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The Ex Education

Ex husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!F!Reader

series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter

Lesson 15

Summary: After days of nausea, exhaustion, and memories you’ve tried hard to bury, you finally take the test — only to realize you may not be ready for the truth it holds. While Harry prepares himself to face a past he can no longer avoid, something happens that even he cannot anticipate. And by the end of the day… the target is once again the one thing he loves most.

Warnings and WC: 13.5k 18+⚠️SMUT/EXPLICIT CONTENT/ MDNI morning sex, somnophilia, oral sex -f- receiving, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, handjob, dirty talk, sexual tension, explicit language, rough sex, a little spanish and ukranian if you squint, shameless smut, cum eating, possessive behavior, aftermath, lust, desire, touching, fluff, kissing, expensive gifts, second chance romance, ex husband&ex wife, upper east side drama, rich family problems, Pregnancy test, angry!Harry, protective!Harry, prison confrontation, corporate power move, secret relationship tension, protective harry energy, scandal fallout, power couple angst, Harry sees red and goes feral, high society drama, violent outburst, manipulation revealed, emotional breakdown, dangerous obsession, new year chaos, unexpected reveal, possessive romance, dark romance vibes, society drama, corporate politics, past trauma mention, angst, mention of pregnancy, cliffhanger ending, OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Harry's EA (Executive Assistant))

authors note: Sorry for the delay, guys 🤍 I keep telling myself I won’t write such long chapters anymore… and then I look up and somehow it’s past 10k again. At this point I think it’s just who I am as a writer 😅 Thank you so much to everyone who didn’t give up on the story, who waited patiently and kept sending me such kind and loving messages. Your support honestly means more than you know. I hope this chapter was worth the wait

Never Mistake Restraint for Weakness

You were still asleep when Harry woke.

His bedroom was quiet in that fragile way mornings sometimes were — as if the world itself hadn’t decided yet whether to be kind or cruel.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

He had always loved doing this. Watching you when you didn’t know you were being watched. When you were soft. Unarmored. Entirely his.

You were half tangled in the sheets beside him, the silk twisted low around your hips, one bare shoulder exposed to the pale winter light slipping through the curtains. Your hair was everywhere — on the pillow, across his arm, against his chest — as if the night had scattered you there and he had been too greedy to put you back together.

He remembered pieces.

Your breath catching against his mouth.

Your fingers gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

The way you had whispered his name like a secret that belonged only to the dark.

Four days. Four long, controlled, suffocating days. And then last night. His hand lifted before he could think better of it. He let his knuckles brush your cheek.

Soft. Careful. Reverent in a way that would have humiliated him if anyone else had seen it.

You stirred.

Your lips parted on a slow breath, your lashes trembling as if you were drifting somewhere between dreams and waking. Instinctively, you shifted closer, your thigh sliding against his, your hand finding his side as though your body still remembered the shape of him even when your mind didn’t.

Harry exhaled quietly.

God.

He had missed this. Not just wanting you. Not just touching you. Having you here. Within reach. Real. Alive.

His fingers trailed lower, along the line of your jaw, down the warm column of your throat until they rested where the sheet rose and fell with your breathing. Possession had never been loud with him. It lived in gestures like this. In the way he didn’t ask.

His thumb caught a strand of your hair, smoothing it back from your face.

“You should stay like this,” he murmured under his breath, his voice rough with sleep. “Right here. With me.”

As if you had heard him, you shifted closer in your dreams.

Your knee slid between his legs, warm and possessive even in sleep, your forehead brushing lightly against his chin as your bare breasts pressed softly against his chest. The contact was unintentional. Instinctive.

Harry went very still.

Then he lifted the sheet slightly, just enough to see you — fully naked, each slow breath lifting and lowering your beautiful breasts. He glanced down at himself, already hard, and all the memories came flooding back like a tidal wave. Everything he had done. Everything you had done together. It all felt unreal. Like a dream he didn’t want to wake from.

He reached down and took one of your breasts in his hand, squeezing it gently. A soft moan escaped your lips. You rolled slightly onto your back, your legs parting just enough to give him a partial view of you. There was still a faint trace of dried cum at your entrance from the sex you had hours earlier, but he could see the glisten of fresh wetness.

He slid his other hand down between your thighs and began to rub your clit very gently — just enough for you to feel it, not enough to fully wake you.

You shifted again, opening your legs wider for him without thinking.

He ran his fingers slowly up and down before slipping one inside you. Another quiet moan fell from your lips as he moved his finger in and out. You were still sensitive, still stretched from the night before, and he pushed in a second finger. The wet sound of his fingers moving inside you made his jaw tighten. It was one of the most addictive sounds he knew.

Well… there was one sound he liked even more. He’d get to that.

He slid in a third finger and shifted lower in the bed, moving his body down until his mouth hovered over your mound. He closed his lips around your clit, sucking gently while thrusting his fingers faster inside you.

You began to come in your sleep.

Pleasure pulled you awake slowly, your body arching before your eyes even opened. When you finally realized what was happening, you let out a breathless laugh and dropped your head back into the pillow.

“Oh my God, Harry… good morning to you too,” you murmured, still panting.

Harry lifted his head slowly, his mouth still warm against your skin.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he murmured.

You blinked down at him, still trying to catch your breath, still floating somewhere between sleep and the aftershocks of pleasure.

A slow smile touched your lips.

“Are you talking to me,” you murmured softly, voice still husky with sleep, “or to my breasts?”

His eyes darkened immediately.

Instead of answering, his hands slid back over your body, cupping your breasts gently, weighing you like something precious. “Hard to tell,” he said in a low voice. “They’re… extremely persuasive.”

You let out a breathy laugh, arching slightly into his touch despite yourself. "You do realize this is highly manipulative."

He smirked faintly and pressed one last slow kiss to your sternum before moving back up the bed. “You weren’t complaining a few minutes ago,” he said quietly.

You let out a small laugh, your hand sliding instinctively into his hair, fingers brushing through the dark strands. He leaned into the touch without even realizing it — like something inside him had been trained to respond only to you.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The room still carried the faint scent of last night — sex and expensive cologne and the kind of intimacy that never fully disappeared by morning.

He hovered over you now, his weight careful, controlled, as if he was always aware of how easily he could overwhelm you — and how badly he never wanted to.

Your gaze drifted past his shoulder.

The clock on the nightstand. You stilled. Still early. A quiet, almost guilty sense of relief settled in your chest.

“You should still be asleep,” you murmured softly, brushing your fingers along the back of his neck. “We have time...”

“I was,” he replied. A beat. “Then I woke up.”

Your brows lifted, amusement flickering in your eyes. “And decided to… do community service?”

His mouth curved slowly, but the look he gave you wasn’t entirely playful. “I missed you,” he said quietly.

You let out a soft giggle, shaking your head. “Harry, it’s only been four days.”

“For me it felt like four months, baby.” He paused, studying your face.

“When I woke up and saw you next to me… I realized how much I needed this. Needed you. Makes everything else feel… manageable.”

You inhaled slowly. Because he wasn’t wrong. The last few days had been brutal.

Richard was still in the hospital — out of intensive care, but nowhere near recovery. Scarlet had practically moved into his private room. Lara had taken emergency leave just days before New Year’s after her mother fell ill out of state, leaving uncomfortable gaps in a house that already felt too quiet.

Your first full day back at Queen Financial came without warning.

Crisis calls. Emergency briefings. Board members performing calm while markets performed panic.

Meanwhile Harry was fighting everything alone. Legal proceedings. Media pressure. Corporate damage control. With Vivienne staying at Eloise’s side, the rest of the fallout had landed squarely on his shoulders.

By the end of the weekend you had both been so exhausted you hadn’t even managed to text each other.

And now—

Tuesday morning. For the first time since everything exploded, you were finally in the same bed.

Forty-six hours earlier. Sunday.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and winter flowers.

Your mother had insisted on fresh white orchids being placed by the window. They looked expensive and defiant against the sterile glass and chrome. Outside, Manhattan moved in distant, indifferent rhythms. Richard had been moved out of ICU that morning.

The machines were fewer now. The alarms softer. But recovery did not mean strength. Not yet.

He looked smaller in the hospital bed.

Not physically — he had always been a large presence — but in the way powerful men sometimes seemed diminished when stripped of their environment. No boardroom. No tailored suit. No authority except the fragile permission of his own heartbeat.

Speaking exhausted him.

You stood at his bedside with Scarlet and Mikey, explaining the situation at Queen Financial in measured tones. You chose your words carefully. Numbers without pressure. Strategy without panic. Facts that sounded survivable.

He listened with closed eyes, conserving energy. His fingers twitched once against the blanket.

For a moment there was only the faint mechanical rhythm of hospital equipment and the muted winter light stretching across polished floors.

He opened his eyes fully then. “I trust you,” he said, voice rough with disuse. “The company… is in your hands now.”

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no speech.

Just transfer of weight. Legacy, passed like something breakable. Your throat tightened despite years of training yourself not to react visibly.

You stepped closer, taking his hand between both of yours.

“I won’t let you down,” you said.

He closed his eyes again almost immediately, the effort already too much.

That was all he needed.

Despite it being Sunday, Gerard spent the rest of the afternoon with you in a quiet consultation room down the hall.

Legal pads. Forecast models. Emergency governance procedures.

You learned quickly that crisis had its own language.

Scarlet stayed with Richard.

The doctors were cautiously optimistic. If recovery continued at this pace, discharge before New Year’s was possible.

