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The Ex Education

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

series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter

Lesson 14

Summary: It began with champagne and ended with consequences — a perfect birthday, a house full of history, a night where everything finally seemed aligned… until it wasn’t, because in Manhattan secrets aren’t kept, they’re traded — and someone just decided to cash one in.

Warnings and WC: 17.4 k. (sorry) 18+⚠️SMUT/EXPLICIT CONTENT/ MDNI, flashbacks, oral sex -f- receiving, riding, cowgirl position, doggystyle, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, handjob, dirty talk, sexual tension, explicit language, rough sex, shameless smut, cum eating, creampie, spanking, hair-pulling, possessive behavior, lust, desire, piv, touching, fluff, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do that), kissing, expensive gifts, second chance romance, ex husband&ex wife, upper east side drama, rich family problems, scandal, media leak, public exposure, Christmas Dinner but Everyone Has Secrets, emergency surgery, protective!Harry, Harry Has a Different Kind of Proposal, society drama, corporate politics, birthday on christmas vibe, plaza hotel, past trauma mention, mention of pregnancy, mention of miscarriage, angst, fluff, romance, emotional tension, family drama, Mikey vs. Face Mask (He Lost), rom-com, comedy, OC Characters (Eloise= Harry's grandmother Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Harry's EA (Executive Assistant))

authors note: Hi my loves I originally planned to split this chapter into two, but decided to keep it whole for the sake of flow. There’s a short note at the end — please make sure to read it. And I’m sorry this update took longer than expected… apparently Tumblr has a personal vendetta against long chapters.

Nothing Worth Having Is Simple

This flashback happens a few hours before the wedding night scene in Lesson 2 and ties directly into it.

Cameras flashed in controlled bursts. Applause rippled across marble and crystal as you and Harry stepped into the lobby for one final pass in front of the press. “Over here!”Just one more, Mr. and Mrs. Castillo!”

‘Mrs. Castillo.’ The name felt new. Bright. Electric. And for the first time, it felt like it belonged to you. Naturally. You were his. And he was, irrevocably, yours.

You could hear it in their voices — the lift, the thrill, the barely-contained excitement. They weren’t just documenting a wedding. They were capturing a headline. Queen becomes Mrs. Castillo. There was something almost celebratory in the way they said it — as if they were witnessing the coronation of a new era, eager to be the first to frame it, to freeze it, to own the image of the moment your name changed. Harry’s hand rested firmly at your waist, steadying you as your heel caught slightly on the edge of your gown. He didn’t even look down — he just tightened his grip, instinctive, protective. His thumb brushed once against your hip. Richard stood tall near the columns, pride worn like armor. Scarlet beside him, poised and luminous, watching you like a general who had orchestrated a flawless campaign. Farther back — just beyond the reach of cameras — Eduardo observed in cold stillness. Expression unreadable. Detached. Yet standing there as if this were somehow his triumph too. Vivienne stood with Sienna — barely eighteen, wide-eyed and elegant in pale blue — her hand wrapped protectively around her daughter’s. Her eyes were shining. Composed, but soft. Mikey leaned toward a reporter and muttered something inappropriate enough to make you choke back a laugh.

You turned your head slightly toward your husband. He wasn’t looking at the cameras. He was looking at you. And for a second, the entire lobby blurred.

“Mrs. Castillo. I’ve heard that name all my life,” he murmured, barely moving his lips. His gaze dragged over you — veil, silk, skin. “But on you,” he said quietly, “it sounds different. Sounds like mine.”

You leaned up just enough for your lips to hover near his ear. “They’ll always know me as Queen,” you murmured. “But I suppose... some titles are better earned in private.”

His mouth curved slightly. “If you keep talking like that, we’re not making it to the suite.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks before you could stop it. “Harry,” you hissed through a barely-there smile, fingers tightening in the fabric of his tux sleeve. “Stop that. I can feel myself blushing in front of half of Manhattan.”

He smirked. “You started it, Mrs. Castillo.”

The applause continued. The flashes kept coming. And with every polite smile you gave the press, your pulse beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with cameras.

Harry’s hand moved slightly lower at your waist as he guided you forward. Subtle. Possessive. And just impatient enough to make your pulse stumble.

You squeezed his arm once more — warning, teasing, breathless all at once. “Behave,” you whispered. His jaw shifted faintly. “You’re the one who likes it when I don’t.” "Oh look— my husband’s first official tease. And in front of the cameras.”

You both laughed — soft, private, almost conspiratorial — while the flashes continued around you. Together, you turned toward the private corridor leading to the elevators — toward your honeymoon suite.

The doors had closed behind you that night. Tonight, after all those years, they opened once more.

Walking into the lobby again — into this lobby — with Harry at your side felt almost unreal. Midnight had softened the space. The enormous Christmas tree still glittered beneath the chandeliers, but the energy had shifted — quieter now. Intimate. A few late guests drifted through the marble in velvet coats and tuxedos, voices lowered out of instinct rather than instruction.

Some paused. Some looked twice. Recognition moved subtly through, not loud, not intrusive. Just aware. Christmas carols floated faintly from somewhere deeper in the hotel, softened by distance and crystal.

You had avoided The Plaza for years... Deliberately. Carefully. There had been evenings when you crossed the street just to keep its silhouette out of view. When even the faint outline of its façade against the skyline felt like a bruise pressed too hard. Memories had teeth. And for a long time, they had bitten.

But now— Now, with his hand wrapped around yours, it was different.

The ache wasn’t gone. Not entirely. Just… smaller. Reduced to something distant. Manageable. A faint shadow instead of a wound.

Harry’s hand tightened, as if he could feel the direction of your thoughts without you saying a word.

You looked at him. He looked back. You didn’t need to ask. In his brown eyes, you already saw it — that quiet hesitation, the faint shadow of memory he didn’t voice. For a second, you saw your own reflection in him.

The same ache. But there was only one thing that could turn that into something else. Your smile.

You gave it to him — soft, certain. And the moment you did, he smiled back. Perfect reflection. When he lifted your hand and pressed it gently to his lips, the last trace of melancholy dissolved completely. The sadness gave way to something lighter. Warmer. Joy.

As easy as blinking. As natural as breathing. And somehow— In that simple exchange, something inside you stitched itself back together.

A senior concierge was already waiting near the private corridor — silver hair, immaculate posture, discretion in human form. “Good evening, Mr. Castillo,” he said smoothly. “Welcome back.”

Back. Your lips parted slightly.

Harry nodded once. “Thomas.”

Thomas’s gaze moved to you. “Ms. Queen.”

You knew him. Thomas had been here long before your wedding. A quiet constant of The Plaza. The kind of man who knew every diplomat, every heiress, every scandal — and never spoke of any of them.

“If I’m not overstepping…” Thomas began carefully, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between the three of you. “I still remember that night.” Thomas allowed himself the smallest smile. “I can assure you, this evening’s suite is entirely lily-free.”

Harry glanced at you. “See? Growth.” You nudged him lightly with your elbow.

Thomas cleared his throat gently. “In any case,” he added, voice warm but measured, “it’s a pleasure to see you here together again. And if I may — Merry Christmas, Ms. Queen. And… happy birthday.”

Your breath caught for a second. “Thank you, Thomas.”

He inclined his head, then gave the slightest signal with two fingers. Immediately, a staff member appeared. Silent. Efficient.

“Shall we?” Thomas said.

He walked with you toward the private elevator, maintaining just the right distance — present, but never intrusive. At the doors, he stopped.

“From here, we’ll allow you your evening. The staff remains at your service.”

Harry inclined his head. “Thank you, Thomas. For everything.” A look passed between them — quiet respect.

The doors slid open. You stepped inside. The moment they closed, something shifted. The world stayed outside.

Harry leaned back against the wall, one arm moving instinctively around your waist. The elevator began its smooth ascent.

You turned to him, playful now. “I wonder what’s waiting for me up there,” you murmured. “Should I be nervous?”

He smiled — slow. “Eighteen floors,” he said, glancing at the illuminated panel. “Seventeen.”

You laughed softly. “Sixteen.” “You’re counting?” “Fifteen. I’m building suspense.”

You shook your head. “Well, at least there won’t be lilies.” “Definitely not, baby.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh. “I still get annoyed when I think about that night. We never even stayed in our suite.” His arm tightened slightly. “Is that why you booked it again?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lowered his head, brushing his nose slowly through your hair — breathing you in. “Maybe,” he murmured.

His hand slid just slightly over the curve of your coat, settling lower. You laughed under your breath.

And just like that— The memory pulled you back, one more time. —

Harry had carried you through the hallway that night, your laughter echoing softly between kisses. Your veil slipping. His tux slightly undone. Everything blurred in champagne warmth and reckless happiness.

You hadn’t even made it two steps inside before he kissed you again — fast, heated, newlywed certainty in every movement.

Then— The scent hit. Sharp. Sweet. Overwhelming.

You pulled back abruptly. The suite glowed in candlelight. White lilies everywhere. Champagne breathing in silver buckets. Manhattan stretched beneath the windows like an audience.

“Harry— oh my God, what is this?” you breathed, still in his arms, eyes wide.

He followed your gaze. Candles. White satin. Champagne. And lilies. Everywhere.

Tall white arrangements by the windows. Smaller clusters along the console. Petals scattered across the table like someone had tried too hard to make it cinematic. “…Damn. This was supposed to be Lily’s surprise,” he muttered.

Ugh. Lily. Harry’s cousin had a talent for inserting herself into moments that didn’t require her — birthdays, holidays, press statements, apparently honeymoons. You’d never quite warmed to her.

And this— This was too much. The scent hit fully now. Thick. Sweet. Overpowering. "This is insane."

Harry gave a tight smile. “Irony at its finest.”

And that was it. The final thread. Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned.

He set you down gently. “Hey— hey,” he said softly, hands framing your face. “Baby. What’s wrong? You okay?”

You sneezed once. Then again. And then the tears came. "It was supposed to be perfect,” you whispered, mascara beginning to smudge. “I worked so hard to be perfect today. And now I’m crying on my wedding night. I’m ruining it." Another sneeze. "I can’t even breathe in here!”

It wasn’t the flowers. Not really. It was the day. The cameras. The smiles. The constant awareness of being watched. Of everyone speculating. Of headlines already forming. Strategic marriage. Power merger. Dynasty alliance.

But there had been nothing strategic about the way he looked at you. Nothing calculated about the way you chose him. This was never about power. It was love. You loved him. He loved you. That was it.

You stood there in front of him — veil half-removed, eyes red from both tears and allergy, exhausted beyond dignity.

Harry pulled you into his chest. “Ssh,” he murmured against your hair. “Look at me.”

You lifted your gaze.

“Nothing has to be perfect, baby,” he said quietly. “You’re exhausted. Of course you are. I feel it too.” His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye. “We don’t have to perform tonight.”

Your lips trembled. You glanced around at the lilies again, the scent thick in the air. Your nose itched, your eyes stung and watered, lashes clumping with tears and mascara. “I just want to go home,” you whispered.

Then you looked at him — really looked at him — your eyes rimmed red now, vulnerable in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be. “Can we go home?” Another sneeze escaped you; you covered your mouth quickly with your hand, embarrassed even through the tears.

He smiled — soft, certain — and kissed the top of your head. “Of course we can.”

You swallowed, blinking hard. “They worked so hard on this suite… I’m sorr—”

He silenced you with a kiss. The kind of kiss that pulled you back into your body. When he drew back, his brown eyes were warm — impossibly warm — looking at you as if nothing in the room mattered but you. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said quietly. “Nothing in this room matters more than you, my love." His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek. "Maybe one day we’ll come back, hm?” he said gently, tilting his head, smirking. “Anniversary, perhaps.”

You let out a small breath, the tightness in your chest finally easing. “That… sounds nice."

