’m in the guest room where I slept with you, in your house, where you took me after yesterday. God, when Tom finds out, I bet he’ll be furious. See, the thing about Tom is that the man is in constant competition with me. Ever since school, he always wanted to get better grades, earn more money, get more girls — but he always failed. I was better at everything. The only thing he had that I didn’t was you.

When he got shitfaced at his bachelor party and I was the responsible one taking him home, he confessed to me that, more than anything, he was afraid you’d leave him for me. But how do you fumble so badly after that? Oh, y/n, I’m sorry, but I don’t think he ever truly loved you. I think he loved the idea of someone like you on his arm, making every man in the room jealous. You’d think he’d treat you like a goddess, worship the ground you walk on, do everything you asked just to make sure you wouldn’t leave him. But Tom became too brave, and the way he treated you seemed to worsen every day.

Well, it’s always the ugly men that get confidence out of nowhere.

I put on my suit pants and shirt from the pile of neatly folded clothes I left on the chair last night. I button it halfway and glance through the window. His car’s not here. I check my watch — there’s no way he went to work at this hour. That’s when it finally hits me: he didn’t come home last night. It shouldn’t make me this giddy — he’s hurting you, after all — but it does. This fucking wanker is making it easier for me. He’s leading you right into my arms after years of being afraid this might happen.

I can’t hide my smug expression when I walk downstairs, but my smile immediately softens as I see you in your pajamas with the most serious expression ever, flipping the omelet. You look like you’re performing a science experiment and a million lives depend on it.

“Morning, sunshine,” I say softly, my voice still groggy from sleep. I press a kiss to your cheek. “It smells good.”

You let out a satisfied sigh. “I made you coffee. No sugar, with milk.”

Of course you know how I like my coffee. I can’t count how many times we’ve gotten coffee together.

“Thank you, love,” I say, sitting down at the table and taking a sip. “He didn’t come home last night, did he?”

“No, but I’m glad he didn’t. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with him this morning,” you say, grabbing two plates.

I chuckle. “You know he’ll blow up like a pufferfish when he finds out about us.”

You place the plates — omelet, cherry tomatoes, and some greens — on the table. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It’s so simple, domestic, and soft. You always take care of your body — vitamins, greens, fruits, fiber. The idea of you caring enough to make sure I eat well is already enough to get me on one knee for you.

“Tom always cared more about beating you than being a good husband,” you say, sitting down across from me. “He’ll blow up for sure, but you know… I don’t think I’m scared of him anymore.”

“You shouldn’t be. He should’ve been scared of losing you a long time ago.”

I look down at my plate — the omelet is perfectly cooked, fluffy, folded.

“God, I don’t even know why I stayed that long. Maybe I thought if I worked hard enough, I could fix him. Or maybe…”

You sigh. “Maybe I just didn’t want to admit I was that unhappy.”

“He didn’t deserve your effort,” I say softly but firmly.

“You always say the right thing, don’t you?”

“No,” I smile gently. “I just don’t lie to you.”

You return the smile. “Eat or it’ll get cold,” you nod toward my plate. I finally take a bite and almost moan. I missed homemade food so much that this omelet just melts in my mouth. Oh, y/n — what can’t you do?

“God… can you turn from my right hand to my personal chef?” I ask with my mouth full.

You chuckle, chewing thoroughly before speaking. “Just come here more and I’ll cook for you.”

There’s a moment of silence. We eat in a kind of peace neither of us really knew we needed. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ache. When you finish, you lean back a little in your chair, your fingers wrapped around your coffee mug.

“So what happens now, H?”

I meet your gaze. “Now? We do this properly.”

You raise one eyebrow. “Properly?”

I lean forward, elbows on the table. My voice is calm and dripping with sincerity. “I’m not going to be some secret affair, y/n. Not for you. I want to be the man you come home to. I want to wake up to you — without the guilt, without looking over our shoulders.”

Your breath catches.

“And when the divorce papers are signed, I want the world to know. I want to take you out, hold your hand in public, tell people you’re mine. I’ve waited long enough, haven’t I?”

Your lips part. There’s that flicker of hope again.

“And if Tom doesn’t let go easily?”