Possible. Everything was conditional now. By evening the house felt unnaturally still.

Without Scarlet’s controlled footsteps. Without Richard’s presence filling rooms he wasn’t even in.

That was when Yuliana appeared in the doorway — a small suitcase in one hand, pride clearly swallowed somewhere along the way.

“I can stay,” she said simply. “I don’t need much. I can work for a lower salary… please don’t worry about that. Just… let me stay with you. For old times.” She hesitated. “My last employer’,” she added quietly. “She wasn’t kind. Not like you. No one ever treated me the way you did, Ms. Queen.”

You didn’t let her finish. You pulled her into a hug. You needed help. You needed someone who knew.

She had been part of your life since you were eighteen — through internships and late-night study sessions, through heartbreak and ambition, through the carefully choreographed years of marriage that had looked perfect from the outside.

Through the day everything shattered.

Through blood. Through broken glass. Through the terrifying moment your own voice had stopped sounding like it belonged to you.

She hadn’t been able to save you completely.

But she had fought.

And now, helping her settle back into her old room felt like stepping into a parallel version of your life — one neither of you had ever imagined returning to.

Lara had always been the stronger presence. The steadier one.

But in her absence… Yuliana would be enough.

More than enough.

Later that night Emily and Chloe arrived armed with takeaway bags, spreadsheets, and emotional loyalty. The living room glowed with lamplight and untouched holiday decorations. Champagne flutes stood abandoned from a season that had stopped making sense.

You talked. About market optics. About company. About Harry. About how scandal moved faster than truth in Manhattan.

Yuliana moved quietly in the background, setting out plates, slicing fruit, arranging small bowls like ritual offerings to productivity.

Emily tried. God, she tried. She mapped investor psychology like it was a battlefield strategy.

But the scale was different now. “This is insane,” you groaned eventually, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I need an assistant.”

“You need two assistants,” Emily replied immediately. “And possibly divine intervention. That’s all I can offer.”

You both turned toward Chloe.

She had already fallen asleep with her phone still glowing in her hand. You exchanged a look. “One casualty,” you murmured.

Emily collapsed backward onto the bed, yawning. “God, I need to sleep. My mom has the flu, which means I’m running the restaurant alone tomorrow. If you hear about a mysterious brunette terrifying customers with dark circles and caffeine shakes… that’ll be me.”

You smirked. “Fine. Sleep. I refuse to be responsible for a public health crisis caused by your lack of sleep.”

You stood. Too fast. The room tilted sideways. You sat right back down.

Emily caught your arm. “Hey. Hey. Are you okay?”

You pressed your palm to your forehead. “I just need sleep. And… my stomach feels strange. I’m going to get something to eat.”

She stared at you like you had announced gravity was optional. “At 3:40 in the morning?”

You shrugged. “Apparently stress makes me hungry.”

She was too tired to argue. Within seconds she was asleep.

The house was dark as you walked toward the kitchen.

Too dark. Too quiet. Then you heard typing. Sharp. Focused. Persistent.

You stopped. And nearly experienced a spiritual awakening when you saw Mikey at the counter, laptop open, actually working.

This was rarer than astronomical events. You moved closer silently.He didn’t notice.

You had picked up a knife to peel an apple, but when you saw the screen you froze. Board reports. Risk exposure notes.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

The past few days had turned your emotions into unstable weather. Sudden surges. Sudden cracks. Tears without warning.

You blamed stress. You placed a hand on his shoulder. He nearly launched himself off the chair. “Jesus, Fuck, Shit!” he yelped. Then he saw the knife.

Both hands shot up. “Wow,” he breathed. “Et tu, Sister?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh please. Not the Julius Caesar bit before sunrise.” “You set the knife down with a sigh. “Stop being dramatic.”

“A woman sneaking up on me with a weapon at dawn has opinions about drama.”

“It’s basically morning. Why are you still awake?”

“Tomorrow’s meeting,” he said, nodding toward the screen. “Important. I’m finishing this.”

“That’s my job.”

“You’re exhausted,” he replied easily. “And you’re doing great. I’m just… doing the emotional support spreadsheet.”

Silence settled.

“Mikey.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re the elder heir,” you said quietly. “Technically this should be yours. Why aren’t you fighting me?”

He stared. Then laughed. “Relax, Succession. . This isn’t an HBO power drama.”

You almost smiled. “You’re the smart one,” he continued. “Everyone knows I’m the chaotic spare. Investors trust you. They tolerate me.”

He said it like it was obvious math. “You’re a real Queen. You scare people when you walk into rooms.”

Your vision blurred. You moved behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “And you’re the best brother I could have,” you whispered.

“Okay, no crying,” he said instantly. “Are you crying? Oh wow. Full tears.”

You were.

“Well… this escalated quickly,” he muttered, standing and pulling you into a hug. “We’ll figure it out. I mean… it currently feels like Rambo trying to do tax accounting while being shot at. But still.”

You hit his shoulder weakly. “Idiot.”

“Confirmed.”

You wiped your face. “Let’s sleep,” you said. “Tomorrow will be brutal.”

Monday Morning

You woke to the smell of coffee.

Not loudly. Not suddenly. It drifted into your sleep like a memory — warm, familiar, almost tender.

For a moment you didn’t open your eyes.

Your body stretched instinctively beneath the sheets, muscles loosening one by one as you slowly lifted your sleep mask to your forehead.

“Ah…” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Just like the old days.”

Yuliana laughed softly from the doorway.

She stepped inside carrying a silver tray and placed it carefully at the foot of the bed before moving to pull the curtains open. Winter sunlight spilled into the room in pale ribbons, washing the cream walls and silk upholstery in a quiet glow.

“Yes,” Yuliana said gently as she set the tray down. “It feels strange for me too. But… nice. Like the old mornings.”

You pushed yourself up against the pillows, watching her with sleepy amusement.

“A lot has changed in the past few years,” she added lightly as she handed you the cup. Decaf espresso. Lactose-free milk. “Apparently even your coffee preferences.”

You took the cup, inhaled the soft steam, then gave a small shake of your head.

“My taste hasn’t changed,” you murmured. “It’s still the same. My stomach just feels… off lately.”

“Ah,” Yuliana said slowly. “It was like that yesterday too, wasn’t it?”

You nodded. “It’s been like this for a week, actually.”

She paused. Thinking.

You lifted the cup, the smell hit you before the taste did. Too warm. Too dense. Too present. Your stomach tightened without warning. A thin wave of nausea curled low inside you — slow at first, then sharper, like something quietly twisting. You swallowed.

Tried to ignore it. Tried to behave like nothing was happening. Because nothing was supposed to be happening. You took a small sip anyway.

Instant regret.

Your face tightened. You pulled the cup away as if it had betrayed you. “Ugh… no,” you muttered, pushing it back toward her. “I really can’t.”

A strange heat flushed through your body. Your mouth filled with saliva. Your pulse kicked faster.

For one irrational second, fear moved through you — quick and cold.

Not again.

You covered your mouth and got out of bed too quickly.

The room tilted.

Your bare feet hit the cold floor as you rushed toward the bathroom, silk robe barely tied, one hand gripping your stomach as if you could physically hold yourself together.

Behind you, Yuliana’s voice followed — worried, immediate.

“Ms. Queen?”

You didn’t answer. You were already leaning over the sink.

Yuliana was beside you seconds later. “Are you okay?” she asked, her hand warm and steady against your back.

You retched, body tense, hair falling forward until you caught it in your fist.

After a moment the worst of it passed.

She handed you a towel.

You wiped your mouth, breathing unevenly, then turned the tap on and splashed cold water over your face.

When you finally looked up, your reflection startled you. You looked pale. Fragile in a way you hated. You gripped the edge of the sink and exhaled slowly. “This reminds me of when you were feeling like this before,” she added quietly. “You looked exactly like this… back then. You had the same nausea…and-“

The words landed before she realized what she had done.

You understood immediately. A flicker of sadness moved through you first.Then something colder. Something like fear.

Her face drained of color.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Queen,” she rushed out, voice tightening. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t want to remind you of anything painful, I just— I wasn’t thinking—”

You walked past her, mind already racing. Questions colliding. Memories resurfacing.

She followed you into the bedroom, still apologizing under her breath.

You sat down at the edge of the bed and finally looked at her.

“Yuliana. Stop.” She froze. “Breathe,” you added more gently. “This isn’t the problem right now.”

She nodded slowly — then frowned. “Um… What… is the… problem, then?”

Your mother’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of your mind.

That night. The conversation. The promise.

If your father hadn’t collapsed, you would have already bought a pregnancy test. You would have already known.

Instead there had been hospitals. Board crises. Headlines. Markets. Survival.

And now this.

The nausea. The sensitivity to smells. The strange heaviness in your body.

Just like before. “Ms. Queen?” Yuliana said again. “What is it?”

You met her eyes.

“I think you were right,” you said quietly.

Her eyes widened. “Right? About what?”

“You were there last time too,” you continued. “You were the first one who knew.”

She waited. Trying to understand.

“When I took the test…”

She went completely still. “…Are you saying you might be—”

You shook your head quickly. “I-I don’t know. I’m not sure. But the way I feel…” You swallowed. “everything feels exactly like it did five years ago.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh… I actually thought about it yesterday,” she admitted nervously. “But I was afraid to say anything. I didn’t want to upset you. I just— I really hope you are…”

You looked at her — exhausted, overwhelmed — and still couldn’t stop the small smile that touched your lips.