The elevator chimed. Eighteen. The doors slid open onto the quiet corridor. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Harry stepped forward, reaching for the key card. You caught his sleeve lightly. “Déjà vu, huh?” A slow look. “Yeah,” he said softly. His arm started to slide around you, but you stopped him — placing your palm flat against his chest. “I can walk.” “Mm,” he replied calmly. “You could.” The lock clicked. Before you could say anything else, his arm slid behind your knees and he lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his shoulders. “Harry—" Heat flickered up your spine. “You seem very eager to keep me in your arms tonight, Mr. Castillo." He didn’t even hesitate. “There isn’t a universe,” he replied evenly, eyes steady on yours, “where I wouldn’t be eager to have you in them.” You laughed against his neck, fingers tightening in his jacket. The suite doors closed behind you.

And warmth spilled around you. Soft golden light. Garden roses. White camellias. The faintest trace of vanilla and cedar. Subtle. Intentional.

The ceiling shimmered faintly with nearly transparent helium balloons — champagne-toned, weightless, luminous in candlelight. Not childish. Not loud. Just elegant. A small Christmas tree glowed near the window. And beyond it— Manhattan. Alive. Glittering. Yours.

Harry set you down slowly.Your heels met the carpet. For a moment, you just stared. A quiet jazz melody drifted through the suite.

On the sitting table near the windows stood a chilled bottle of champagne, two flutes — and several neatly arranged shopping bags. Chanel. Dior. Cartier, and more.. Black and cream and gold against polished wood. And at the center, a small ivory box tied with a black satin ribbon.

You turned slowly toward him. “So, no lilies,” you mocked. “Not even in the building,” he chuckled. “I checked.” That did something to you.

“Harry. This is…” you breathed softly, taking in the room. “It’s more beautiful than I imagined. You’re spoiling me. Just you and me would’ve been enough.” Your fingers reached up, brushing one of the balloon ribbons trailing gently toward the floor. “There are even balloons.”

He stepped closer. "You always loved this,” he said quietly. “And I like things done properly, you know.”

Your lips curved. “Happy birthday, baby,” he murmured, opening his other arm, gesturing the room. “And welcome back.”

You smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek, “Thank you, my love.”

Amid the music and the way his hand rested gently at your waist, you began opening your birthday presents one by one. After unwrapping each gift, your gaze wandered back to the elegant ivory box that caught your attention.

You picked it up. The name embossed in delicate gold lettering: Maison Close. Paris.

Your pulse fluttered. You loosened the ribbon, lifting the lid. Inside— Exquisite black French lace hosiery. Silk-sheer. Seam running elegantly down the back. Structured, sculpted, undeniably luxurious. Not loud. Not cheap. Intentional.

You looked up at him slowly. “Harry…”

His gaze never left your face. “For when I fail to behave again,” he said quietly. Heat rushed up your neck. “It may not rival that vintage Chanel,” he added, brushing a strand of hair from your shoulder, “but I believe in thoughtful replacements.”

You laughed softly. “Shut up. It’s beautiful. Thank you.” A beat. “Should I put it on now?” you asked suggestively.

His jaw flexed. “Hm... That would take time,” he said calmly. “And I have other plans.”

He took your hand and gently guided you toward the center of the suite, reaching for the remote on the table. The music changed, filling the air. Etta James began to sing "At Last," your wedding dance song.

Your breath caught. He drew you closer. One hand at your waist. The other at your back. You moved together slowly, naturally — like you had done this a thousand times. Like your bodies remembered even when life didn’t.

The city sparkled in the background, with candles flickering around you. Snow drifted past the tall windows. His chin brushed the top of your head. Your arms slid around his neck. He pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

You rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the tux. For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the music. Just the city. Just the two of you.

“I wish we could stay like this,” you murmured softly. “Forever.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He only tightened his hold.

When the song ended, he lifted your chin gently. His eyes searched yours. Then he kissed you. Slow. Careful. As if you were something fragile and priceless.

When he pulled back, he smiled faintly. “Let’s have a drink.”

He guided you toward the window table. The champagne cork popped with a soft echo. You clapped lightly, laughing. He poured. You clinked glasses.

Canelés sat neatly arranged on porcelain. He broke a small piece and fed it to you. You returned the gesture. Sugar and laughter and candlelight.

Below you, New York shimmered under fresh snow.

His phone vibrated softly on the table. He glanced at the screen. A small, knowing smile.“Oh,” he said lightly. “Before I forget.”

You looked at him curiously.

“For the record,” he said, chuckling, unlocking it, “this part wasn’t easy to coordinate.”

You gave him a suspicious look — then the screen turned toward you.

The video began with a shaky angle. Ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Someone’s sleeve passing too close to the lens. A burst of laughter. Then Harbor House came into focus.

“Oh,” you whispered.

The common room. Morning light spilling in through wide windows. A slightly chaotic Christmas tree in the corner. Paper snowflakes taped unevenly to the walls. It looked like it had been filmed earlier that day.

Ron’s voice came first, slightly out of breath. “Okay, stand still — Tom, not in front of the camera. Dana, are you recording?”

From behind the phone, Dana answered, “Recording.” “Okay, everyone ready?”

The camera shifted. And then you saw them.

Your hand flew to your mouth before you even realized it had moved. You looked at Harry — stunned — then back at the screen.

The children were gathered in a loose, messy line, some too close, some half out of frame. One little girl was already waving at the camera like it was a live broadcast.

Dana’s voice again: “On three.”

They straightened — or tried to. “One… two… three!”

In joyful, chaotic harmony: “Happy Birthday, Miss Queen!”

Your breath caught. One little girl in the pink winter coat spun in place proudly, shouting thank you. A boy in the back held up a stack of books with both arms like a trophy. Sally flashed her glittering ballet gloves at the camera. Someone else lifted the dinosaur book high above his head as if it were a victory flag.

Their voices overlapped — gratitude tumbling over itself, messy and sincere. “Thank you for the pink coat!” “Thank you for the books!” “The gloves sparkle!” “The volcano one really works!”

Laughter burst behind the camera. Then, almost instinctively, they gathered closer and shouted together again: “We love you!”

A few of them clapped. Someone knocked into someone else. The camera shook slightly.

Your vision blurred.

Ron stepped into frame then, smiling. “Uh.. easy buddy, easy… Um…kids… Happy Birthday, Miss Queen,” he said warmly. “The office misses you.”

Dana leaned in beside him. “It’s true. No one compliments my outfits when you’re not there.” She rolled her eyes dramatically toward Ron.

Ron blinked. “I compliment you.” “You said ‘functional,’” she shot back. “That’s a compliment in corporate language.”

The kids giggled behind them.

Ron looked directly into the camera. “And, uh — generous Christmas bonus, by the way. Much appreciated, boss.”

Dana leaned in beside him. “Oh, yes,” she added brightly. “Thank you very much, Mr. Castillo. Merry Christmas.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “Very generous. Very festive.”

A few kids giggled in the background.

Dana softened then, looking straight into the lens. “We hope you’re having the kind of birthday you deserve.”

Ron added, “Yeah. The big kind.”

There was a slight shuffle. The camera dipped a little — like it had been lowered but not turned off.

Dana turned toward Ron with a grin. “That was really good, right? We nailed it.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek quickly. Ron blinked. “Mhmm—” “Did you stop recording?” she whispered. “Yeah,” he said confidently.

A beat. Dana squinted at the screen. “Ron.” “What?” “It’s still recording.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Oh. Damn— I mean—” He grabbed for the phone, fumbling slightly. “I didn’t mean— I mean, boss—”

The video ended mid-laughter.

The suite fell quiet again. Only the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.

You were still staring at the dark screen. And this time, when you looked at Harry, your eyes were shining.

You looked at him through blurred vision.“Harry… this was beautiful.” Tears slipped quietly down your cheeks before you could stop them. He immediately pulled his chair closer to yours, the legs scraping softly against the floor. “Shh,” he murmured gently. “Don’t cry, love. I didn’t prepare all this to make you cry.” You waved your hands at your face, laughing through it. “Okay, okay — happy tears,” you insisted, smiling. “These are happy.” He reached up and wiped beneath your eyes with his thumb, slow and tender. Then he leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss to your lips. You took a breath, lifting your champagne flute and sipping, steadying yourself. “Alright,” you said, exhaling. “No more crying.” Your hand reached across the table and squeezed his. “Thank you. For everything. I think… this might be the best birthday I’ve ever had.” His expression shifted — something proud, something quiet. He brushed the back of his fingers along your cheek. A faint smile curved at his mouth. Before you could say anything his phone vibrated again on the table. He glanced at the screen. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. He stood, leaning down to kiss your temple. “One minute,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back.” You nodded. He stepped away toward the suite’s far end, answering the call quietly.

You lifted your glass again and turned toward the windows. Below, Manhattan shimmered beneath fresh snow. Central Park stretched out in soft white, carriage lights moving slowly along its edge. The city glowed — gold against winter black. For a moment, it felt suspended. Just you. The skyline. The echo of Frank Sinatra lingering in the air.

Harry adjusted his cufflinks when he came back, then sat down right in front of you — too close. His knee pressed between your thighs, claiming the space without asking. He leaned in. His mouth hovered just above yours, his breath warm against your lips. “So, tell me,” he murmured, his thumb tracing slowly along your waist. “Did I manage to please the birthday girl?”

He didn’t need to ask. You’d already shown him how grateful you were. And you knew him well enough to understand why he was asking. The look in his eyes gave him away — burning, patient, hungry. He’d been waiting for this moment all day. He wanted you. As much as you wanted him. He loved the game. And so did you.

You arched a brow slightly. “Hmm,” you said softly, your fingers drifting down the front of his shirt — then lower. “Still evaluating.”

A faint, dangerous smile touched his mouth. “Your Majesty is difficult to satisfy.” You leaned closer, brushing your lips near his ear. “Well,” you murmured smoothly, “I don’t approve of everything. I prefer quality.” Your hands slid along the sharp lines of his lapels. “Out of all those men,” you added playfully, eyes lifting to meet his, “I chose you. That should’ve told you something.”

His gaze darkened. “And when it comes to satisfaction…” your fingers slipped lower, grazing the line of his waistband, “I have a few ideas in mind.”

“In your mind?” he asked quietly, his lips only inches from yours now. “How often am I there, I wonder?”

You lifted one leg and draped it over his thigh. “More than you’d assume,." The movement closed the distance. Heat met heat. The shift in your breathing was immediate.

His hand slid up your leg, unhurried, fingers firm and deliberate. His dark eyes lifted back to yours. “I was hoping,” he murmured, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, “that I wasn’t just inside your thoughts tonight.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips softly against yours — not a full kiss, you pulled back to take a sip from your champagne. “You enjoy this way too much,” he muttered. You tilted your head innocently. “Enjoy what?” “Making me suffer.” Your lips curved. “Suffer?” His jaw clenched, breath heavier now. “I’ve been sitting here,” he said lowly, “trying to act like a gentleman while you keep touching me like that.”

Your fingers drifted lower again. “Are you saying it’s working?” His voice dropped an octave. “I’m suffering down here.” That made you smile. “Tell me how you want me,” you whispered.

Harry didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, until his mouth hovered just beside your ear. His breath was warm against your skin. “You really want to know?” he murmured.

You nodded, your earrings bouncing a bit as he pushed the diamond aside and whispered in your ear.

“I want to push you back against that glass,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker, rougher. “And fuck you while all of Manhattan glitters below us. I want them celebrating Christmas Eve down there, completely unaware that you’re up here taking me so well — your sweet pussy clenching and squeezing around my cock, your beautiful mouth screaming my name over and over.” His hand found its way beneath your dress, brushing over your panties. “And when we’re both sweating and moaning, you shaking in my arms, I fill you with my cum and whisper in your ear, ‘Happy birthday, baby.’” A dangerous pause. “‘My last gift of the night.’”

You swallowed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh God… that sounds dangerously, vaguely dirty. Filthy, actually. And I want it now.”

Harry let out a low, amused laugh. “Impatient,” he murmured. His fingers hooked lightly into the edge of your panties, tugging them just enough to make your breath catch. “First,” he said softly, voice dipping again, “I want to taste you, eat you out.” Your pulse jumped. “Naturally,” he continued, a wicked glint in his eyes, “I’ll need the stamina for the rest of the night.”