“Then he can drag himself through the mud, and I’ll still be here. Standing next to you. Protecting you. Loving you.”

A quiet laugh escapes your lips, soft and bitter. “God. You always loved me better, didn’t you?”

“Always.”

You put your mug on the table, softly grabbing both of my hands. “I can’t promise I won’t mess this up.” Your voice is quiet.

I gently squeeze your hands. “Then we’ll mess it up together. But you won’t run alone anymore. I’m in this, y/n. All the way.”

You lean over the table, softly placing a kiss on my lips. It’s short — but when your lips find mine, it isn’t shy or hesitant.

It’s earned. Years in the making. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask what happens next, because this — me and you — is what’s next.

And Tom?

He can keep the ashes of what he ruined.

We’re building something real.

Pleasing office building, 9:03 AM

My hand brushes against yours, intertwining our fingers as the elevator door closes. We’re both dressed impeccably — you in your tailored navy suit and silk button-up, me in an all-black suit that screams don’t test me. Who would’ve said that just a couple of hours ago, we were kissing in your kitchen after eating omelets you made?

“You sure you want to be here today?” I gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

You take a deep breath. “Tom isn’t the reason I run my business. And I’m not giving up the empire I helped build because he wants to play games.”

“That’s my girl,” I say, smiling proudly.

Boardroom, 10:45 AM

I sit at the head of the long glass table. You’re next to me. Your laptop is open, your posture is queen-like — effortless, commanding. The room is filled with department heads and investors, but all eyes subtly flicker between the two of you.

Tom hasn’t shown up.

“Mr. Styles, shall we proceed?” one of the investors, Mr. Hale, asks.

I nod. “Yes. Let’s begin. y/n…” I turn slightly toward you, inviting you to lead. The look on my face makes it clear to everyone in the room: she’s not just an investor’s wife. She’s a force to be reckoned with.

You launch into the quarterly projections without missing a beat — clear, eloquent, deadly smart. I watch you like you’re giving a symphony performance, leaning back in my chair with the slightest hint of pride.

“We’ve noticed a huge rise in sales after global pop stars Jennie and Rosé wore our Pleasing crewnecks from a PR kit,” you explain. “We can’t ignore the global rise of K-pop stars and their influence on fashion. They have the ability to sell out luxury items from Chanel, YSL, Gucci, and other household brands. Their fanbases are loyal enough to buy out every item they wear or collaboration they create. Groups like Blackpink, NewJeans — they could be our chance not only to raise sales and reach a younger audience but to break into the Asian market.”

You change the slide. “Lastly, our pop-ups have been a great success, giving us significant recognition on social media. If we combine that success with a collaboration with global pop stars, we’ve got ourselves a win.”

By the end, everyone is nodding. Once again, my love — you proved yourself.

I smile softly. “Brilliant. Thank you so much, y/n.”

“Damn, where do you get those ideas in that little head of yours, Mrs. Harrington?” Mr. Hale says, impressed.

“If I told you, you might take my job away,” you reply with a soft smile, returning to your seat as the voting begins.

My Office, 1:15 PM — Lunch Arrives

We’re seated on the long leather couch in your private office. Glass walls, skyline view, privacy glass engaged.

You open your takeout container, clearly starving.

“You know… I’m aware of how smart and hardworking you are, yet every single time you take over that boardroom, I’m speechless,” I say softly.

“I always wondered if you ever regretted hiring me, investing in me… I thought there must be a reason Tom wouldn’t, while he invested in your company.” You take a bite of your pasta.

“Tom invested in my company only to get shares and a seat on the board. But as you know, he only cares about cashing out — not actually showing up for meetings. And to your question…” I gently grab your hand. “No. I don’t regret it. I’d invest in you again and again. I know you don’t see it, but I’ll make a damn graph of how much our sales have grown since you took the position.” I grin, and you return my smile.

There’s a knock on the door. My assistant opens it carefully.

“Mr. Styles… Mr. Harrington just arrived. He’s heading to the lobby.”

“Hold him there. I’ll come down,” I say calmly.

“I can talk to him—”

I don’t let you finish.

“No.” My tone is low, firm. “Let me handle him.”

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