Then you stood. Reached for her hands. “Yuliana,” you said quietly. “I need to be sure. I can’t go to the pharmacy myself. Go for me. Buy a test.”

She nodded immediately. “Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

Excitement and worry tangled in her expression as she hurried out of the room. The door closed. And, you were alone with the possibility.

Your bedroom no longer looked like a place meant for rest.

It looked like preparation.

The deliveries had arrived while Yuliana was out — discreet, efficient, announced only by the soft roll of wheels over thick carpet and the quiet murmur of staff who understood urgency without needing it explained.

By the time you stepped back into your room, the transformation was complete.

A long custom brass garment rack stood near the tall windows, positioned deliberately where the pale winter light could fall across the fabrics. Dresses hung in careful spacing, each protected in sheer garment sleeves that whispered faintly when you brushed past them.

Cream. Deep navy. Structured ivory. A severe charcoal with razor-sharp tailoring. Midnight emerald that seemed almost black until it caught the sun.

New season. Private fittings. Pieces that hadn’t even reached boutique floors yet.

Shoes were lined beneath the rack like obedient soldiers — patent leather, suede, satin. Handbags rested in their dust covers like state secrets.

Your armor. Your inheritance. Your burden.

Scarlet had clearly taken control of the situation the only way she knew how — with discipline, fabric, and impeccable taste.

Your phone was still warm in your hand from the call.

“Yes, mother,” you had murmured earlier, fingers trailing slowly along the row of garments. “They’re perfect.”

“They must be,” Scarlet had replied coolly. “Perception is stability. And you’ll carry them exactly the way they were meant to be carried,” she added. “Authority isn’t announced — it’s worn.”

Your lips had curved faintly. “Good. I’d hate to waste good tailoring on amateurs.”

A quiet laugh had slipped through the line.

“There you are,” Scarlet had said. “That’s my girl.”

“Give dad a kiss for me,” you had added softly. “Tell him his daughter is exactly where she’s supposed to be.”

Now you stood in front of the full-length mirror.

Half dressed. Half undone. And very close to committing a crime against couture.

You changed quickly. Fresh underwear. Sheer black tights rolled carefully up your legs. A slow breath to steady your hands.

You stepped into the first dress.

Structured cream wool crepe. Clean waistline. Minimalist severity. It screamed authority without ever raising its voice.

Perfect. You reached behind you for the zipper. It stopped halfway. You frowned. Tried again.

Nothing.

You pulled your shoulders back. Drew your stomach in. Lifted slightly onto your toes as if posture alone might convince the universe to cooperate.

Still nothing.

Your reflection stared back at you with growing disbelief.

Then, softly, with controlled outrage:

“Perfect. Couture chooses violence on the morning I need psychological dominance.”

A bite paused mid-air behind you.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

Mikey stood in the doorway in sweatpants and yesterday’s T-shirt, sandwich frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing like a man witnessing the early stages of an apocalypse.

“What happened?” he demanded.

You didn’t turn.

He squinted harder. Suspicion deepened.

“Wait — don’t tell me.” He started counting on his fingers, pacing toward you like an investigator in a crime documentary. “Did couture betray you? Did a heel snap mid-stride? Did someone call something off-the-rack in your presence? Did Vogue uninvite you from something? Did the trust fund collapse overnight?” He leaned in, lowering his voice dramatically. “…Did a Birkin get scratched?”

You stared at him through the mirror.

“Mikey,” you said finally, deadly calm, “if you don’t close that mouth in the next three seconds, I will personally introduce you to life without a monthly allowance.”

He blinked.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “So this is worse than the Birkin.”

You exhaled, turning slightly so he could see.

The back of the dress hung open just enough to humiliate you.

“The zipper,” you said flatly.

He lit up with relief.

“Oh thank God. I thought we were dealing with a societal collapse.”

He put his sandwich down and stepped behind you with exaggerated seriousness. “Alright. Emergency intervention. On three, suck in whatever rich-people organs you’ve got.”

“I am already doing that,” you snapped.

He grabbed the zipper. Pulled. Nothing.

He pulled again. Harder. You sucked in a breath so sharply your ribs protested.Still nothing.

“Okay… and I say this with love,” Mikey murmured. “Is it possible — tiny possibility — that you maybe… gained a little weight?”

You went rigid.

Instead of hitting him, you let out a strangled sound somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “No,” you whispered. “No. This is not happening. Not today.”

He kept trying.

The zipper moved a millimeter. Then stopped again like it had personal vendettas.

“What have you been eating?” he muttered. “Secret midnight pastries? Stress croissants? Emotional carbohydrates?”

You glared at him through the mirror. “Stop talking.”

He kept tugging. “This thing has less give than our board of directors,” he complained. “Honestly I respect it.”

The door opened softly.

Yuliana stepped in — and instantly froze, reading the entire scene in one glance. Years of experience translated chaos into understanding before a word was spoken.

Mikey straightened.

“Good,” he announced. “Reinforcements. Because unless this zipper receives divine intervention, we are officially late.”

You pushed his hands away. “Out,” you said.

He held up both palms.

“Fine. Fine. I’m leaving. But just for the record — the odds of that dress closing are roughly the same as me becoming CFO.”

He turned.

Paused.

Then leaned back into the room again, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion.

“Wait,” he said, pointing toward the nightstand. “Let me grab my sandwich before someone else eats it.”

He looked meaningfully at you.

“…I mean you’ve clearly been doing a thorough job of that lately.”

You didn’t even think.

The heel left your hand like a guided missile.

He yelped, ducked just in time and snatched the sandwich.

“Violence!” he announced dramatically while retreating into the corridor. “Breaking news! The Queen Family heiress resorts to assault after losing battle with a zipper!”

His voice echoed down the hall long after he disappeared.

You closed your eyes slowly. A breath. Then another.

You looked at Yuliana with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief.

“He’s going to be the end of me,” you muttered.

Yuliana pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile.

Then you straightened slightly, the reality of the morning returning like cold air. “Did you get it?” you asked quietly.

She nodded at once.

From the pocket of her uniform she carefully pulled out the small pharmacy bag — discreet, white, painfully ordinary.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Her eyes flicked from the bag… to the half-closed zipper… to your waist.

A hesitation.

“Ms. Queen…” she began cautiously. “If you are… in that situation… it would be completely normal that the dress doesn’t fit the way it used to.”

You turned your head and gave her a look.

She stopped immediately and began moving. Her hands were calm. Efficient. She studied the rack like a general surveying battlefield options.

“This one,” she said after a moment, pulling out a softer structured dress — still elegant, still commanding, but forgiving at the waist. “Let’s try this.”

Relief hit you so fast it almost made you dizzy.

“Yuliana,” you exhaled, voice softer now, “I’m so glad you’re here. If this works… I will triple your salary.”

A faint smile touched her lips — warm, loyal, completely unimpressed by the financial drama of it all. “Let’s get you dressed first,” she said gently.

As she helped you step out of the first dress, your hand drifted unconsciously to your stomach.

A strange heaviness had settled there that morning. Not pain. Not exactly fear. Just… awareness. Like your body was trying to tell you something before you were ready to listen. You swallowed. “I need to take the test first.”

Yuliana nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

You took the small white box from her slowly.

It felt absurdly light for something that could change the entire direction of your life.

The test lay on the marble counter.

You had placed it there yourself. Deliberately. Turned upside down. As if the result might change if you refused to look at it.

You couldn’t get closer.

Every time you tried, your chest tightened — breath catching somewhere between hope and terror.

A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door. You flinched. Even though you already knew who it was.

“May I come in?” Yuliana’s voice was gentle as she peeked through the door.

You nodded. She stepped inside quietly, closing it behind her. One look at your face and the concern in her eyes deepened. You must have looked exactly how you felt — pale, shaken, suspended between past and present. It was strange. Almost cruel.

The last time you had stood in a bathroom like this… she had been there too. She had been the first to know.

Yuliana’s gaze drifted briefly toward the counter. Toward the test. “You haven’t checked,” she said softly.

You shook your head immediately, starting to pace.

“I can’t. I just… I don’t know what I’m going to see.” Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it. “And I’m scared. Not of becoming a mother again — that’s not it. I just… I don’t know what my body is capable of anymore.”

You pressed your palm against your stomach unconsciously.

“They told me it was nearly impossible,” you whispered. “After everything… after the surgery… after the loss…”

The words felt heavy in your mouth.

Yuliana moved toward you then, taking your trembling hands in hers and squeezing them firmly.

“We’ll look together, Ms. Queen,” she said. “At the same time.”

Her voice was calm. Grounded. The way it had always been when your world tilted.

“Whatever the result is, you are strong enough to face it. You’ve survived worse than a piece of plastic telling you the truth.”

You let out a shaky breath. Nodded. Slowly.

You turned toward the counter.

For a second you just stared at the test like it was radioactive.

Then you reached for it.

You lifted the test and put it back down immediately.

“No,” you said under your breath. “I can’t. Not now.”

You stepped away from the counter like it might follow you.

“Either way, the result is going to live in my head all day,” you added, turning sharply toward Yuliana. “I have a board meeting. I cannot walk in there thinking about… this.”

Yuliana glanced from you to the test and back again. “But, Ms. Queen—”

A voice drifted in from the hallway.

“If the zipper crisis has officially been resolved,” Mikey called out, far too cheerful for the hour, “Queen Financial would like to remind its acting monarch that time is, in fact, real.”