Your dress shifted as you lifted it slightly, cool air brushing against heated skin. The city lights beyond the glass felt distant now, irrelevant. “Harry…” you breathed.

He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, expression slow and knowing. “You started this,” he reminded you quietly. “Teasing me. Testing me.” His thumb traced along your thigh, unhurried, possessive. “Now let me enjoy my birthday girl properly.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair as anticipation coiled tight in your stomach.

He smiled against your skin. “Relax, baby,” he murmured. “I told you. I take care of what’s mine.”

The jazz still hummed softly in the background. But all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

Harry crouched slowly, and reached for your heels first, unfastening them with surprising gentleness. One by one, he slid them off, his gaze never leaving yours. “You look far too composed, my Queen,” he murmured. “Let’s fix that.”

His hands glided up your calves, over the delicate lace of your stockings, his mouth following in unhurried kisses. The stockings made the softest hush as they skimmed his stubble, and the tiny friction felt unfairly good—gentle, teasing, impossible to ignore. Heat trailed behind his touch as he moved higher, slow enough to make you ache.

You leaned back in the chair, breath unsteady.

He pushed the hem of your jet-black silk gown, the fabric sleek and molded to your curves, you lifted your hips slightly without breaking eye contact. The charged look between you never faltered — playful, hungry, daring.

He eased the stockings down your legs with infuriating patience, savoring every inch. But when his hands returned to your hips, the gentleness thinned. His fingers hooked into your underwear and pulled you closer, sliding you to the edge of the chair.

Instinctively, you parted your legs and lifted them into the air. “Legs on my shoulders, baby,” he said quietly. You swallowed — and obeyed.

As Harry lowered his head between your legs, your heels skimmed the back of his immaculate tuxedo jacket, the fine fabric shifting beneath you. One hand clutched the edge of the chair for balance; the other twisted into the tablecloth, knuckles whitening as you held on. His hot breath washed over your wet folds, and you bit your lip as heat pooled low in your belly, impatience tightening with every second.

He kissed your skin first, slow and unhurried, his mouth lingering at your inner thighs—anywhere but where you needed him. Not yet. “Harry…” you breathed, half warning, half plea.

He answered with a satisfied hum.

You gasped when you felt his thumb brush your outer folds, and you braced yourself for a rough entry. It never came. Instead, his arm hooked around your thigh, anchoring you in place, and his mouth traveled in slow, lingering kisses along the sensitive spot inside of your leg while his thumb kept tracing gentle circles—patient, unhurried.

It was tender, almost unbearably so. And you found yourself craving the opposite: something harsher, something that would leave no doubt. You liked it when he claimed you—when he acted like the world had given him one single job, and it was you. You knew you’d never feel that kind of control with another man. Not ownership in the ordinary sense — but the kind that felt earned. Chosen. Claimed. It was something only he could give you.

The way he held you. The way he fucked you — possessively, like you were both his Queen… and his to command. You liked being his Princess. And the way he made you feel it? God, it turned you on, making you squirm under him every damn time.

You wanted him to take what was already his. You dragged your ankle sharply up his side and gripped his shoulder hard.

He nipped your delicate skin with his teeth, perfectly painful, “Patience, my Queen. You don’t rush a man who’s savoring you,” he placed another soft kiss, this time on the juncture between your cleft and thigh. “But it’s my birthday,” you protested softly.

He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Is that so?” he murmured, eyes dragging slowly over you. “Feels like I’m the one getting spoiled.”

You giggled and let your head fall back as he kissed your wet folds, open-mouthed and firm enough not to tickle, his thumb slipping through the outer reaches of your wetness to spread it further, fingers gently opening your folds to him.

“Can you blame me for taking my time?” he murmured, his thumb tracing lazily along your clit. “When you look this good — legs spread, dress pushed up, offering yourself like that — I’d be an idiot not to enjoy the view,” he said, his voice low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine.

His tongue came out to draw slowly up the centre of you, it was soft and exploring, alternating with soft sucking kissing and resolutely veering just around the edges of your clitoris. You flexed your hips upward, but he pushed you back down and you uttered a little groan at his exquisite, aggravating patience. He mouthed you as though he was drinking of you, savouring you, he devoured your pussy as if it were his life source. He licked a long strip along your slit, drawing high, choppy moans from your mouth. The stubble on his chin rubbed against your clit when he pushed his tongue deep inside you. You felt his nose nudge against your pearl. You cried out his name as your hips moved against him.

His tongue circled your clitoris, then sucked—pulling more moans from you—before slipping between your folds and pushing deeper. Every passing second brought you closer to climax, an addictive kind of heaven as you melted into him.

His hands slid over your ass, kneading your cheeks and letting you grind against his face, drawing a masculine groan from him. He continued to lick and suck, sweet little sounds of ecstasy spilled from your lips.

When his lips wrapped around your throbbing clitoris again, you trembled as he sucked lightly this time, and you cried out as you felt yourself nearing orgasm. You squeezed your eyes shut as he increased his pace once again, unable to bear the overwhelming pleasure as the tension in your stomach threatened to snap. It felt like you’re losing your mind, willingly drowning in a sea of pleasure.

Harry moaned loudly as he dipped his tongue into you again, savoring how slick you’d become—swollen, exactly the way he wanted. He drove you wild, repeating it again and again. He teased you with the brush of his nose before his mouth returned, unhurried and relentless. His thumb and forefinger spread your lips wider, and the friction of his chin against you made you shudder—then sob. His mouth grew more eager as he kept sucking and licking all over your sex. You shuddered right down to your bones, gasping out his name and rolling your hips into his mouth with the intensity of it.

"Oh, fuck, Harry,” you sobbed. “I’m close…”

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, his thumb never slowing, circling your clit over and over. “Come for me, Princess,” he said, voice low and steady. “That’s it. Let it go. I want to feel you shake.” The intensity in his gaze alone almost pushed you over the edge.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you begged, grinding against his face as his tongue continued to fuck you. A ball of pleasure exploded through you, and you screamed his name as your juices spilled out, soaking his face, his tux, his shirt, and his bow tie. Somewhere behind you, there was a sudden clatter—forks skittering, plates cracking against the floor.

It took you a second to realize what you’d done. In the rush, your hand had fisted the tablecloth and yanked hard, dragging everything with it. You didn't give a fuck.

You were barely coming down from your high when Harry pulled away — but not before he licked you clean, drinking in your arousal from your pussy, thighs and ass. Then he lifted you slightly, his mouth trailing lower to your ass, his tongue cleaning you slowly and thoroughly.

“I fucking love the sound of my name when you cum,” Harry said, wiping the last trace of your slickness from his chin before licking his thumb clean. Then he rose, taking your hand and pulling you up from the chair

You barely had a second to steady yourself before he was on you.

He crushed his mouth to yours. Not gentle. Not tentative. Possessive.

One hand gripped your waist, the other sliding up your spine as he backed you a step, then another, until the world narrowed down to nothing but the heat between your bodies. Your laugh dissolved into a breathless sound against his lips. He didn’t rush. He devoured.

Your hands slid up his arms, over the expensive fabric of his tux, fingers threading into his hair as you arched into him, still tasting yourself in his mouth. You wanted all of him.

His fingers found the zipper at the side of your gown, dragging it down slowly. “Arms up.”

You obeyed, letting the silk slide from your body. He stepped back just enough to look at you.

“We’re not finishing this out here,” he murmured, his mouth brushing just beneath your ear. "I want you in my bed." He stepped back. His gaze dragged slowly over your body — you were just in your bra.

“God,” he exhaled softly. “You were stunning in that dress.” His eyes darkened. “But like this?” A faint, dangerous smirk curved his mouth. “Much better.” He took a step closer again, voice lowering. “Come here.” He opened his arms. “Up.”

You crossed your arms instead, lifting your chin slightly. “You want me to jump into your arms?” you asked smoothly. “What exactly are you offering, Mr. Castillo?"

His eyes darkened with amusement. “Oh,” he said slowly. “I’m offering to make you come.” A pause. “More than once.”

You tilted your head. “I’ll need numbers, Castillo,” you replied coolly. “Aren’t you good with numbers?”

He laughed under his breath, licking his lower lip as he considered you. “Mm… three,” he said. “Maybe four.” His gaze dipped lower, fixed on your exposed sex. “I’d promise more,” he added, voice roughening, “but we need to be able to walk tomorrow. And—”

He didn’t get to finish.

You launched yourself at him. He caught you effortlessly, a surprised laugh breaking from his chest as your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Five,” you corrected breathlessly against his mouth.

He grinned. “Deal.”

He kissed you mid-laugh, carrying you toward the bedroom.

When you reached there, Harry lowered you onto the bed — but he never broke the kiss. It deepened immediately. Hungrier. Less controlled.

You shifted onto your knees at the edge of the mattress, breathless, wearing nothing but your bra now. Your hair was slightly undone, lips swollen from him. The look he gave you made heat curl low in your stomach again.

He was still in his tux.

“Look at you,” you murmured against his mouth, fingers sliding up to his bow tie. You tugged it loose, smiling. “You’re like the perfect birthday present,” you teased softly. “You even came with a bow.”

Harry let out a low laugh. “I’m honored,” he replied dryly. “Not everyone gets compared to luxury packaging.”

“Let me handle this,” you said, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt.

“I’m very ready to be handled,” he answered, spreading his arms slightly in invitation.

You giggled and worked his shirt open quickly, pushing it from his shoulders and letting it fall. Your palms slid over his chest, feeling the firm lines of muscle beneath your touch. The reaction in his eyes was instant.

You pulled him closer and kissed him again — deeper this time.

Your hands moved to his waistband, and eased his trousers down, guiding him out of them without breaking eye contact.

He watched you the entire time.

“Confident tonight,” he murmured.

“It’s my birthday,” you replied, tugging lightly at the waistband of his boxers to draw him closer. “I get what I want.”

His hands found your waist again, steady and possessive, and he leaned down to capture your mouth once more.

The kiss turned heated fast — breath mixing, hands roaming, control shifting back and forth between you. His hands moved to your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra. You felt the slight pull — then the release. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, and his gaze dropped. He cupped your breasts just as your hand closed around his hard length.

You both moaned into each other’s mouths.

Then you shifted.

Your fingers digging in his ass just enough to guide him, pulling him closer. With a decisive push to his chest, you forced him back onto the mattress. “Lay down,” you ordered softly. “I’ll ride you,” you said, voice low and confident.

One brow lifted. “Hm,” he said slowly, settling back against the pillows. “I do enjoy when my Queen takes charge.”

You laughed and climbed over him, straddling his hips, your hands sliding up his chest again. His eyes darkened — not resisting, just watching.

His hands settled on your hips to steady you as you hooked your legs around him, lifting yourself into position—yet he was clearly the impatient one. He grabbed your waist a little roughly, his fingers digging in, and lifted you onto him so you were straddling his lap, his thick shaft rubbing against your entrance so deliciously.

You placed your palms over his firm chest, lifting your hips again, arching your back slightly, moving with a slow, feline confidence — like a cat stretching before it decides to pounce.

You wanted to take your time. To savor it. To enjoy every second.

But Harry didn’t. His hand slid down and grabbed your hip — impatient, a little rougher this time.

Your breath caught instantly. The shift in control was sudden. He wasn’t in the mood to go slow anymore. And the way his fingers tightened made that very clear.

He lowered you onto himself quickly, filling you and stretching you wide open.

“Shit, Harry,” you moaned, consumed by the deep, delicious burn you were feeling.

He gave a few thrusts, bucking up into you rapidly. His breathing was harsh, and he emitted low, guttural growls.

“Oh baby, so fucking tight.” He gave a light slap to your ass. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, taking me so well.”

You bit your lower lip hard and began to circle your hips, feeling him push deep inside you. He held onto you as you started to ride him, your hands roaming all over his body — his chest, his thighs, his shoulders. You touched your breasts, adjusted your hair as you bounced up and down on him.

You were putting on the sexiest show he’d ever seen.

He groaned, eyes dark and hungry, and the sound nearly made you combust. His low, masculine moan rang in your ears.

You felt yourself building, and Harry took control again, gripping your waist firmly. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he began to thrust into you more forcefully.

Every movement hit perfectly, and you began to see stars. Your moans grew higher and louder until you were screaming his name. Your walls clenched around him, choking his thick cock and he let out a loud moan, almost a roar.

“Just like that, baby. Ride me. Use my cock to make yourself cum,” he encouraged.

It was all too much — the stretching, the pleasure, the fullness, his length somehow feeling even harder inside you and moved in and out with ease, and the sound of skin slapping against skin was loud and intoxicating. Suddenly, you climaxed with a loud scream, your body tightening all over as heat traveled across your skin.

“Fuck,” he growled, feeling your pussy clenching around him harder, biting into your shoulder as his hips jerked inside you until you were both finally still, panting.

Your head fell against his chest, breathing harsh.

He lifted you off him gently and laid you down. His hand moved between your legs, stroking you furiously. “Harry! Oh my—” Your second orgasm hit you hard, and you collapsed against the pillows, your back arching, toes curling.

You were still buried in the pillows, breathless, your body heavy and trembling — drunk on pleasure, warmth lingering under your skin — when suddenly Harry’s strong arms rolled you onto your stomach.

The movement stole what little air you had left.

He lifted your hips, guiding you upward. You braced yourself on your forearms, heart pounding, still sensitive from your release.

And that’s when you realized—

He hadn’t finished.

Not even close.

The control it must have taken. The stamina. The restraint.

You were in awe of it.

And if you were honest — no matter how exhausted your body felt — you still wanted more.

You couldn’t deny him when he touched you like that. When he handled you like you were his to move, to position, to claim.

Even if your legs were weak.

Even if your breathing was still uneven.

If he wanted you like this—

You would never say no.

Warmth flooded through you as Harry leaned down, his chest pressing firmly against your back. He slid his fingers between yours, lacing your hands together. Even in your dazed state, you squeezed him back.

His thrusts were slow but incredibly deep at this angle, and you felt every inch of him inside you.

“I fucking love you,” he whispered in your ear.

Lowering yourself onto your elbows, you used your free hand to reach up and cup the side of his face, pressing as much of him against you as possible.

“I love you, too.”

His hands returned to your ass as he straightened up behind you. He landed a harsh slap before squeezing your flesh; you gasped as your hips bucked. A hand on your back pushed you lower into the mattress, angling your hips higher.

Harry snapped his hips forward, contorting your body into an almost uncomfortable position. Then he began thrusting at a pace that felt impossible; his name left your lips like a mantra. The room filled with your cries, and you forgot where you were — even your own name.

That haze shattered when he slapped you again, twice in quick succession.

“Harry…” you whimpered desperately, lifting your head with effort. “Pull my hair.”

An obnoxiously smug chuckle left him, and you resisted the urge to scowl.

“As you wish, Princess.”

Your head snapped back when he grabbed a handful of your hair, pulling it — not harshly — while peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses.

“Ngh.” An unintelligible sound escaped you at the sensation, but the relentless movement of his hips stole any coherent thought.

The sound of skin against skin, the way your body reacted with every forward motion, the sinful rhythm between you — it all dragged you higher. You felt yourself clench around him.

He felt it too.

“Where did you want it, baby?” he asked, his movements unsteady.

You were so close to the edge that you didn’t even care anymore. “Inside me.”

“Yeah?” Harry growled. "You sure?"

“Harry, please.” You didn’t even care how desperate you sounded. “Give me your gift. Come inside me.”

He picked up his pace again, another quiet curse slipping from his lips. Then suddenly, your third orgasm tore through you like a storm ripping across open fields, shattering you from the inside out.

A few seconds later, Harry groaned behind you, surrendering to his own release, filling you up.

You felt your body melt into the mattress, your limbs too overstimulated to hold you up. Then you welcomed the warm weight of him collapsing over you.

He brushed your sweat-soaked hair away from your face and smiled down at you.

“Happy birthday… again,” he murmured softly.

Then he pulled you against his chest, pressing slow kisses to your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. His breathing had begun to steady, but there was still warmth in the way he held you — protective, satisfied.

You thought it was over.

Until his hand drifted lazily between your thighs.

Your legs were so weak, so pleasantly numb, that you barely registered what he was doing at first. But his fingers moved with quiet confidence — slow, circular, expert. He knew exactly where, exactly how, exactly what would undo you again.

Your breath caught.

A soft, startled sound escaped you — almost a silent scream swallowed in your throat. You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulder as another wave crashed through you.

Your head fell back into the pillow, eyes rolling so far back it felt like the entire Plaza Hotel might collapse on top of you.

The pleasure was too much. Too sudden.

You barely had time to recover before exhaustion claimed you completely.

Your body went heavy, boneless against him. The last thing you felt was his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek.

And somewhere, distantly, through the haze of sleep, you heard him murmur against your hair:

“That’s four.”

Morning arrived quietly. Soft winter light filtered through the tall windows of the suite, turning the silk curtains a muted shade of gold. Manhattan felt hushed beneath you — Christmas morning wrapping the city in a rare, gentle stillness. You stirred first. For a few seconds, you didn’t know where you were. The ceiling was too high. The sheets too smooth. The air carried that faint trace of cologne and expensive linen. Then it came back to you. All of it. Harry’s arm was still draped around your waist, heavy and warm, his hand resting possessively against your hip even in sleep. You didn’t move. Your legs were still sore — your thighs tender in the most satisfying way. The memories of the last night flickered behind your closed eyes, slow and vivid. A small smile curved your lips.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You stayed tangled in the sheets, limbs lazily intertwined, savoring the sweetness of Christmas morning — unhurried, intimate, yours.

Eventually, Harry stirred. He pressed a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. “I believe,” he murmured against your skin, voice still rough with sleep, “I owe you one more.”

You laughed softly.

And true to his word, he woke you fully with a passionate kiss, devouring your lips. He carried you to the bathroom and into the warmth of the shower, steam curling around you both—soft morning turning into a hot morning as he brought you to your fifth orgasm.

Afterward, you ordered breakfast to the suite. Coffee. Fresh fruit. Warm pastries. Eggs you barely touched because you kept stealing glances at him instead. You ate slowly, recharging, wrapped in plush robes, the city glowing pale and quiet beyond the windows.

When it was finally time, you dressed, packed, and took one last look at the suite that had witnessed your birthday and your Christmas morning. Then, hand in hand, you left for Rhinebeck — ready for whatever the rest of the holiday had waiting for you.

The city thinned behind you as Harry’s black Mercedes moved north. Since it was Christmas morning — the world quieter than usual, storefronts dark, church bells faint in the distance. Frost clung to the bare trees lining the highway, and the Hudson ran gray and steady beside the road, reflecting a pale winter sun.

After breakfast, you had spoken with Emily and Chloe. Like every year, they’d called early to celebrate your birthday before the Christmas chaos swallowed the day. It had always been that way — since you were little, your birthday came first. Always.

Harry had a suitcase packed for you in the trunk. You’d most likely spend the night at the Rhinebeck residence with Eloise. After yesterday — after Harry had verbally buried Lucas six feet under — the last thing you’d wanted was to go home and endure your mother’s speech. You were grateful Harry had handled it.

Still, your mood had dipped. Lara hadn’t called. Scarlet hadn’t called. Not even Mikey. That stung more than you wanted to admit.

“Strange,” you muttered, staring at your phone. “Mikey’s not picking up.”

The Castillo residence came into view through iron gates and snow-dusted hedges. Harry reached for your hand. You hadn’t realized how deep in thought you were until his thumb brushed your knuckles.

“Baby.”

You turned.

He wasn’t looking at the road. He was looking at something in his palm.

A small velvet box.

Your breath stalled. “Harry…”

He exhaled once, thumb brushing the edge of it. “I— I just…” he murmured, searching for the right words for once.

“You kept it,” you said softly.

The memory came back without warning.

“This time,” he said gently, “I didn’t want abuela to suspect anything, so…”

He opened the box. Both rings lay inside. Simple. Elegant. Timeless. Like they had been waiting.

“I mean,” he continued, suddenly less composed than usual, “one day I’ll ask you… Again. Properly. When you’re ready. Not like this. I know this isn’t—” he paused, jaw tightening slightly. “It’s probably too soon.”

There was something in his voice. Not pressure. Hope.

You studied him for a long second, then leaned forward and kissed him softly. “I’ll look forward to that day,” you murmured against his lips.

“Just don’t make me wait too long. I’m thirty-one now. I’m not as patient as I used to be.”

He laughed and pulled you closer, deepening the kiss just enough to make your pulse stutter. “So,” he murmured, a playful smile dancing on his lips, “if I asked you right now…” A small pause. “…would you say yes?”

You laughed. “Harry, it’s my birthday and Christmas. I don’t think the day we get re-engaged should be today. What do you think?”

He shrugged, lips twitching. “Seems practical. Easy to remember.”

You smacked his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.” Then you held out your hand. “Put it on.”

The car rolled into the driveway.

Once parked, Harry took your hand carefully and slid the ring onto the ring finger of your right hand. It settled there like it had always belonged.

You stared at it. It almost felt like it was smiling back.

“Thank you for taking care of it,” you said softly.

Harry smiled and slipped his own ring back on, wiggling his fingers. “How’s it look? Feels tighter. I might’ve gained weight.”

You laughed. “It looks perfect.”

You leaned in for another kiss—just as the chauffeur opened your door.

“Welcome,” he said, and then, lowering his voice with a discreet wink, added, “Mrs. Castillo.”

Harry stepped in beside you, his arm sliding around your waist. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, voice warm with amusement. “This time, since we’re not fighting with each other, it’ll be easy,” he murmured. “What do you say?”

“Mm,” you smiled as you walked toward the entrance.

The front doors opened.

And then—

“SURPRISE!!!”

Confetti exploded over you the second you stepped into the main hall. Vivienne. Sienna. Eloise. Mikey. Scarlet. All standing there, applauding.

You froze. Then slowly turned to Harry with wide eyes.

He raised both hands. “I swear. I had no idea.”

Eloise swept toward you, arms wide. “¡Ay, mi reina hermosa! Ah, my beautiful queen!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a hug. “I invited your mother and your brother, Mikey.”

You hugged her back. “Eloise… that’s very thoughtful.”

Scarlet was smiling — genuinely smiling.

Eloise held your face between her hands, examining you. “There’s color in your cheeks. You’re glowing. And you two…” she looked at Harry knowingly. “Much better.”

“Sí, abuela. Don’t worry,” Harry chuckled, hugging her.

Sienna hugged you next. “Happy birthday, honey.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then Vivienne stepped forward and hugged you tightly — tighter than expected. She kissed the top of your head, which was very weird. “Happy birthday, darling.” Was she acting? You pulled back slightly. Her eyes looked suspiciously glossy.

Before you could process it, someone else grabbed you.

“Hi, Queen, dear! You’ve changed so much!” Lily.

She hugged you quickly — too quickly — then leaned in conspiratorially. “I know you’re pretending. Vivienne told me everything.”

You pulled back slowly. Your smile was flawless.

“Lily,” you said sweetly, brushing an imaginary crease from her sleeve, “what a delightful way to greet someone. Subtle as ever.”

She blinked.

You kept smiling. “But do try to look less excited about secrets. It gives you away.”

Her mother — Harry’s aunt Raquel — stepped forward next. You hadn’t seen her since 2018. That alone caught you off guard.

She hugged you warmly, almost dramatically. “Happy birthday, darling,” she said. “You look… radiant.”

“Thank you,” you replied smoothly, studying her for half a second longer than necessary. “It’s been a while.”

“Far too long,” she said, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Vivienne.

Scarlet appeared beside you then. “Mom,” you said quietly, something questioning beneath the word.

She didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around you fully this time. “I gave birth to you,” she murmured softly against your ear. “You really thought I’d miss your birthday?”

Your throat tightened. “I wouldn’t dare,” you whispered back.

She pulled away just enough to cup your cheek warmly. “Happy birthday, my love.”

You smiled at her, feeling grateful.

Mikey barreled in next, nearly knocking you backward. “Best Christmas ever,” he announced loudly, winking at Sienna across the room. “Oh — and happy birthday, Grandma. What are you now? Sixty?”

You elbowed him sharply. “Maybe workshop a new joke this year.”

Mikey clutched his side dramatically.

Across the room, Raquel moved toward Harry with practiced elegance. “Harry,” she said warmly, arms opening.

“Tía, Aunt,” he greeted smoothly, kissing her cheek. “Bienvenida, Welcome.”

They smiled at each other — composed, familiar. You noticed the ease. Not surprise. Not tension. Just understanding. Interesting.

Vivienne adjusted her sleeve with quiet precision. “Well,” she said lightly, “what a… thoughtful surprise. We weren’t expecting extended family this year.”

Raquel’s smile sharpened just slightly. “My dear,” she replied, voice velvet-smooth, “this is the Castillo residence. Family doesn’t require scheduling.”

Vivienne held her gaze for half a second too long. “Of course,” she answered pleasantly. “How fortunate.”

Eloise clapped her hands from the head of the room. “Enough!” she declared. “Let’s eat before I change my mind about feeding any of you.”

The dining room glowed in candlelight. Crystal reflected gold against dark polished wood. Outside, the Hudson lay black and still beneath the winter sky, snow catching the terrace lanterns in soft halos.

Eloise sat at the head of the table. As she always did. Small. Perfect posture. Regal despite the faint tremor in her hands.

Her nurse finished checking her blood pressure and smiled politely at everyone around the table. “All good tonight,” she said warmly. “But we’re still limiting the salt… and absolutely no overindulging in sugar.”

Eloise lifted her chin. “Ay, por favor,” she said lightly. “It’s Christmas.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Let this old Castillo matriarch indulge for one evening.”

A soft ripple of laughter moved around the table.

The nurse shook her head, amused. “One evening,” she conceded. Her gaze shifted deliberately to you and Harry. “I’m trusting you two,” she added gently. “Moderation.”

Harry inclined his head. “Of course.” You smiled. “We’ll behave.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes at you both, then softened immediately. “Ay, mis amores,” she sighed fondly. “Fine. I will listen to you.” She tapped your hand lightly.

You sat at Eloise’s left — just like last time. Just like you always had.

Her fingers slipped into yours almost instinctively, squeezing as if confirming you were solid, present, here. At times her gaze drifted — softening, unfocused — as though she were looking at a memory layered over your face.

“You cut your hair,” she murmured suddenly.

You hadn’t. But you smiled. “Maybe just a little,” you said gently.

A beat later she blinked, returning.

“Look at this dress,” she added, touching the fabric lightly at your waist.

You were wearing a structured, belted dress — classic, tailored, deep winter ivory that caught the candlelight beautifully.

“Elegant,” she declared. “And the necklace — ay, preciosa.”

“Thank you. You’re too kind, always notice everything,” you replied smoothly, sincere. “You have the best eye. I loved your dress too — that shade is beautiful on you.”

Eloise straightened slightly, pleased. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She smiled, pleased with herself. “Perhaps one day we’ll go shopping again. I miss the city.”

Your stomach tightened for a different reason now. In her mind, it had only been two months.

“Of course,” you said gently, a little steadier this time. “We’ll make a day of it.”

She patted your hand. “Good. You always knew how to choose the right things.” Then, just as softly, she leaned closer. “You’re happy,” she said.

It wasn’t a question. You didn’t look at Harry. You didn’t need to. “Yes,” you answered.

Across from you sat Scarlet, composed and unreadable, watching everything. Mikey beside her — already halfway through his appetizers — casually pushing unwanted bites toward Sienna.

“Try some,” he whispered.

“Thanks, but I don’t want that,” Sienna muttered, pushing the plate back.

Lily leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. At the far end, Lily’s dad Derek barely looked up from his phone.

At the opposite head of the table sat Raquel — deliberately claiming visual dominance. Her husband beside her. Vivienne across from her.

The air between them was silk over steel.

The conversation hovered around age — carefully circling it. No one said thirty-one.

In Eloise’s world, you were still twenty-six. Time had paused.

And honestly… in a way, that worked in your favor. You still felt like you were somewhere in your twenties anyway — lighter, softer, not quite ready to let go of that version of yourself.

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “However old you get,” he murmured, voice low and sure, “you just get better.” His fingers tightened slightly at your waist. “Like fine wine.” A faint smirk. “Only difference is… you get sexier with every year.” He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “And don’t think I don’t notice.”

“Oh please,” you murmured softly. “If anyone’s aging like fine wine here, it’s you, Señor Castillo.”You smoothed your hand over his lapel. . “You get more attractive every year. It’s becoming a problem.”

You were still smiling at each other when, like every year, Mikey started harassing you with his terrible jokes. “Smile while you can,” he murmured. “This is the last year your skincare routine is doing all the heavy lifting.”

Lily laughed — a little too eagerly. Under the table, your heel connected sharply with his knee.

Mikey jerked upright. “Ah—!” he inhaled sharply, forcing a tight smile.

Sienna burst into laughter.

“See?” Mikey said loudly, pointing accusingly at you. “This is what I deal with at home. Physical violence.”

You took a calm sip of water. “He’s exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” Mikey insisted, rubbing his knee dramatically. “She’s been assaulting me since childhood. I deserve compensation.”

“Shut up. You deserved that,” Sienna said cheerfully.

Raquel murmured something under her breath — you thought you caught the word “kids.” Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re the expert, mama.” Still… you couldn’t be certain you’d heard correctly.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Harry said evenly. “There’s someone here who plans to admire her at every age.” His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You might want to focus on your own prospects.”

You smiled at him. Sienna did too — even Lily looked at Harry with clear admiration. Mikey stared at him for a moment, a hint of jealousy in his voice.“Easy there, Romeo.”

A few quiet laughs slipped around the table. Vivivenne sipped his wine with a proud smile. Scarlet didn’t laugh. Her gaze remained fixed on you.

On the way Harry’s fingers brushed your wrist. On the way you didn’t pull away. On the way he looked at you.

The way he used to — as if the room didn’t exist. As if you had never divorced. As if the years between had only sharpened something instead of breaking it.

If anything, it looked stronger now. She noticed everything. She lifted her glass — already her fourth — and finished it in one controlled, elegant swallow. Without looking, she signaled subtly to the staff. “Another.” The wine was poured immediately. Scarlet didn’t thank her. Her eyes returned to you. To him. To the slight lean of your shoulders toward each other — unconscious, instinctive.

It wasn’t an act. It was real.

Eloise settled the matter of age with finality. “You’re young. Marriage is sweeter when it’s still new. You have years ahead to grow into it together. Every year better than the last.” Her eyes dropped to your hands. “Hold on to each other tightly. Whatever happens, don’t let go.”

Scarlet lifted her glass and took a slow sip. Vivienne set her fork down just a touch too carefully. Raquel smiled faintly into her wine.

Dinner shifted.

The staff moved in quiet synchrony, placing plates with polished precision. Your New York strip arrived, medium, still steaming. Normally it was one of your favorites. Tonight, the scent felt different. Too rich. Too heavy. Eloise leaned closer. “Your favorite. I had it prepared especially for your birthday.”

You touched her hand. “You’re too kind. I’m completely spoiled.” You cut into it. The aroma hit you harder than expected. Your stomach tightened. You forced a bite. Swallowed. Barely.

Scarlet watched you while cutting into her own steak. Mikey ate with alarming enthusiasm.

Lily chimed in brightly, “Medium is actually the only way to preserve the flavor profile—”

Sienna reached for the salt. Mikey grabbed it to pass it over. Lily moved faster. “I’ve got it.” Mikey stared at her. “Wow. Long arms.”

Raquel lifted her glass delicately. “Vivienne, darling… are you certain red meat is advisable? For your heart?”

Vivienne didn’t look up. “How touching. After five years away you’ve returned concerned for my cardiac health — and somehow entitled to the head of my table. We are blessed.”

“Mom,” Sienna muttered.

Harry reached behind her, resting a calm hand on Vivienne’s shoulder. “Mama.”

Raquel muttered something sharp in Spanish. Derek remained glued to his phone. Eloise snapped gently, “Derek. No phones at my table.” He sighed, lowering it halfway. Raquel added sweetly, “Bitcoin correcting again?”

Derek frowned. “It’s a temporary pullback. I’m watching an entry point.”

Harry spoke evenly. “Highly volatile asset class.”

Derek finally looked up. “You don’t believe in it?”

Harry took a measured sip of wine. “I prioritize sustainable cash flow and long-term stability over volatility. Real financial security comes from reliable income streams first — speculation should come after. That’s what changes the game.”

Derek swallowed and forced a smile, retreating to his phone.

You couldn’t take another bite. Your stomach turned again. You set your fork down and leaned toward Harry. “Will you finish mine? I’m saving room for pie.”

He pulled your plate toward him immediately. “Of course, love.”

Eloise laughed. “Ay, cariño. You always loved sweets. Your mother used to scold you.” She glanced at Scarlet knowingly and touched her hand warmly. “Don’t be so strict. I’m nearly eighty and now I can’t have any. Enjoy while you can, mis amores.”

Scarlet’s lips tightened. “Sugar accelerates aging. And pigmentation.”

You lifted a forkful of pie and took a deliberate bite, chewing while meeting her gaze.

Harry leaned closer, fingers brushing your shoulder. “You okay?”

“Just my stomach,” you murmured. “It’s nothing.”

Scarlet noticed the closeness again. She finished her fourth glass in one controlled motion.

Vivienne smiled faintly, her voice warmer this time.

“Scarlet,” she said gently, lifting her glass slightly, “tell it. Christmas Eve. We haven’t heard the full drama yet this year.” She glanced at Eloise with a knowing smile. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without it. Right mama?”

Eloise brightened immediately. “Yes, yes,” she urged. “Tell it again.”

Scarlet’s expression shifted — not sharp, but composed in that particular way mothers do when stepping into a memory they’ve told a hundred times and still cherish.

“I was eight months pregnant,” she began smoothly. “There was a storm that night. Snow everywhere. And then suddenly—” she placed her hand lightly over her abdomen, “the contractions started.” She allowed herself the smallest smile. “Richard nearly drove into a snowbank trying to get me to the hospital. I thought we wouldn’t make it.”

Mikey snorted softly.“They forgot the hospital bag.”

Scarlet turned her head slowly. “That detail is unnecessary.”

Mikey grinned, leaning back in his chair and winking at Sienna. “Lara said dad was pale, he looked like he was the one in labor. Apparently he kept asking the nurse if he was breathing correctly.”

A ripple of laughter moved around the table. Even Derek smiled.

“My stubborn girl,” Scarlet murmured gently looking at you. “Always on your own timing. My brave one.”

The table quieted just slightly.

You met her gaze. “I had a good teacher,” you said softly. “Thank you for that night. For all of it.”

Scarlet held your eyes a moment longer than necessary. “You were worth it.”

Harry leaned in and kissed your cheek. “A Christmas miracle,” he whispered.

You covered your mouth, laughing. “Stop.”

Lily had been watching the two of you carefully. When Eloise became distracted, chatting with Scarlet about your childhood, she leaned closer. “Oh by the way… Since last night, everyone’s talking.”

You didn’t look at her. “About what?”

“Whitmore’s son. Lucas. The way Harry destroyed him publicly.” A beat. “You’re actually back together, right?” Your pulse stalled.

At the same moment Vivienne raised one brow. “Whitmores?”

Scarlet rolled her eyes. Mikey stiffened.

“Richard’s old friend, Mark?” Eloise asked gently.

You and Harry locked eyes for one second. Controlled.

Lily inhaled to continue—Mikey calmly pushed a tart into her mouth. “Eat. You said you loved this one.”