You shut your eyes for half a second. Then opened them. “Yuliana,” you said. “Help me get dressed.” She didn’t move. You softened your tone — just slightly. “Please.” That did it. She followed you into the bedroom, still visibly unsettled. You stopped near the bed and turned back to her. “After I leave,” you said calmly, “get rid of the test.”

She froze. “…Get rid of it?”

“I don’t want to know yet,” you continued. “Look at it. Then tell me the result after New Year’s Eve.”

Her eyes widened in pure horror.

“Bozhe miy… (dear God),” she muttered under her breath, hand flying to her chest. “How am I supposed to not think about something like that? I will see it and then what — just fold laundry? Chop vegetables? Pretend my heart is not exploding?”

“You will,” you replied coolly. “You will think about literally anything else. My schedule. The staff rota. Mikey’s alarming life choices.”

She stared at you.

You held her gaze.

“This is important to me,” you said quietly.

A long beat.

Yuliana sighed dramatically, switching briefly into rapid Ukrainian under her breath — something that sounded like a prayer mixed with mild swearing.

“…Dobré, (Very well)” she muttered finally. “Fine. As you wish.”

The lobby of Queen Financial was quieter than usual.

Not empty. Never empty.

But quieter in the way institutions became quiet when something serious had happened. Voices were lower. Movements more deliberate. Even the marble seemed to carry tension beneath its polished surface.

People were watching. Not openly. Never rudely. But watching. You felt it the moment the revolving doors closed behind you. Heels against stone. Coat draped perfectly over your shoulders. Chin level. Queen composure.

Mikey walked beside you with his usual careless stride that fooled absolutely no one who knew him well.

The elevators opened before you even reached them.

Of course they did.

Upper floors had already been notified.

When the doors slid shut, the mirrored walls reflected a version of you that felt both familiar and entirely new.

Not just the heiress anymore. Not just the daughter.

Something else. Something interim. Something dangerous.

The doors opened onto the executive level.

Gerard appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by timing itself.

“Ms. Queen. Perfect timing,” he said, tone calm but efficient. “The board convenes in ten minutes. I’ll see you inside.”

He gave Mikey a brief nod and disappeared down the corridor without another word.

Mikey exhaled.

“Love that man,” he muttered. “Walks like he owns gravity.”

You ignored him and kept walking.

A young woman stepped forward from near the corner office — mid-twenties, neat dark bun, tablet held like a shield.

She smiled carefully.

“Ms. Queen? Hi. I’m Anna. I’ll be assisting you… temporarily.”

Her voice had that polite steadiness people developed when they were both nervous and determined to hide it.

You studied her for half a second.

Alert eyes. Good posture. No visible panic. Promising.

Mikey, however, had no such filter.

He looked her up and down.

“Wow,” he said. “Where do I file a formal complaint? I’ve been in this family for thirty years and no one has ever assigned me an assistant.”

You elbowed him sharply.

“Go prepare for the meeting,” you said sweetly. “Before I assign you unemployment.”

He grinned and leaned toward Anna conspiratorially. “She hits. Be warned.” Then he disappeared down the hallway.

Anna blinked once — then recovered. “If you’ll follow me."

She stopped in front of a large but clearly not primary executive office.

“This has been designated as your workspace for now,” she explained. “Given the interim nature of the leadership structure, permanent office assignments will be reviewed once the board formalizes succession protocols.”

Translation: You were powerful. But not yet officially installed.

You nodded once. “Understood.”

She opened the door.

Sunlight spilled across dark wood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Midtown skyline cutting clean against winter blue.

And your desk. Covered in flowers.

You stopped. For just a second.

White peonies. Cream roses. Winter ranunculus. Minimalist orchids. Notes tucked discreetly between stems.

Anna stepped slightly aside.

“These arrived throughout the morning,” she said. “All addressed to you.”

Obviously, you thought.

You slipped your coat from your shoulders. She took it immediately.

“Thank you. Please give me a few minutes. Let me know when the board is seated.”

“Of course.” She left quietly.

The door closed. You moved toward the desk slowly. Your mother’s card first. Elegant. Controlled. Proud.

Emily and Chloe’s arrangement next — chaotic in comparison. Soft pastel blooms and a ridiculous handwritten note about surviving capitalism. A small velvet box rested beside them. You opened it. A framed photo. The three of you — laughing somewhere sunlit and careless.

You smiled despite yourself and set it at the corner of your desk. Then your gaze shifted. To the largest arrangement. Your favorite flowers.

Of course.

Two small boxes waited beside the stems. You opened the longer one first. Cartier.

Inside lay a slim gold pen. Heavy. Perfectly balanced. Your initials engraved near the clip in precise understated script. You exhaled slowly. A card rested beneath it.

For my Queen. Sign and lead. — H

Your throat tightened. The second box was smaller. You already knew before opening it. You still laughed softly when you saw it. A delicate Hello Kitty charm in white gold and enamel. Minimal. Tasteful. Ridiculously you. Another card.

For the girl only I get to see. — H

You closed your eyes for a moment. Just one. Then opened them again. Then you reached for your phone. You hadn’t touched it all morning. Between reviewing briefing files on the tablet and trying not to think about the test, you had simply tossed it into your bag and forgotten it existed.

Now you almost regretted that. Because the moment the screen lit up, Harry’s name filled it. Message after message.A slow smile curved your lips. They started early.

7:50 a.m. Queen of Manhattan missing. Last seen stealing my ability to focus. 8:02 a.m. Beginning to suspect hostile takeover. 8:10 a.m. If you don’t answer soon, I might have to walk into your board meeting and create a very public distraction. It will involve you. And my mouth. 8:17 a.m. Also… good morning, baby.

You exhaled softly.

God, you had missed him.

More than you had allowed yourself to admit.

Without thinking further, you pressed call.

He picked up immediately.

“Wow,” you said lightly. “Mr. Castillo. Were you sitting there desperately waiting for me to finally notice you?”

A low laugh answered you. Followed by a quiet exhale that felt like music against your ear.

“You’ve deprived me of your voice and your face for days,” he murmured. “You don’t get to judge how desperate I become.”

Your smile deepened.

“Fair.”

“How are you?” he asked. “I didn’t think you’d call before the meeting.”

“I wanted to hear you,” you admitted. Then you glanced at the flowers again. “Also… thank you. For the flowers. Subtle move.”

“I’m never subtle with you, mi vida."

You walked toward the window, Lower Manhattan unfolding below you in glass and winter light.

“There are only a few buildings between us,” you murmured. “And I still hate that we have to wait.”

“Me too, baby." He found himself standing at the window, phone still against his ear. Across the street, Queen Financial cut into the morning sky. Somewhere behind that glass… was you. “But I can’t do this for long,” he continued. “My heart has very poor tolerance for being separated from you. I need to see your face before New Year’s Eve.”

You laughed under your breath. “Is that a medical diagnosis or a threat?”

“Both.”

A gentle knock interrupted the moment.

You turned.

Anna stood in the doorway. “Ms. Queen? The board is ready.”

You nodded once. “I’m coming.”

Then you lowered your voice.

“I have to go, Harry.”

“You’re ready for this. They already trust you more than they admit. Don’t try to impress them. Just lead them.”

That landed.

You smiled faintly. “You’re extremely attractive when you’re right,” you murmured.

A quiet laugh slid through the line.

“Turns you on?” he asked softly.

“That depends,” you said. “Are you planning to use it against me?”

“You know I always do,” he replied.

Your pulse quickened. “I haven’t seen you in days and everything feels… louder when you’re not around.”

“Say it properly,” he said.“Tell me you want me there.”

A slow smile curved on your lips.

“Well…” you murmured softly, leaning back in your chair, letting the pen roll between your fingers, “I want you everywhere, baby.”

Silence. Then a low exhale — rough, controlled.

You knew exactly what that breath meant. You could almost see the way his jaw tightened on the other end of the line. The way his mind would already be running ahead of him. You let out a quiet laugh.

“Careful,” he murmured finally. “You’re one bad decision away from me actually showing up.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “You like the idea of causing a scene.”

“I like the idea of reminding people who you belong to,” he replied.

“Dangerous timing,” you said sweetly, glancing at your watch. “I have to be terrifyingly competent in about 2 minutes.”

“Go,” he said. “Be brilliant. When your workday is over… be ready. I’m coming for you.”

Gerard and Mikey walked in with you. Anna followed a step behind - silent, observant.

The moment you stepped inside, chairs straightened. Conversations died mid-sentence.

Twelve faces turned toward you.

Men who had known you since you were a child. Men who had watched you grow into an heiress they never had to take seriously.

And women.

Women who had survived rooms like this by becoming harder than the men in them. Women who measured you in seconds - posture, tone, resilience - deciding whether you were one of them or merely another legacy daughter passing through power.

None of them had ever imagined you would one day walk in and take the head of their table. And now they had no choice but to adjust.

The long walnut table gleamed under controlled lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan like a threat.

Lucas sat halfway down the right side.

You walked the full length of the room anyway. Unhurried. Untouchable.

“Good morning,” you said.

They all nodded.

Gerard took his place slightly behind and to your left. A deliberate signal. Support. Structure. Legitimacy.

You placed your pen on the table.

“I appreciate everyone making time on short notice,” you continued. “As you know, my father is currently under strict medical supervision and will not be returning to operational leadership in the immediate term.”