Raquel snapped, “Stop. You’ll choke my daughter. Derek?”

Without looking up he muttered, “One second, I’m entering a low-cap altcoin. High upside potential.”

Vivienne interjected smoothly, “Isn’t supervising your daughter your responsibility?”

“I beg your pardon?” Raquel’s eyes narrowed.

Vivienne continued quietly, “You reappear after five years and choose Christmas.”

You kept smiling at Eloise, nodding, listening — but your ear was on them.

“Your mother thinks you’ve only been gone a month,” Vivienne added. “Did you ever worry about her? About the company? About what we handled?”

Raquel set her fork down sharply. “Jesus Christ, I’ve had enough. Harry invited me. Even if I wasn’t here, I was informed.”

Eyes turned toward Harry. Including yours.

Vivienne looked at him. “Harry?”

He exhaled. “Mom, I—”

Vivienne stood. “Excuse me.” She left the room.

Harry moved to follow.

You caught his arm. “The woman you were speaking to on the phone… was that her?”

His expression shifted. “I’ll explain later.”

“Explain to your mother first.”

He nodded and followed her out.

You turned back to the table. Scarlet slid a wine glass toward you. “Darling. Drink. I’ve noticed you haven’t touched your wine. Only water.”

You pushed it back gently. “Mother, I’m fine.”

Raquel snapped at Derek and stood abruptly. Lily and Sienna resumed whispering about something trivial. Mikey returned to eating.

You turned to Eloise with a bright smile, talking about New Year plans — in her mind, it was almost 2019. She lit up. And just like that, the war dimmed. The candles flickered. Dinner ended. Nothing was resolved.

After dinner, Christmas in houses like this unfolded in controlled layers. Whiskey in cut crystal. Low fire in the hearth. Conversations splitting into quiet corners.

Vivienne, Raquel and Harry stood near the study doors, their voices lowered but firm. Legal language drifted just enough for you to catch fragments — dissolution of claim, removal of rights, severing Castillo entirely. Eduardo’s name spoken without affection.

You stayed beside Eloise.

You told her about a fashion editorial you had never actually worked on — the one you would have done if life had taken a different turn. Fabrics, silhouettes, Paris showrooms. She listened like it was gospel, eyes bright, fingers curled around yours.

Sometimes her focus slipped.

“Did I hug you already?” she’d ask softly.

“Yes,” you would answer, smiling.

“Well, I’ll do it again.”

Scarlet stood in the corridor speaking quietly to Richard on the phone. Mikey was explaining to Sienna why some gym-sculpted finance boy was “visually impressive but spiritually vacant,” while Sienna pretended to listen, sipping her drink with mild amusement.

Lily posed in front of the grand Christmas tree, angling her phone toward the lights. Every few minutes she drifted over. “Which one?” she’d ask. You’d study the screen patiently, offering thoughtful critiques as if it truly mattered.

Eventually, it was Eloise’s bedtime.

You rose with her.

Vivienne joined you as you walked her upstairs. You sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand until her breathing evened out. She drifted off mid-sentence, still smiling.

You pulled the blanket up gently. Closed the door behind you.

When you turned—

Vivienne was still there. She touched your shoulder softly. Her eyes were glassy.

For a moment you thought it was about Eduardo.But what she said startled you.

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “For what?”

She exhaled — once, then again, deeper this time. “Scarlet told me everything.”

That was enough. You swallowed. Folded your arms loosely, instinctively guarding yourself. “Vivienne—”

She stepped forward. Opened her arms. And slowly, carefully, wrapped them around you. You froze for half a second. The last time she had hugged you like this — truly — was your wedding day.

You let yourself soften. Your arms moved around her.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she whispered, her hand smoothing over your hair. “As a woman… I cannot even imagine the pain you carried.” Her voice broke slightly. “I was angry at you for years. And all that time…” she inhaled shakily, “you were the one carrying the deepest wound. Because of my husband.”

Her husband. Not even saying his name.

“I should have protected you better.” You felt her shoulders tremble. “Thank you,” she continued quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “For giving us another chance. For giving my son another chance. I tried for years to bring his light back. And you did it without even trying.”

Your eyes burned. “Vivienne,” you said lightly, blinking fast, “are you actually trying to make me cry in couture?”

She let out a breathy, tearful laugh. “You’re right. No more crying. We’ve all done enough of that, haven’t we?”

You nodded. She cupped your face gently. “Happy birthday, darling,” she whispered. Then her voice softened further. “And… thank you for not walking away.”

You stilled.

“I know my son,” she continued quietly. “He never stopped loving you. Not for a day. I saw every decision he made. Every step he took. I know him better than anyone. He was angry, yes — but only because he was hurting.” Her fingers tightened slightly around yours. “And you,” she added, studying your face carefully, “you didn’t replace him. You didn’t choose someone else. Thank you for never truly letting him go. You healed him."

“He healed me too,” you said softly.

Vivienne held your gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded once.

“Yes,” she murmured. “That’s how you know.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “That’s true love.” Her eyes flickered briefly — toward the staircase, toward the house. “No board vote can create that,” she said quietly. “No fortune can buy it.” She brushed her thumb lightly over your knuckles. “Don’t lose it.” A pause. “In this world… that’s the only thing that’s truly rare.”

Scarlet’s voice echoed through the upper hall as you and Vivienne stepped out of Eloise’s bedroom. You had just crossed past the Christmas tree below and were heading up the staircase when you realized everyone had gathered along the upstairs corridor.

Staff stood nearby, visibly uneasy.

Vivienne’s voice cut through first. “Why are you all still here? The rooms were prepared. Weren’t they?” She looked at the housekeeper.

The woman hesitated, then nodded carefully.

You moved instinctively to Harry’s side. “Mother, what’s going on?” you asked, glancing at Scarlet.

“Raquel and Derek are being given the East Wing guest room,” Scarlet said coolly. “Apparently I’m assigned the Blue Room. I would prefer the Garden Room.”

Vivienne blinked. “The Garden Room was prepared for Sienna and me. But if you insist, we can switch. We assumed you’d prefer to sleep alone.”

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed. “I assumed I’d be staying with my daughter.”

Vivienne’s jaw tightened. “Eloise believes Harry and her are married. They’ll stay in the Hudson Suite. As always.”

“But she’s asleep,” Scarlet countered smoothly.

Raquel waved a dismissive hand. “Settle this among yourselves. I’ve traveled sixteen hours. Goodnight.” She swept past with Derek.

Mikey came up the stairs at that moment. “Cedar Room radiator’s dead. It’s Siberia in there. I’m not freezing to death.”

Vivienne pressed her lips together. “Ah. Wonderful. In that case…”

She looked at Lily.

“The nursery was mine,” Lily said quickly. “Single bed. Already claimed.” She disappeared down the corridor.

Silence settled.

Scarlet turned to you and lightly hooked her fingers around your wrist. “Fine. We’ll take the Garden Room. You two can… adjust.”

Harry instinctively reached toward you, but his hand stopped midair when Scarlet stepped between you.

Mikey lifted his hand. “Excuse me. Where exactly do I fit into this arrangement?”

Scarlet smiled sweetly. “You can stay with Harry. The Hudson Suite is the largest room, isn’t it?”

All eyes shifted to them. Sienna giggled. You frowned. “Mother.”

“Goodnight,” Scarlet declared, already steering you toward the corridor.

You looked back at Harry over your shoulder, pouting slightly.

He was already looking at you with sad puppy dog eyes.

Vivienne paused near her door. “Goodnight, my son.”

“Night, brother,” Sienna added softly.

Mikey called after her, “Sleep well, Sienna.”

Soon it was just Harry and Mikey standing in the vast hallway.

Harry looked him up and down slowly, visibly unimpressed.

Mikey immediately adopted an exaggerated wounded expression. “You’re not leaving me in the corridor, right? I have nowhere to go. No one wants me.”

Harry rolled his eyes and turned toward the Hudson Suite. Mikey stayed planted, tilting his head dramatically at him. Harry exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. He kept the door open. “Get in. Before I change my mind.”

Mikey’s face lit up. “You’re a hero, man.” He slipped inside far too cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder.

Moments later—

Harry changed into sleepwear with a frown. Mikey glanced at the bed.

“No.” Harry said and pointed to the chaise. “You’re sleeping there.”

Mikey grimaced. “Relax. I have zero interest in sharing a bed with you, Mr. Arrogant, Overachieving, Incurably Handsome Castillo.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

Mikey pulled on his T-shirt. “Nothing. Just… what my sister used to call you.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “What else did she say?”

Mikey shrugged. “Let’s see. Asshole. Jerk. Traitor. There was a dartboard phase. She said most of it while throwing darts. Your face was… heavily featured.” Mikey looked up at Harry’s expression and his grin vanished. “Ah. Right. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. You won’t tell her I told you, yeah?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Who else would? She’s smarter than both of us.”

“Fair. Anyway. You’re together now. Minor detail. You’ll figure it out.” He climbed under the blanket on the chaise.

Harry muttered under his breath, “We’re not together right now because of you.”Then he slid into bed, leaning back against the headboard. The other side — your side — was emptyHe looked at it for a moment. Exhaled. Then something shifted in his expression. A small, decisive smirk. “Right. We need to talk about that. Important subject,” he murmured to himself. He reached for his phone.

In the Garden Room, your phone lit up.

Scarlet was applying night cream at the vanity. You were slipping into your nightgown.

Your phone buzzed.

You read it.

Harry: Library. Ten minutes.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

You: Why? What exactly are we doing in the library?

A pause.

His reply came almost immediately.

Harry: It’s important. Mikey snores. You’re supposed to be here in my bed.

You laughed softly. The three messages had nothing to do with each other — there was definitely something else underneath. He was making excuses.

Scarlet’s eyes flicked to you in the mirror. “Who are you texting at this hour? Go to sleep.”

“Just finishing my skincare,” you said lightly.

She settled into bed. Two seconds later she sighed sharply and sat upright again. “Come here.”

Her tone was firm.

You turned, but stayed standing. “Mother, what’s wrong? You’ve been tense all evening. With me. With Harry.”

“How wouldn’t I be?” she snapped “You’re inseparable again. At dinner, you left the table and went straight to him. And last night — at the party — he took you with him. You spent the night together, didn’t you?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes. I told you. We’re together.”

Her eyes fixed on you. “Are you using protection? Your gynecologist told me you hadn’t discussed it.”

You swallowed. “Mother, why are we—”

“How can you be so reckless?” Her voice cracked. “Even if it’s a small chance — it’s still a chance. And this time it could-“ she paused, exhaled. "I almost lost you once.” Her voice broke.

You sat beside her instantly. “Mom.”

Her eyes dropped to your stomach. "Are you pregnant?”

“What? No!” You felt anger mix with hurt. “Where is that coming from?”

“You didn’t drink. You didn’t eat your favorite steak.”

“My stomach turned. That’s all.”

“You didn’t take a test?”

“No. Because there’s no reason. It’s nearly impossible. Yes, we should be careful. I know. But you don’t get to treat me like this.”

She reached for your hand. “It's because..." Her eyes were glassy now. "I’m thinking of you,” she said quietly. “Only you.” Her voice trembled despite herself. “I don’t ever want to stand on the edge of losing you again. Do you understand me?” You felt your chest tighten. “I don’t care if I never become a grandmother,” she continued, her voice cracking. “I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything except you walking into every room alive.”

That did it. Your composure fractured. “Mom…” your voice broke.

She pulled you into her arms before you could say anything else.

You held on just as tightly. “Don’t,” you whispered against her shoulder. “Please don’t say it like that.”

She pressed her cheek to your hair. “I almost lost you once, my baby,” she murmured. “That was enough for one lifetime.”

Your tears slipped freely now. “I’m here,” you said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, neither of you let go.

You wiped your tears away, sniffing. “I’m not pregnant. I’m fine. We’ll be careful. I promise. I’ll make an appointment with my gynecologist.”

She searched your face for a long moment.