No one interrupted.

Good.

“Until further notice, I will be assuming his executive responsibilities.”

Lucas leaned back in his chair. “Temporarily,” he said.

There it was.

You turned your head slowly. “Leadership is always temporary, Mr. Whitmore,” you replied calmly. “Results are what tend to become permanent.”

A few board members shifted. Someone cleared his throat.

Lucas smiled. “The market seems unconvinced,” he said. “Shares dipped again this morning.”

You folded your hands. “Yes,” you said. “They did.”

Silence thickened. Then you slid a document down the table toward him.

“I imagine they’ll feel differently once they read this.”

He glanced down. Then back up. “What is it?”

“A restructuring proposal,” you said. “Along with defensive acquisition options should minority shareholders attempt to increase influence during this period.”

Now Gerard allowed himself a very small smile.

Lucas’s didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re anticipating a hostile move?”

“I’m preventing one,” you replied.

The room changed.

You could feel it. The subtle recalibration. The moment they stopped seeing a grieving daughter and started seeing a strategic risk. You leaned forward slightly. “My father built this firm on stability,” you said. “I intend to build it on inevitability.” No one spoke. Mikey was adjusting his tie with a smirk on his face. You let the silence stretch. Not awkward. Strategic. Then you spoke again.

“I’m aware,” you said calmly, “that I have not been physically present in this building for the past few years.”

A few shoulders shifted.

Lucas watched you with open interest now.

“And since we seem to be operating in an atmosphere where speculation travels faster than facts,” you continued, voice even, “I think it’s only fair that I address the obvious.”

Gerard did not move. But you felt his attention sharpen.

“My family and I have gone through… difficult years,” you said. “Some of what you’ve read is true. Some of it is distorted. All of it has been painful.”

No dramatics. No apology. Just truth placed neatly on the table like another document.

“But personal crisis,” you went on, “is not a leadership qualification. Nor is it a disqualification.”

Now they were listening. Really listening.

“I am not naïve,” you said. “I understand that executive authority is not inherited overnight. Titles are not worn into legitimacy - they are built into it.”

Lucas’s fingers stopped tapping the table.

“I will not pretend to be a finished CEO,” you continued. “But I will also not pretend that this company can afford hesitation.”

“I was raised inside these numbers. Inside these negotiations. Inside these risks. This firm is not unfamiliar territory to me - it is unfinished responsibility.”

That landed.

You straightened slightly.

“Over the next quarter,” you said, “we will begin a structured internal realignment. Risk exposure will be reduced. Liquidity buffers increased. Strategic partnerships revisited.”

You glanced briefly toward Lucas.

“Especially the ones that assume we are currently vulnerable.”

Now even the older board members were leaning forward.

“I am not asking for blind confidence,” you finished. “I am asking for measurable time.”

Silence.

Then Lucas spoke. “Markets don’t trade in patience,” he said.

You met his gaze. “I’m aware.”

He tilted his head.

“In that case,” he continued smoothly, “I would strongly advise a public statement. Today. Clarify your… personal affiliations. Particularly your continued proximity to Castillo Capital.”

The air tightened.

A few board members looked down.

Cowards.

Lucas didn’t blink. “If investors believe governance lines are blurred,” he said, “they will respond accordingly.”

You let him finish.

Then you picked up the pen. Turned it once between your fingers. Set it down again. “I don’t take strategic advice from people whose first instinct is panic,” you said softly.

Gerard exhaled through his nose.

Lucas’s smile sharpened. “This isn’t panic,” he said. “It’s optics.”

You leaned back in your chair. “No,” you replied. “It’s opportunism.” A longer silence this time. Heavy. Measured. Final. “I will address the press,” you said. “But not because I’m being cornered into it.” You let your gaze move around the table. “One thing you should all understand very clearly,” you added. “My personal life has never dictated this company’s performance. And it never will.”

No one challenged you. Not even Lucas. Outside the glass, Manhattan glittered like a battlefield waiting for orders. Inside - you had just claimed command.

You didn’t knock.

The door opened with a decisive force that made the glass tremble in its frame.

Lucas didn’t even flinch. He was standing by the window, hands in his pockets, Manhattan reflected in the steel behind him like he owned half of it already.

“Well,” he said without turning. “That didn’t take long.”

You closed the door slowly. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Now he turned. “Winning,” he said simply.

Your lips curved. Not a smile. Something sharper. “By blackmailing a trauma survivor and destabilizing a publicly traded firm?” you asked. “How innovative. Wall Street must be trembling.”

His eyes flickered. There. “You’re emotional."

“I’m precise,” you corrected.

You moved deeper into the office.

He didn’t offer you a seat. You didn’t need one.

“The press pressure,” you continued. “The leak. The timing. The narrative linking Queen Financial to Castillo Capital. You want something. Let’s skip the performance.”

“I want equilibrium,” he said.

You laughed softly. “No,” you said. “You want revenge.” Your stomach twisted with disgust. “You leaked it,” you said. “Everything.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Yeah right,” he said, voice lowering, “At that party... Castillo treated me like I was disposable.”

“You are,” you replied sweetly.

That landed.

Harder than the slap would.

His gaze darkened.

“You really don’t understand the position you’re in,” he said. “You’re walking into a leadership vacuum with a scandal wrapped around your throat and a lover whose surname is currently radioactive.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

“And why exactly is that your concern?” you asked softly.

“My boyfriend is the only thing you can think about these days?”

Lucas didn’t answer.

You stepped closer.

“Let’s be very clear,” you continued. “Even if I stand in front of every camera in Manhattan and deny having anything to do with him, nothing changes. Markets panic. Headlines move on. Power rearranges itself. That’s how this world works.”

Your eyes locked onto his.

“But what you don’t understand,” you added, voice sharpening, “is what Harry and I have already survived from the worst. You think we can’t handle someone like you?”

Lucas’s jaw tightened.

“He built his company from nothing,” you went on. “From risk. From rejection. From being underestimated. He will stabilize it again. That’s what he does.”

You straightened slightly.

“And I will do the same here. As for you… Your days in this building are numbered. Harry and I will survive this. The company will survive this, and you’ve just declared war on two people who don’t lose.”

Lucas didn’t have an immediate answer.

And that was enough.

You turned and walked out.

Later that evening.

Harry’s car slid into the underground garage of Queen Financial like a shadow that had always belonged there.

He stepped out before the driver could even move to open the door.

For a brief second he stood still, scanning the concrete expanse - rows of silent cars, the distant hum of ventilation, the faint echo of footsteps that weren’t there anymore.

The building was already empty.

Workday long over.

He adjusted his coat and walked toward the elevator with purposeful strides.

His phone was still in his hand.

Your name glowing on the screen.

Five missed calls now.

His jaw tightened.

The elevator ride felt longer than it should have. Like time itself was testing his patience.

The doors opened onto the executive floor.

Dim. Quiet. Almost sacred.

Assistants gone. Lights off. Only the distant glow of Manhattan pressing against the glass walls like a living organism that refused to sleep.

He moved faster now.

Calling you again.

Listening.

Nothing.

Then-

Your office.

The door slightly ajar.

Harry pushed it open with careful fingers.

And stopped.

You were asleep at your desk.

Head resting on your folded arms. Hair spilled across your face like dark silk.

Your laptop still glowing - spreadsheets, market projections, Gerard’s restructuring framework open on the screen.

You had already started working through it.

Of course you had.

But sleep had won.

For a long moment he didn’t move.

All the noise inside his head - investors, Eduardo, stock drops, damage control - just… disappeared.

A slow breath left him.

Relief.

Something deeper.

He crossed the room quietly.

Reached out.

His thumb brushed a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.

Then he lowered himself onto one knee beside your chair.

Pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

God, he had missed you.

“You wore yourself out, huh…” he murmured.

His hand moved with extreme care - fingertips grazing the delicate bones of your wrist, tracing the line of your forearm, then lifting to your cheek.

He whispered your name like it was something fragile.

“Baby… wake up.”

Sleep was warm. Heavy. You almost stayed there.

But his voice pulled you back.

Your eyes fluttered open.

And he was there.

Real. Close.

Concern tightening the line of his mouth.

You straightened abruptly, blinking around the office.

“Oh my God… I fell asleep,” you said, horrified. “Harry - I’m so sorry.”

A quiet laugh left him.

His gaze softened when he noticed the faint red imprint of a document edge pressed into your cheek.

He lifted his thumb and brushed over it gently.

“You were working so hard you started signing yourself,” he murmured. “Careful… the board might take that as a binding decision.”

Heat rushed to your face.

You let out a breathy, embarrassed sound.

“I can’t believe I did that.”

He was still looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Still touching your face like he needed proof you were real.

“Come here, baby,” Harry said, extending his hand.

You reached for him automatically. You tried to stand. The room tilted. Hard.

“Whoa…” you murmured faintly, blinking as the floor seemed to sway like a ship fighting rough waves.

Harry caught you instantly, hands firm at your waist.

“Hey. Easy.” His gaze searched your face, sharp with concern. “Let me guess,” he went on quietly. “You got lost in work, forgot to eat, survived on terrible coffee and pure ambition?”

You pressed your lips together, guilty.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Without another word he reached for your coat.

Held it open.

Helped you into it with careful, precise movements like he had done it a hundred times before.

Then he gathered your bag, closing the laptop himself. You just watched him. Something about being taken care of like this made your chest ache. “Wow,” you murmured softly. “Harry Castillo acting like my personal assistant.”

He leaned in and kissed the bridge of your nose. “I wish that was my only job,” he said. “Dream position.”

You giggled.

“Wait… didn’t they assign you an assistant?”

You huffed. “They did.”

“Uh-oh,” he said immediately. “Sounds like she didn’t pass the Queen audition.”

You gave him a look.

“How bad?” he asked, amused, adjusting your hair.

“She printed my entire morning schedule in Comic Sans,” you said flatly. “Highlighted my investor call in glitter pen. And she tried to replace my board briefing folder with something labeled ‘Positive Affirmations for Leadership Energy.’”

Harry froze for half a second.

Then a slow, dangerous smile touched his mouth.

“She’s brave,” he said. “I’ll give her that.”

You snorted. “She means well,” you admitted after a moment. “But she’s… strange.”

Harry watched you more carefully now. “Strange how?”

“She has almost no real experience,” you said. “They told me she just started. Yet somehow she was placed directly in my office.”

His expression hardened slightly, wrapping an arm around you as you walked into the dim corridor. “You think someone put her there?”

You shrugged one shoulder.

“I think Lucas enjoys playing long games,” you said coolly. “And I don’t believe in coincidences when men like him are involved. I’ll replace her soon.”

“You should,” Harry said easily. “An assistant is supposed to absorb the chaos. Handle the noise. Protect your focus.”

You arched a brow.

“Very corporate of you.”

His hand slid around your waist as the elevator doors closed.

“I don’t like competing with spreadsheets,” he murmured near your ear.

“Let her deal with the world. So the parts of you that aren’t business… stay mine.”

Heat spread through your chest.

“That’s incredibly possessive.”

His mouth brushed the corner of your lips.

“Only where you’re concerned.”

Then he pulled back slightly.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go, gorgeous. You’re not the only one who skipped meals. I’m starving.”

The word food made your stomach twist sharply.

You swallowed. “Yes, yes, let’s go,” you said quickly, almost too eagerly, tugging him toward the door. “Immediately. Right now.”

He laughed and pressed quick kisses to your cheek. “God… I missed you,” he murmured. You leaned into him without thinking. “Can I just eat you instead?” he teased.

You giggled. “Feed me first. Then you can do whatever you want to me, Castillo.”

“Dangerous promises.”

The garage was colder. Quieter. And then you saw it.

The limousine.

Long. Black. Windows completely tinted like a secret on wheels.

You blinked slowly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” You turned to him. “Limo?”

Harry’s mouth curved. “Privacy glass,” he said. “No one sees in.”

You let out a soft laugh.

“Wow. I like this version of strategic planning.”

He opened the door for you and held your gaze. “After you… my Queen.” You stepped into the limo, fingers brushing his as you passed.

“Merci, monsieur.” As you slid inside, something nostalgic warmed your chest.

You had grown up in cars like this.

Galas. Charity balls. Political dinners. Life choreographed down to the last flash of a camera.

But this felt different.

This wasn’t performance. This was escape.

Harry followed you in. The door closed with a muted, luxurious finality.

“Was this really necessary?” you asked quietly.

“Yes,” he said simply. Then he leaned closer. “Because I can do this…” His fingers brushed your hair aside with slow intention. His mouth found the warm curve of your neck. “…and no one will see. No one will hear.”

A soft shiver ran through you. You let out a breathless giggle, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

“Harry - stop.”

“I can’t,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, low. “I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.”

His hand slid slowly over your thigh, firm. Possessive. Familiar in a way that made your pulse stutter.

“I missed you more than I thought was possible.”

For a second there was only the low hum of the engine… and the charged quiet between you.

Then the limousine began to move.

New York lights slid across the tinted glass in long streaks of gold and silver.

The city was alive out there - impatient, relentless - but inside the car time seemed to slow.

Harry didn’t speak. He shifted closer instead.

You felt it before you saw it - the warmth of him, the familiar gravity he carried like something inevitable.

His hand found your waist, drawing you gently toward him until your shoulder brushed his chest.

Then he lowered his face into your hair. A slow inhale. Like he had been deprived of oxygen for days.

His nose grazed the side of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You felt him close his eyes. Your fingers slid instinctively over his wrist, holding him there. The city blurred past unseen. He lifted his head only slightly - just enough for his lips to find yours.

Back to Tuesday morning.

The memory made you smile before you could stop yourself.

Last night. The limousine.

The way the city had disappeared the second his mouth found yours.

And then his apartment.

Your clothes still lay scattered like evidence - a silent trail from the front door all the way to the bedroom.

Silk, buttons, a heel tipped on its side.

Proof of how little patience either of you had possessed.

It had been intense. Hungry. Almost reckless.

He had made you come in the limo first.

Then again - pressed against the wall the second you’d made it inside.

Twice more in his bed.

And later… when you were already drifting somewhere between sleep and surrender, convinced your body couldn’t possibly give him anything else.

Still - this morning - he had drawn it out of you again.

Once. Then again. And again.

Now your lungs felt too small for the air you were trying to take in. Your pulse was wild beneath your skin. Too fast. Too loud.

Like your heart hadn’t realized night was over yet.

You shifted beneath him, a faint wince catching in your breath - that delicious soreness in your thighs reminding you how relentlessly he had fucked you… more times than you could even remember. You had loved every second of it. God, you always did.

There was something dangerously intoxicating about the way he wanted you - like restraint simply didn’t exist when it came to you.

It wasn’t pain. It was aftermath.

Pleasure that had gone on a little too long. A body that hadn’t quite recovered yet. And this morning… you felt more sensitive than usual.

Harry noticed immediately. “Hey,” he murmured quietly, his thumb brushing along your jaw as he searched your eyes. “Too much?”

You shook your head, still catching your breath.

“No,” you whispered. “Just… tired.” A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “We barely slept. Someone missed me.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing as his hand began to move again - slow, soothing strokes along the inside of your leg.

His fingers traced lazy patterns over your skin, grounding, possessive. “I’ve been starving for you for four days,” he added quietly. “You’re lucky I showed restraint.”

You rolled your eyes faintly. You were about to say something else when suddenly - Your stomach twisted.

The world tilted in a sharp, nauseating wave.

You pushed yourself up abruptly.

But the urge hit too fast.

You barely made it out of the bed before you were rushing toward the bathroom.

Harry was already moving. “Hey- baby-”

“Don’t,” you gasped, hand lifting weakly behind you. “Harry don’t come-”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He was right there anyway. Holding your hair back as you bent over the toilet, your body heaving helplessly while he held you together.

The sound felt too loud in the quiet morning. Too vulnerable.

When it finally stopped, you stayed there a moment, breathing hard. Harry stayed right there. Keeping one steady hand at your back, he helped you straighten and led you toward the sink.

He turned on the water himself, wet a cloth, then pressed it gently into your hand like you might fall apart without something to hold on to.

“Here,” he said softly.

You rinsed your mouth. Splashed cold water on your face.

He was still behind you when you straightened. Still watching. Too closely. “You did the same thing at dinner,” he said after a moment. “You barely touched anything.”

Concern darkened his eyes.

“I’m starting to worry. We should see a doctor. I don’t like you running yourself into the ground like this, baby.”

You frowned slightly. “A doctor? Harry, I’m fine.”

His gaze didn’t soften. “You’ve been nauseous for almost a week,” he said quietly. “That’s not nothing.”

You stepped closer before he could continue, sliding your arms around his waist. Resting your cheek briefly against his chest. “Stress,” you murmured. “It’s just stress. Come on,” you added, voice lighter now. “Let’s take a shower. A hot one. We both need it.” Your fingers tugged at him gently. “After that I’m going to visit my dad.” There was something in your tone. A shade too careful.

Harry noticed but he didn’t push. Instead he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he said quietly. “But I’m not convinced.”

The winter air outside the private hospital was sharp enough to sting.

From the tinted interior of the limousine parked across the street, Harry watched you and Mikey disappear toward the waiting car.

Your voices faded into the muted rhythm of Manhattan traffic.

You thought he had already gone to the office.

He hadn’t. He had been waiting. He didn’t move as the revolving doors kept turning.

Once. Twice. Then finally slowed. And she appeared.

Scarlet.

Composed as always. Impeccable coat. Controlled steps. A woman who never allowed the world to see her hesitate. She walked directly to the limousine and opened the passenger door without knocking.

Paused. Looked inside.

One perfectly sculpted brow lifted. “Limo?”

Harry almost smiled. The same question. The same tone. Mother and daughter - more alike than either of them would ever admit.

Scarlet slid inside with effortless elegance, closing the door behind her. “Clearly there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for my daughter,” she said dryly. “I can tell she spent the night with you,” Scarlet said with a faint, knowing smile. “She didn’t have to tell me. I know my daughter. I know what she looks like when she’s been with you. You’re good for her.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally noticed,” he replied evenly.

Then Scarlet reached into her leather portfolio and handed him a thin file.

Harry took it. He didn’t open it. Just felt the weight of it resting in his hands.

“This,” she said calmly, “is the hardest thing you will ever do for her.” Her gaze fixed on him now. Sharp. Measuring. “Are you ready?”

Harry lowered his eyes briefly to the file. Then back to her. “I was always going to face him,” he said quietly. “My lawyer is already there. Everything is arranged.”

Scarlet watched him for another long second. “You know the one thing that will make him drop the act… don’t you?”