“One more promise,” she said softly. “Tomorrow, when we’re back in New York, we take a test. Just to be certain.”

You nodded. “Whatever makes you sleep peacefully,” you replied gently.

You both lay back against the pillows, distance between you but no longer tension.

She began speaking quietly about when you were little — how you refused to fall asleep unless you were holding her finger, how you would wake just to make sure she was still there.

Her voice grew slower. Softer.

Eventually, it faded.

You turned your head and watched her for a moment. In sleep, she looked smaller. Less guarded.

You leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly.

“Thank you for bringing me into this world, Mom,” you whispered.

She was the person you loved most in it. Nothing and no one could ever take that place from her. Despite everything, she would always hold the deepest corner of your heart.

But there was someone else too. Someone you couldn’t imagine living without.

And judging by the fact that he’d been sending you messages for the past fifteen minutes— he seemed to feel exactly the same way.

Your phone glowed softly on the nightstand.

Three more messages.

Harry: I’m in the library. Come here. Please, baby.

You exhaled a quiet laugh and slipped into your robe, careful not to make a sound. Opened the door slowly. And stepped into the dark corridor.

You slipped down the stairs on the very tips of your toes, as if the house might wake and scold you for moving too loudly. At the bottom, you eased your feet into your slippers and started across the main hall. Everything was quiet—so quiet you could hear the soft hush of your own breath.

To your right, the enormous Christmas tree shimmered in the dark like it had swallowed a pocketful of stars. Tiny lights winked between branches, ornaments catching and throwing glints of gold. The whole house felt suspended in that in-between hour—half asleep, half watching.

The library was just off the main hall on the right, tucked beneath the Garden Room like a secret kept behind thick walls. As you neared the door, the air seemed to change—less pine and candlewax, more old wood and something heavier, older.

You stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind you.

The room was dim, lit by a few low lamps that left the corners in shadow. Books rose in tall, dark rows, their spines lined up like silent witnesses. The scent hit you all at once: dust, leather, and history—pages that had been turned by hands long gone. It didn’t smell dirty. It smelled lived-in. Like time itself had settled here.

You took only a few steps—

Strong hands caught you.

You were yanked back against a solid chest, spun before you could even gasp, and then Harry’s mouth was on yours—sudden, sure, hungry. The kiss stole the ground right out from under you; you realized your feet weren’t touching the floor only when you reached for balance and found nothing but him.

A breathless laugh escaped you, half startled, half thrilled.

“What are you doing, Harry?” you managed, voice trembling with amusement. “I thought we were just going to talk.”

Harry’s mouth slid from your lips to your neck, and he made a sound low in his throat—more growl than laugh. “Why are we only talking, baby?” he murmured. “Is this a talk show?”

You giggled. His hands dropped to your hips, impatient, rough. When his fingers found lace covering your ass cheeks, his manhood twitched, and he exhaled like it hurt—in the best way.

“Harry—stop,” you said, though you didn’t put any real force behind it. “We're not fucking in the library.”

“Why not?” he said lightly. “A library is the perfect place.”His thumb traced your jaw.

“Romantic in theory. Filthy in practice.”

“Books judge,” you shot back, glancing toward the shelves, breath still uneven. “I’m fairly certain Jane Austen would disapprove, the entire Victorian era would faint, and the Founding Fathers would draft an amendment against this.”

Harry let out a low laugh against your neck. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ve never been interested in pleasing dead people. I prefer living audiences.” You bit your lower lip at his words and you could feel a warm flutter in your stomach that made you feel hot.

Without letting go of you, he reached for the nearest shelf and pulled out a book with casual confidence, one arm still locked around your waist. Your arms were still looped at his neck like your body had decided you weren’t done holding on.

“What about this?” he asked, turning the cover toward you.

KAMA SUTRA.

Heat rushed to your cheeks so fast you could practically feel it bloom.

“Oh my God,” you hissed. “Is that still here? Put it back. Lose it.”

Harry’s grin widened as he flipped it once, as if sampling a joke. “There are some very interesting things in here,” he said, voice smooth. “Educational, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “The thought of Eloise—or anyone—having read that completely turns me off.”

“Mmm.” He slid the book back into place, then looked at you like you were the only thing worth reading. His fingers found the tie of your robe. Unraveling it like he had all the time in the world. “I can fix that.”

Mikey woke because his neck was killing him — tthe chaise was clearly designed by someone who hated human spines. He squinted toward the bed. “Harry,” he croaked hoarsely, half-asleep. “Can I at least curl up at the foot of the bed like a civilized person?”

Silence. He blinked. Empty. Still empty. He frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep, huh? Hah. Divine justice, I guess.” Half-awake and thirsty, Mikey shuffled into the corridor, intending to find the kitchen.

Then he paused. Leaning slightly over the banister, he caught sight of Vivienne descending the staircase quietly.

If she wasn’t in her room and Sienna was alone—

His brain activated hormonally. He straightened immediately, suddenly very alert, and padded quietly down the hallway toward Sienna’s door.

That’s when he saw it.

At the very end of the corridor. A silhouette. A greenish face. Round. Shadowed. Faintly glowing beneath the dim wall sconces.

Mikey froze. The blood drained from his face. His jaw trembled. His back pressed flat against the wall as if he could merge into it. His fingers clawed at the plaster.

The silhouette shifted. He inhaled sharply. And screamed.

“ALIEN GHOST—”

The sound ricocheted violently through the entire estate.

Doors flew open.

Scarlet stepped out first. “What on earth—”

Lily’s door cracked open, yawning. “Who is screaming?”

Raquel appeared from the corner. “Mikey, calm down!”

Vivienne, who had gone downstairs to check something in the kitchen, heard the scream and hurried back toward the staircase—

—and stopped.

Because at the bottom of the stairs, emerging from the direction of the library—

were you and Harry.

Hair disheveled. Breathing slightly uneven. Your robe loosely tied. His black T-shirt dragged hastily into place.

Vivienne froze mid-step. “Um… you heard that too?”

“It has to be Mikey,” you said quickly. “I’d recognize that scream anywhere.” You adjusted the strap of your nightgown in a hurry, pulling your robe tighter around you.

“Why is he screaming?” Harry avoided eye contact entirely, already moving. He brushed past his mother without a word and took the stairs two at a time.

You followed, discreetly pulling your robe tighter and adjusting your damp panties, tugging them free from between your ass cheeks.

Vivienne cleared her throat and looked away.

Upstairs chaos continued.

Scarlet found Mikey half-collapsed near the railing, clutching his chest dramatically. “What is happening?” she demanded.

Mikey pointed a trembling finger. Raquel stood there.

Face coated in a thick, green clay mask. Cucumber slices in hand.

“You look like an extraterrestrial haunting the Hudson Valley!” Mikey wheezed.

“It’s a detoxifying mask.”

“Detoxifying from what? Humanity?”

Lily groaned. “An alien ghost? What are you, five?”

Scarlet pinched the bridge of her nose.

Raquel turned to Derek. “Am I terrifying, darling?”

Derek didn’t look up from his phone. “Minimal disturbance,” he muttered. “Within acceptable variance.”

“I AM HAVING A CARDIAC EVENT,” Mikey protested from the floor.

Sienna rushed forward, offering him a hand. “Are you okay? You’re literally pale.”

Mikey held onto her firmly, causing her to wobble beneath his weight. “I saw the afterlife, Sienna.”

Harry stepped forward, calmly peeling Mikey off his sister. “Enough,” he said flatly. “Back to bed. Everyone.”

His eyes flicked briefly to you. A subtle wink. You bit back a smile.

Scarlet’s gaze sharpened instantly.

“You,” she said, eyes locking onto yours. “Why weren’t you in bed?”

Vivienne pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. She leaned toward Sienna. “Come along, darling,” she murmured, ushering her down the hallway. The two disappeared quickly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you replied smoothly. “Needed some air.”

Scarlet’s eyes narrowed slightly — not convinced.

Harry, meanwhile, draped an almost lazy arm over Mikey’s shoulder and steered him toward the suite. “Come here, buddy,” he said coolly. “You screamed like the house was on fire.”

Mikey waved a weak hand, still pale. “I thought I was going to die,” he muttered. “Those beauty masks should be illegal.”

Harry snorted under his breath and nudged him forward.

Doors began closing one by one.

You slipped into the Garden Room, Scarlet’s gaze following you the entire way — lingering — until the door shut behind you both.

Breakfast unfolded in its usual fashion — playful barbs, knowing glances, commentary served alongside coffee. But this time, it felt less like strategy and more like family. Eloise sat at the head of the table, fingers wrapped around yours as she reminisced about your wedding — about relatives who “couldn’t make it,” about the flowers, about how radiant you’d looked walking down the aisle.

You laughed easily now.

Harry added quiet comments. Light ones. Teasing ones. It didn’t hurt anymore.

In this house, in this moment, it felt as if nothing had ever broken.

Scarlet watched the two of you closely. For the first time, there was no sharpness in her gaze.

Only something softer. Hope. Even if she didn’t trust it yet.

It was almost peaceful.

Until the butler approached.

He bent discreetly between Harry and Vivienne. Two words.

“He’s here.”

The air shifted. Not dramatically. Worse. Silently.

Everyone froze except Eloise, who was mid-sentence about seating arrangements from five years ago.

You kept smiling at her. Nodding. Listening.

Harry’s chair scraped back sharply against the floor.

Vivienne stood immediately, gripping his arm before he could storm off.

“Control yourself,” she whispered.

Eloise looked up. Harry swallowed whatever rage was rising in him.

“Abuela,” he said evenly, “I’ll be right back.”

His eyes flicked to you. Then he walked out with Vivienne. Raquel followed seconds later.

Scarlet leaned toward you. “If you’re done eating, we should go. I haven’t been able to reach your father all morning.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Across the table, Sienna and Lily were whispering over something on a phone, pretending not to feel the tension.

Mikey ignored Sienna for the first time; his eyes were fixed on you and Scarlet.

Then—

Voices.

Raised.

Echoing down the corridor. Eloise tightened her grip on your hand. “What is happening?”

You squeezed back gently.

Before you could answer—

Eduardo walked in. He didn’t hesitate. He simply entered the dining room as if he still belonged there.

The shock rippled outward. You turned to Eloise.

She was staring at him.

Not with anger. Not with recognition. With confusion.

Behind him came Harry. Vivienne. Raquel.

Every gaze shifted to Eloise.

Waiting.

Your heart felt like it was splitting open inside your chest. Eloise slowly turned to you. “Who is this man, Queen?”

The question shattered something deep inside you.

Her son. Her own son. And she didn’t know him. Your lips parted. No sound came out. Only tears. You stood slowly, instinctively placing yourself beside her chair.

Protective. Cold.

“I don’t know,” you said evenly. “A visitor, perhaps.”

Eduardo’s face darkened. “How dare you—”

Harry stepped in front of him instantly. "Stop. And get out. Now.”

Eduardo’s eyes burned. “I’m here to speak to my mother.”

Harry’s voice dropped lower. “Funny. You remembered you had one.”

While they clashed, you and Vivienne helped Eloise to her feet, her hands trembling. "He said... That man said... mother..." she murmured.

The nurse hurried in. “Eloise, look at me.” She snapped her fingers gently, trying to focus her.

But Eloise’s gaze was locked on Eduardo. Struggling. Trying. And then—

Her body went limp.

You caught her before she hit the floor. "Eloise!"

“Abuela!” Harry was there instantly, lifting her carefully into his arms.

Raquel shoved Eduardo back hard. “Get him out of this house!”

Staff rushed forward.

Eduardo resisted for a moment.

Then was forced back.

You barely saw it. You were already following Harry up the stairs.

—

Hours later.

The sedative had taken effect. The nurse stepped out softly. “She needs rest. Let it wear off.”

The door closed.

You turned and wrapped your arms around Harry.

“She’ll be okay,” you whispered. “She’s strong.”

Sienna clung to her brother, crying quietly. Vivienne and Eduardo were further down the hall.