Harry gave a small nod. “When I’m done,” he continued, voice lower now, steel threaded through it, “this will never be something she has to fear again.”

Scarlet’s expression didn’t soften.

“You know the one thing that will make him drop the act… don’t you?”

Harry gave a small nod. “When I’m done,” he continued, voice lower now, steel threaded through it, “this will never be something she has to fear again.”

“I hope so,” she said. “Because I never want to hear his name connected to my daughter again.”

Harry held her gaze without blinking. “Neither do I.”

Scarlet reached for the handle - then stopped. Turned back toward him. For the first time since they had known each other… there was no calculation in her face. Only a mother. “Thank you, Harry,” she said quietly. Warmly.

He gave the smallest nod.

The door opened. Winter rushed in. And a second later - He was alone with the file.

On his way to a confrontation he had avoided for far too long.

The prison complex sat on the edge of the river like something that had been designed to erase people.

Steel. Concrete. No warmth.

Harry stepped out of the car without looking back.

Security clearance had already been arranged.

His name moved faster than paperwork ever could.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something older. Staler. Like regret that had never been aired out.

A correctional officer led him down a narrow corridor lined with reinforced glass and locked doors.

His lawyer was waiting near a secondary checkpoint.

“Family filed for psychiatric reassessment,” the man said quietly as they began walking. “They’re pushing an insanity angle. Claiming instability at the time of the assault.”

Harry didn’t slow. “They want him transferred?”

“Best case scenario for them,” the lawyer replied.

“Secure psychiatric facility instead of long-term incarceration. Sentence could be reviewed. Media narrative softens. But,” he added, “if he’s legally deemed incompetent - genuinely psychotic - inheritance claims become complicated. Surname claims too. They’d have to sacrifice that angle.”

Harry gave a small nod.

“He’s been isolated,” the officer informed them. “After an incident last week. Possible self-harm attempt. Psychiatric observation ordered.”

Harry’s gaze flicked toward him at last. “I want to see him,” he said.

The officer hesitated - just a fraction - then continued walking. They stopped outside a secure interview room.

“One-way observation glass,” the lawyer murmured. “Audio recording. Standard protocol.”

Through the reinforced panel, Harry could already see him.

Ilan sat at the metal table. Perfectly still. Hands folded. Eyes unfocused. A performance. Something cold and violent settled into Harry’s chest.

Five years. Five years of absence. Five years of not knowing what had really happened.

Images crashed through him now.

You in a hospital bed. Your voice breaking when you finally told him. The baby you had lost. The way you had disappeared from his life like someone had cut the world in half. All of it. Because of the man sitting ten feet away pretending not to exist. Harry had told himself he didn’t need this confrontation.

He had lied.

He picked up the thick file Scarlet had given him and held it for a moment. He needed to be stronger than the instinct clawing up his spine - the one that wanted to reach across that table and end this with his hands. This was something he owed you. Owed her. The file hit the counter with a quiet, final sound. Paper wouldn’t win this. Truth would. He stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a heavy metallic click. He sat down across from Ilan. Watched him. Waited.

Let the silence stretch until it hurt.

Then finally -

“Turn the cameras off.”

A voice crackled through the speaker. “Mr. Castillo, we cannot-”

His lawyer didn’t even glance at the glass.

“My client isn’t asking,” he said calmly. “Do it.”

The red light went dark. The air in the room shifted. Heavier. Charged.

Harry moved around the table and stopped inches from Ilan. “You can stop pretending now,” he said quietly. “It’s just us.”

Silence. Harry’s jaw tightened. “Why her?” Nothing. “What did you want?” He didn’t actually care about the answers.

He just needed Ilan to break character. Needed him to slip. To prove he was still in there - calculating, aware, guilty. For a moment, Ilan remained perfectly still. But his eyes were no longer empty. Harry saw it then - the faint flicker behind the performance. Not madness. Awareness. He turned away slowly, as if the entire encounter had already bored him. “Fine,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Keep pretending you’re insane. It won’t help you. Even like this… you’ll never carry the Castillo name.”

He took one step toward the door. Then another. Metal shrieked violently behind him. The chair scraped across the floor as Ilan shot to his feet.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he snapped, something feral cracking through his voice. “Everything happened because of that name. Because of you. Blame yourself - not me. All of it is on you and that pathetic legacy you worship.”

Harry stopped. Very slowly, he turned back. The rage was no longer contained. It had already taken over.

“Everything that happened to her…” Ilan continued, almost gently now, savoring every word, “…happened because she chose you.” A crooked smile pulled at his mouth. “I spent years thinking about how to destroy you.”

Harry didn’t move. His hands were already clenched into fists.

A tremor ran through him - sharp, violent - like an electrical current he couldn’t shut off.

Ilan tilted his head, studying him with sick fascination. “And then I realized,” he said softly, “there was no point destroying you directly. The smart way… was to destroy the one thing you loved most.” Silence detonated between them.

Harry’s breathing changed. Shorter. Heavier. Controlled - but barely.

Ilan’s smile widened. “In a way,” he murmured, almost pleased with himself, “I succeeded… didn’t I?”

Something inside Harry finally gave way. One second he was standing still.

The next - the table slammed sideways with a deafening metallic crash as Harry lunged across it.

His fist connected with Ilan’s jaw with a sound that didn’t feel human.

Bone. Impact. Rage. Years of it.

Ilan staggered back into the chair, but Harry didn’t stop. He grabbed the front of his prison shirt and drove another punch into his ribs. Another. And another.

Each hit more precise than the last. Not wild. Not sloppy. Controlled destruction.

“You don’t get to say her name,” Harry growled, voice low and shaking with something lethal. “You don’t get to breathe in the same world she exists in.” Ilan laughed. Actually laughed. Blood already gathering at the corner of his mouth. “You sick bastard!” he rasped. “This is who you really are-”

Harry hit him again. Hard enough that the chair tipped backward. They went down together. Metal legs screeching across the floor. Bodies colliding. Years detonating in seconds.

The observation room exploded into motion. Shouting. Keys. Boots.

The door burst open. “Mr. Castillo-!”

Two officers rushed forward, grabbing Harry’s shoulders. It took all their strength to pull him back. He was still trying to reach Ilan. Still trying to end something that had started five years ago.

Ilan shoved one guard off balance just enough to surge forward.

His fist came out of nowhere. Cracked clean across Harry’s brow.

White light. Sharp pain. Warm blood instantly sliding down into his eye.

Harry blinked the blood out of his vision. The metallic taste filled his mouth.

Hands were on him now - guards dragging him back, boots scraping, voices rising.

He didn’t resist.

Not because he was done.

Because he had already said everything that mattered with his fists.

Ilan was still on the floor, half-propped against the overturned chair, breathing hard. Laughing under his breath like something inside him had finally been satisfied.

Harry’s vision tunneled.

For one terrifying second he saw you instead. White hospital sheets. Your voice shaking. The empty future you had never gotten to hold.

Something brutal twisted through his chest.

They hauled him toward the door.

He let them.

But just before they pulled him out of the room - Harry planted his feet. Turned. Blood running down his brow, into his lashes.

His voice when he spoke was low enough that everyone had to lean in to hear it.

“If you’re still breathing,” he said, calm now - terrifyingly calm, “it’s only because this country has laws. But don’t mistake that for mercy.” Ilan’s smile faltered. Harry wiped the blood from his eye with the back of his hand.

“You don’t get to walk away from what you did,” he went on. “Not with a reduced sentence. Not in a padded room pretending you’re broken.”

His gaze locked onto him like a blade. “I will make sure you rot,” he said.

“You wanted the Castillo name?” Harry added softly. “This is the only thing you’ll ever get from it.” Silence spread through the room like smoke. “Power,” he finished. “And the certainty that I will use every ounce of it against you.”

The guards finally forced him through the door. It slammed shut between them. Harry stood in the corridor for a moment, chest rising and falling, blood still warm on his skin. His lawyer approached carefully. Behind him - chaos exploded.

“I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE CASTILLO!” Ilan’s voice tore down the corridor, raw and unhinged. “DO YOU HEAR ME? I DESERVED IT - NOT YOU!”

Harry didn’t turn.

“I WAS THE ONE WHO WANTED IT!” Ilan kept screaming. “You shouldn’t have been born! None of this would’ve happened if you didn’t exist!” A violent crash followed. Metal against concrete. Shouting. Running footsteps.

Harry slowed. Just slightly.

Behind him, Ilan’s screams twisted into incoherent rage. “I’M THE REAL CASTILLO! I AM! I AM-”

Then a choked sound. A struggle. Orders barked sharply. “Hold him - hold him down!”

Another crash. Something shattering.

Harry closed his eyes for half a second. Not out of pity. Out of calculation.

When he opened them again - he kept walking.

An officer caught up beside him, breathing hard, holding out gauze and antiseptic. “Sir… your eyebrow.”

Harry took the cotton without looking at the man. Pressed it once. Firm. Indifferent.

Blood didn’t matter. Not compared to what he had just heard. Behind them, a doctor’s voice cut through the noise. “Sedate him. Now.”

A muffled protest. Then silence beginning to swallow the chaos.

Harry reached the security gate. His lawyer fell into step beside him.

“He has no chance after this,” the man said quietly. “The psychiatric evaluation will work against him now. Loss of control. Aggression. Behavioral contradiction. It all goes on record.The performance is cracking. That’s what we needed.”

Harry stopped walking. Turned slowly.

“I want to know every move he makes from now on,” he said.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“Every report. Every visit. Every medical note. If he breathes differently - I want to know.”

The lawyer held his gaze. Understood immediately what that meant.

Resources. Pressure. Influence. Money. Power. Relentlessness.

“If necessary,” Harry continued, quieter now, “you will go there yourself. Daily.”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “…Of course, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry wiped the last trace of blood from his skin and handed the gauze back. His expression didn’t change.

“This isn’t just about a lawsuit anymore,” he said. "There’s a man in that room who nearly took my wife from me. Who already took my child.” The words didn’t rise. They landed. Heavy. Final. “Now he gets to spend the rest of his life learning what it feels like to lose everything.”

No one spoke. Not the guards. Not the lawyer.

They simply watched him walk away.

The lobby was still glowing with champagne light and polite laughter. Inside, the New Year’s Eve corporate reception carried on — music low, deals disguised as celebration. Outside, winter had teeth.

You stepped through the revolving doors beside Mikey, the cold air hitting your face like a reality check.

“Finally,” he muttered, tugging his coat tighter. “If I hear one more man say ‘strategic optimism,’ I’m jumping off the balcony.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Because your stomach twisted again — sudden, sharp.

You stopped mid-step. “Wait.”

Mikey turned immediately. “What?”

You pressed a hand lightly to your abdomen, swallowing hard.

“Just… give me a second.” The nausea rolled through you in a slow, merciless wave. God. Not now. Not tonight.

“You okay?” he asked, suddenly serious.

You nodded quickly. Too quickly.

“Yeah. I just need a minute. You go — I’ll meet you at the car.”

He hesitated.

You gave him a small push toward the curb.

“Go. Midnight is in like two hours and you still need to look tolerable in public.”

He snorted. “Rude. ”

But he went.

The company sedan was parked half a block down, hazard lights blinking patiently.

You stayed under the awning, phone already at your ear.

“Yuliana,” you said as soon as she answered, lowering your voice. “I’m heading to the party now but… I think I’m ready.”

On the other end, she inhaled sharply. “You mean—”

“Yes.” Your heart started to pound. “I need to know.”

A man in a dark suit opened the rear door. “Ms. Queen,” he said respectfully. “Your brother is inside.”

You barely looked at him. Your mind was still in the bathroom.In the morning.In the past.“Okay,” you murmured into the phone, already moving.

Across the street, Mikey leaned against the sedan, scrolling through something on his phone.

He didn’t see you at first.

You slipped into the back seat. The door shut.

Locks clicked. “Yuliana, what did the test say?” you asked.

And then—

You turned your head. The woman sitting beside you was not Mikey. She was older. Elegant in a way that felt… severe. Dark eyes. Studying you like an object she had already decided the value of.

Your breath stalled. “What—”

The car began to move.

“Who are you?” you demanded. “Stop the car. Stop the car right now.”

The driver didn’t react. Didn’t even glance at the mirror. The woman’s lips curved slightly.

“So we finally meet,” she said calmly. Ice spread through your chest. “I said stop the car!”

She tilted her head. “I am Yael,” she said. “Ilan’s mother.”

The city lights streaked across the tinted glass. Your phone slipped in your hand.

On the other end, Yuliana was still speaking. “Ms Queen? Ms Queen what is happening?”

Outside—

Mikey finally looked up. Saw the wrong car pulling away. Saw your silhouette through the dark glass.

“Hey—” His expression changed instantly. “That’s not our car.” He pushed off the hood and started running. Too late. The black sedan turned the corner and vanished into traffic. “Shit.” He yanked open the driver’s door. “Follow that car. NOW.”

The music was soft. Elegant. Expensive in a way that didn’t need to prove itself.

Crystal glasses caught the firelight. Manhattan glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like it was celebrating a world that did not include this room.

Harry stood near the bar but hadn’t touched his drink. Dana was dabbing concealer over the thin cut at his brow. “There,” she said, leaning back to inspect her work. “Honestly, impressive recovery. Now the real question is — what exactly are you planning to tell Ms. Queen when she sees this?”

Ron snorted into his champagne.

“Oh come on, just say you fought off a pack of hedge fund managers.”

Harry shot him a flat look.

Ron lifted both hands. “Relax. I already got my New Year bonus. I can afford to be brave.”

“You might not want to be unemployed in the new year,” Harry replied coolly.

Ron grinned. “Worth it.”

Harry didn’t smile. He checked the time again. And again. Then finally called you. No answer. He exhaled slowly.

“She’s probably still stuck at the company thing,” Dana said gently. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Everything runs late.”

Harry didn’t respond. He pushed away from the bar and started pacing instead. That restless, controlled energy that meant he was already running scenarios in his head.

The elevator chime sounded. His head snapped up instantly. Hope moved through him before he could stop it. The doors opened.But it wasn’t you.

It was Yuliana.

She stepped out looking flustered, clutching her coat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said quickly.

That alone felt wrong. Queen Financial was closer than your home. Sienna approached her first with a warm smile.

“Hi. Welcome. You can take your coat off — you’re safe here, I promise.”

Dana joined them. “Oh — hi. You must be Ms. Queen’s maid, right?”

Yuliana nodded quickly. “Yes… yes. I am Yuliana.”

Then she turned toward Harry. “Mr. Castillo…” Her eyes went straight to his brow. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing important,” he said. She didn’t believe him. But she let it go.

Her gaze moved around the room. Searching. “Ms. Queen… she is not here yet? I spoke with her almost an hour ago.” Silence spread slowly. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Harry was already taking out his phone. “That’s strange,” he muttered. “Traffic wouldn’t delay her this long.”

He dialed. The call didn’t ring. Switched off. His jaw tightened. It had been ringing before. “What did she say the last time you spoke to her? Did she say anything?” he asked.

“She said she was getting into the car,” Yuliana replied. “Then the line suddenly cut. I thought maybe signal problem…”

Harry’s chest went cold. He called again. Nothing. “Call Mikey,” Sienna said quickly.

Harry nodded once. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then Mikey answered. Breathing hard. “Harry.”

Something was very wrong. “Where are you?” Harry snapped. “Why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“Harry — listen to me!” Mikey’s voice was loud now, ragged with adrenaline. Wind roared somewhere near the receiver. “Something’s wrong. She got into the wrong car. It wasn’t ours — I’m telling you it wasn’t ours!”

Harry straightened instantly. “What do you mean wrong car? Mikey — what the hell are you saying?”

“I don’t kow man!” Mikey shot back. “I was waiting across the street. Then I saw her getting in another car, the door slam and the car just — took off. No plates. Tinted windows. It didn’t even look like a company car. Harry, it’s not stopping. Someone took her! They’re heading out of Manhattan. I’m following them!”

The room froze.

Harry felt the entire world collapse into a single burning point.

“Who took her?” he demanded.

“I DON’T KNOW!” Mikey practically shouted. “I couldn’t see anything. I swear to God I couldn’t see anything. Harry — what do I do? Do I ram them? Do I call the cops? Tell me what to do!”

Harry’s voice dropped — but it was worse now. Controlled. Lethal.

“No. No. You stay on that car. You hear me? Do NOT lose them.”

“I’m trying!” Mikey snapped. “Traffic’s insane — it’s New Year’s Eve, people are everywhere—”

“Mikey. Listen to me,” Harry said, already moving toward the elevator. His voice was low but cutting through the chaos in the room like glass. “Send me your live location. Right now.”

Ron was still frozen for half a second.

“Ron!” Harry snapped, turning his head sharply. “Call the police. Now.”

Ron didn’t argue.He was already pulling his phone out, already dialing.

Harry was back on the call.

“You keep distance,” he said into the phone, every word measured. “You keep eyes on them. That’s it. Don’t play hero. Do you understand me?”

Traffic noise roared faintly from Mikey’s end. A horn. Tires.

A shaky breath.

“…Okay,” Mikey said. “Okay. I got it.”

“Good,” Harry replied. “Stay on them. I’m coming.”

The line went dead. For a moment no one moved. It felt like the air itself had been cut.

Sienna stepped closer carefully. “Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe. We’re going to find her. She’ll be fine.”

Harry wasn’t breathing. Not properly.

His chest rose once — sharply — like his body had forgotten how.

Something old and violent had just been torn open inside him.Something he had spent years locking down behind discipline and strategy.

Across the room, Yuliana looked like she might collapse.

“Poor Ms. Queen…” she whispered, hands trembling. “Why does this always happen to her…”

Harry was already moving.

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair with sudden, decisive force — the fabric snapping through the air as he shoved his arms into the sleeves.

“Sienna,” he said, voice low but absolute. “You all stay here.”

Ron stepped forward immediately. “I’m coming with you.”

Harry didn’t argue. There was no time.

He was already pulling his phone back out, already walking toward the elevator like the building itself was too slow for him.

Then—

Yuliana rushed after him. Her hand caught his arm. “Mr. Castillo… please,” she said, voice breaking. “Bring her back. Nothing must happen to her. She… she…”

Harry turned. “I will find her. I will bring her back.”

But she was shaking her head now. Desperate. “There is something you must know,” she said. Everyone was staring.

Harry frowned slightly. “Yuliana… what are you talking about? What do I need to know?”

Her breath hitched. Words stuck in her throat. “She… after all the nausea… she finally took the test…” she said, almost gasping for air. Her hand flew to her mouth. Eyes filling. “She is pregnant,” Yuliana whispered. Then louder.

“Ms. Queen is pregnant.”

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