Arguing. Her voice breaking. You hated Eduardo in that moment.

For ruining the morning. For appearing at all. For existing.

And then—

Scarlet appeared.

White as paper. “We need to leave. Now.” She grabbed your arm. “Mom, what—”

“Now.”

A housekeeper hurried with your coat.

Mikey stood near the car outside, face pale.

“Scarlet, what is going on?” Harry demanded.

Scarlet’s voice shook. “Someone leaked it.”

“Leaked what?”

“This morning the press was tipped off about Switzerland. About why you stayed. About everything.” Your blood ran cold. “They know about Ilan. About Eduardo. About him being Harry’s half-brother.”

Silence. Heavy.

At the same moment, Harry’s phone rang.

Ron.

Harry stepped away to answer. You watched him. Watched the color drain from his face as he listened. When he looked back at you, you didn’t need words.

Damn.

You moved toward the car in a haze, the world around you muffled and distant.

Harry caught up just before the door closed.

“I have to go to the office,” he said quietly, but there was steel beneath it now. Controlled. Focused. “This needs to be contained before markets open.” His hand came up to cradle your face for a second, thumb brushing your cheek. “Hey.” His voice softened. “Look at me.” You did. “We’re going to handle this,” he said firmly. “All of it. I’ve got this. We’ve got this.” His forehead rested briefly against yours. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get through it.”

Your throat felt too tight to respond.

It was too much.

You nodded.

That was all you could manage.

He pressed a final kiss to your forehead, closed the car door gently —

—and stepped back into the storm.

The car pulled away.

And everything that had felt whole just hours ago splintered behind you.

The drive back to New York felt unreal.

Mikey sat forward, scrolling rapidly on his tablet. Every few seconds his face tightened.

Scarlet kept shaking her head, whispering under her breath.

“How… how does this happen? Who would do this? This can't be real. What are we supposed to do now?”

You didn’t look at your phone. You couldn’t. Your heart was beating too fast already.

Headlines were exploding across financial blogs and gossip sites:

SWISS CLINIC BOMBSHELL: Was Queen Silenced After Assault Allegations? CASTILLO DYNASTY IN CRISIS: Secret Half-Brother at Center of Scandal HEIR, HALF-BROTHER, AND A COVER-UP? Inside the Castillo Family Fallout CORPORATE COVER-UP: Did Castillo Capital Bury a Private Crime?

Your name. Harry’s name. Ilan’s name. Eduardo’s name. All tangled.

Scarlet's phone rang.

Lara.

She answered. Her voice was trembling. “Scarlet!! Oh my God.. Richard...” The world narrowed. “He collapsed. It’s his heart. They’re taking him into surgery.”

Scarlet dropped her phone. It clattered against the leather seat. And then she fainted sideways into you. “Mom!”

Mikey swore loudly.

You caught her, heart racing. “Hospital. Now!” You yelled at driver.

Lara stayed on the line, voice breaking. “They’re prepping him for emergency bypass. I’ll meet you there.”

The car accelerated.

When you arrived, the press was already there. Of course they were.

Flashbulbs exploded in your face the moment the car door opened.

“Miss Queen! Is it true?” “Is this connected to the Castillo scandal?” “Were you assaulted by your ex-husband’s half-brother?” “Is it true you were sent to Switzerland to keep this quiet?”

You shielded your face instinctively as security forced a path through.

Scarlet had come to, barely.

Mikey snapped. “Get that out of her face!” He shoved the camera back — not enough to break it, but enough to send the journalist stumbling half a step. “Back off!”

Inside, you were rushed to a private elevator.

Up.

Surgery floor. They had already taken him in.

Emergency triple bypass. The word “critical” floated through the air like poison. Hours passed. Three. Four. Five.

Emily arrived first, breathless. Her mother, Hinata, behind her.

Then Chloe. Then Yuliana. You hadn’t seen her in years. She hugged you tightly.

Vivienne and Harry arrived shortly after. Harry didn’t leave your side. Not once. His arm stayed around you.

But his phone did not stop ringing. Markets had opened in Asia already. Castillo Capital stock had dropped 11% pre-market. Speculative sell-offs.

Institutional investors requesting clarification. Two major hedge funds had begun reducing exposure. Board members were demanding emergency calls. Media was linking Richard’s collapse to “corporate instability.” The narrative was building. Crisis begets crisis. Harry spoke in a calm and measured tone. “Yes, we’re drafting a statement.” Another call came in. “No, there’s no breakdown in governance.” Then yet another call. “We’ll tackle it at market open.” But even he couldn’t stop the momentum.

Six hours after surgery began, the sky outside the hospital windows had gone dark.

The hallway lights felt too bright.

Finally—

The doors opened.

The surgeon stepped out. You stood instantly.

“Doctor. My father?”

Your hands were shaking. Harry’s arm tightened around your waist.

The doctor’s expression was calm but serious.

“Mrs. Queen,” he began, turning first to Scarlet. “Your husband has survived the procedure.” Air returned to your lungs, Mikey squeezed scarlet's hand. “But,” he continued carefully, “this is his second myocardial infarction. The bypass was complex. We stabilized him, but recovery will be delicate.”

Scarlet’s knees nearly gave out. The doctor continued. “From this point forward, stress is no longer an option. No executive decision-making. No confrontation. No media exposure. I strongly recommend psychological support as well. His heart cannot withstand another episode like this.”

“How long in ICU?” you asked.

“At least forty-eight hours. Possibly longer. Then we evaluate.”

You nodded. You were already thinking structurally.

By midnight, exhaustion had settled into everyone’s bones.

Scarlet was still sitting upright in the chair outside the ICU viewing window, eyes fixed on the glass as if sheer willpower could stabilize the monitors inside.

Vivienne knelt gently in front of her.

“Scarlet,” she said softly, firm but kind. “You need rest.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Scarlet replied hoarsely.

Lara stepped in beside her. “You fainted in the car today,” she reminded her quietly. “If Richard wakes up tomorrow, he’s going to need you standing. Not collapsing again.”

Scarlet’s composure trembled.

“There’s nothing we can do tonight,” you said gently, crouching in front of her. Your voice was calm, even if your insides weren’t. “He’s in ICU. They won’t let us in. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

Scarlet looked at you for a long moment.

Then finally nodded.

Vivienne and Lara helped her to her feet. Not dramatically. Not weak — just worn.

“I’ll call you if anything changes,” you promised.

“You better,” Scarlet whispered, squeezing your hand.

They left together — Vivienne steady at her side, Lara guiding her carefully down the corridor.

The hospital felt quieter after they disappeared.

And then Gerard arrived.

Queen Financial’s CFO.

Late forties. Steady. Discreet. He had been your father’s right hand for years. He approached quietly.

“Miss Queen. Mr Queen.”

You turned. “Gerard.”

His voice was low. “The board is requesting interim direction. Investors are nervous. They need visible stability.”

Harry watched carefully, but did not interrupt.

Gerard continued. “We don’t just have a PR crisis. We have exposure.”

You frowned. “Exposure how?”

“Whitmore Holdings began accumulating minor positions this morning.”

Harry’s head lifted.

Gerard continued calmly: “They’re opportunistic. If they push past 9.9%, they’ll demand disclosure leverage. If they hit 15%, they’ll start influencing board votes.”

Your pulse sharpened. "So this isn’t about headlines.”

“No,” Gerard said evenly. “It’s about control.” A beat. “If your father is incapacitated and markets sense leadership hesitation, we become vulnerable.”

Harry asked, “Hostile?”

Gerard didn’t blink. “Potentially." He turned to you. “Ms Queen. The board will follow your father’s designated successor. That’s you. You need to step in. Publicly.”

You shook your head slightly. “I can’t. Not now.”

Gerard’s tone softened, but remained firm. “You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll stand beside you in every earnings call. But if you don’t lead this, someone else will. And Whitmore would enjoy that.”

Harry stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“He prepared you for this. I’ve seen it. You don’t just understand numbers — you see people. Markets. Optics.” A beat. “You see the whole field.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know if I can carry all of it,” you admitted.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “You don’t carry it alone.”

That landed.

Mikey, who had been leaning against the wall unusually quiet, straightened. “Yeah,” he said, softer than usual. “And if anyone thinks they can push you around because things look messy right now, I’d love to see them try.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “I’ll sit in every damn hallway outside every meeting if I have to. I’m not letting Whitmore walk in like he owns the place.”

Gerard almost smiled.

Harry’s gaze stayed on you. “They’re betting on instability,” he said evenly. “Prove them wrong.”

Gerard’s call came just after sunrise.

The board wanted visibility. Stability. A statement before markets opened.

You ended the call and stood very still for a moment.

Mikey was pacing near the window, jaw tight. Harry was already watching you.

You turned away from them both and sat down slowly.

And that’s when it hit.

“Harry… what are we going to do?” you whispered. “This is too much.”

You stared down at your hands resting in your lap. They didn’t feel like yours. They felt small. Fragile. Useless.

Tears slid down your cheeks before you even realized you were crying.

You had never felt this powerless.

For one reckless second, you wished you had never come back to New York.

You should have stayed in Vermont. Stayed just the two of you. Stayed anonymous.

There, no one would have cared about stock prices. Or legacy. Or headlines. There would have been no shareholders. No reporters screaming your name outside hospital doors.

But neither of you had ever been that selfish.

You had families. You had companies. You had empires built on reputation.

And now—

You were the crack in the marble.

Outside, reporters swarmed like vultures. Even breathing felt like inhaling glass.

Harry’s hand closed over yours. His other hand lifted your chin gently, forcing you to look at him.

“We made a promise,” he said quietly. “No matter what happens nothing would come between us.”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision.

“But this isn’t just about us,” you whispered. "Our families are hurting too.”

He swallowed. His jaw tightened.

And for a second—

You saw it.

The same helplessness you felt reflected back at you, but also he looked at you like he made a decision.

“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” he said, certain.

Your stomach dropped. You already knew. You didn’t want him to say it. You gave the smallest nod.

“I hate that I even have to ask you this,” he said quietly.

Harry looked at you and took both your hands in his.

“I told you I would never let you go,” he said quietly. “Not unless you’re the one who decides you don’t want me anymore. I meant that. I still do.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“And I know you won’t let me go either.”

Your throat burned.

“For one second,” he added, softer now, “I wish we could disappear. Just leave. Somewhere no one knows our names. No boards. No headlines. No shareholders.”

The corner of his mouth curved faintly.

“Ridiculous fantasy for someone running a global firm. I’m aware.”

You let out a weak laugh. “I like when you say reckless things like that.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I do it well, don’t I?”

You both laughed.

It faded just as quickly.

Reality settled again.

“So,” Harry murmured, locking his eyes with yours, “My Queen…”

A breath.

“Will you be my secret girlfriend?”

You blinked at him.

He continued, perfectly serious.

“Strictly off the record. No public displays. No holding hands in front of shareholders. Occasional strategic eye contact permitted.”

Despite everything, a broken laugh slipped from you.

“This is your idea of romance?”

“It’s the only version that keeps both empires standing,” he replied calmly. “Yours and mine.”

His thumb brushed your jaw.

“In public, we’re disciplined. Untouchable.”

A pause.

“In private… I’m still finding you in my bed.”

Heat flickered through your exhaustion.

You arched a brow. “Ah. A woman dreams of nothing more.”

He smirked faintly. “You don’t seem particularly disappointed.”

You leaned closer.

“I suppose I could accept the arrangement,” you said lightly. “As long as the benefits package is compelling.”

His hand slid to your waist.

“Oh, it is,” he murmured.

You smiled — tired, emotional, steady.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Off the record.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He kissed you — not urgent, not reckless.

Slow.

Certain.

A promise sealed quietly between you.

Outside, cameras waited.

Inside, you chose each other anyway.

And for now —

That was enough.

ps: I removed the library sex scene from this chapter to keep the length under control — it will be posted separately as a drabble (yes, for very obvious reasons). From here on, the trajectory of the story shifts slightly. We’re heading toward the final arc, and there are more surprises waiting. Buckle up.

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