baby — four
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
A/N: So happy you're all excited for chapter four! BUT, please remember I’m a med student with night shifts. Last night was beyond busy, just two of us on the service, so I came home, crashed, and literally just woke up after sleeping all day. Thank you for understanding!
Also, a quick reminder: I will be posting ALL THE CHAPTERS HERE.
Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.
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📍baby's masterlist
word count: 10k
taglist: @mysunflowerposts, @marinrscomplex, @ashloveshockey, @fkingstyles, @lillefroe, @satellitelh, @viamoree, @pizzadragono7, @buckyssbestgirl, @somaaaaaaaaaa, @sweetuniveerse, @ivegotthecinema, @dumbandp03tic, @hsandts4l, @cathedralnoise, @namelesssav, @love-letters-to-uranus, @linabobinaa, @friggadotior0212, @i-got-the-cinema, @ghostlyscene13, @aileen1237, @whoopsieismelldaisies, @szn2weightlossgirl
The light offend him.
Slicing through the gaps in the blackout curtains like a knife, the sharp, aggressive Saturday morning grey hit Harry straight in the eyes. Flinching, he buried his face in the leather cushion of the sofa, but the movement only sent a jackhammer of pain through his skull, a throbbing reminder of the bottle of scotch currently sitting empty on the bar.
He hadn't made it to bed. He hadn't even made it up the stairs. Instead, he had passed out right here, fully dressed, legs tangled in the throw blanket and cheek pressed against the cold leather.
Groaning, Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position, mouth tasting of stale alcohol and regret. His shirt, the black silk one she had grabbed, the one she used to pull him close, hung off his frame like a shroud, wrinkled and unbuttoned.
He blinked, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Once it finally settled, the carnage came into focus.
Last night, in the dark, the shattered crystal had looked dramatic. In the cold light of day, it just looked like a mess.
Thousands of shards of antique glass glittered innocently across the hardwood floor. The heavy crystal bowl, an eighteenth-century piece bought at auction for the price of a small car, was now just expensive dust. On the far wall, a gouge in the plaster marked the point of impact, a white scar against the grey paint.
Harry stared at it and felt nothing. No relief. No catharsis. Just a dull, hollow ache in the center of his chest that had nothing to do with the hangover.
Glancing at his right palm, he saw a dried line of dark red blood cutting across his lifeline where a shard had sliced him. He flexed the hand, letting the skin pull tight. It stung. Good.
Click.
The heavy turn of the deadbolt.
Harry stiffened. For a fraction of a second, his heart leaped, maybe she came back. Maybe she realized she forgot something.
The door slid open. But it wasn't Y/N.
It was Mrs. Higgins, his Saturday housekeeper. A stout, no-nonsense woman who had cleaned up after his parties for a decade without blinking an eye, she stepped in carrying her caddy of supplies only to stop dead.
"Good morning Mr. Styles. I..."
Her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept over the floor, taking in the twenty-foot radius of shattered glass and the overturned papers on the coffee table before finally landing on Harry. He sat there disheveled and bleeding, looking like a deposed king.
Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. Sir? Are you alright?"
"I am fine," Harry croaked. His voice was ruined. Clearing his throat, he stood up, swaying slightly. "I am fine, Mrs. Higgins. Just a mishap."
"A mishap?" She bustled forward, setting her caddy down with a clatter. "It looks like a war zone in here. Did someone break in? Should I call security?"
"No," Harry snapped. The volume hurt his own head, so he lowered his voice. "No one broke in. I dropped a bowl. That is all."
"You dropped a bowl," she repeated, eyeing the debris field that clearly indicated the bowl had been thrown with the velocity of a missile.
She didn't argue. She knew better. Sighing the sigh of a woman paid very well to deal with rich men's tantrums, she reached for the broom on her cart.
"Well, go get yourself some coffee, sir. I will have this cleared up in a jiffy. You do not want to step on this barefoot."
As she began to sweep, the sound of stiff bristles dragging glass across wood, scrape, scrape, clink, sent a sudden, irrational surge of panic through him.
She was erasing it.
She was sweeping up the violence, cleaning away the evidence of the only real emotion that had happened in this room in months. If she cleaned it up, the room would return to being perfect. It would go back to being a museum. And if it was a museum, then Y/N had never really been here at all.
Mrs. Higgins swept a pile of glass toward the coffee table, reaching down to pick up the scattered papers, the contract.
"Leave it," Harry barked.
Mrs. Higgins froze, hand hovering over the document. "Sir?"
"Do not touch the papers," Harry said, stepping forward and ignoring the glass crunching under his boots. "And do not sweep under the sofa."
Mrs. Higgins looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Sir, there is glass everywhere. It surely skittered under there."
"I said don't." His voice was low, cold, and leaving no room for argument.
He knew what lay hidden in the dust bunnies under the sofa, the brass key. He had knocked it there last night in his rage. If Mrs. Higgins swept under there, she would find it, pick it up, and place it on the hook by the door. She would treat it like a common object.
But it wasn't a common object. It was the only thing Y/N had left behind. It was the heavy, tangible proof that she had chosen to walk away, a shrine to his failure. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching it.
"Clean the open floor," Harry commanded, running a hand through his messy hair. "Leave the area around the sofa. Leave the papers. Leave the table."
"Mr. Styles, I cannot leave a pile of broken glass in the middle of your..."
"You can if I pay you to," Harry cut her off. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, uncomfortable after sleeping on it, he extracted three fifty-pound notes and dropped them onto her cart. "Clean the kitchen. Clean the bathrooms. Change the sheets. Do not touch this room."
Mrs. Higgins looked at the money, then at Harry’s bloodshot eyes. She nodded slowly.
"As you wish, sir."
Taking her broom, she retreated to the kitchen.
Harry stood alone in the center of the living room, looking down at the contract splayed open on the table like a dead bird. He looked at the spot under the sofa where the key was hiding in the dark.
A wave of nausea rolled over him. He was safe. He had done it. He had successfully driven her away, protected her reputation, and secured her future. He had won.
Walking over to the bar, he picked up the empty bottle of scotch and dropped it into the recycling bin.
Clank.
He needed a shower. He needed a shave. He needed to go to the office and make a million pounds to remind himself that he was Harry Styles and that he didn't need anyone.
He turned his back on the mess and walked toward the stairs. But as he climbed, his hand brushing the railing where hers used to rest, he realized with a sinking horror that the silence in the house wasn't empty.
It was screaming.
The smell hit her first.
It wasn't the rich scent of expensive leather or the crisp fragrance of eucalyptus. It was the damp, cloying odor of wet towels and burnt toast, underpinned by the chemical tang of Lynx body spray.
Y/N rolled over in the narrow single bed, wincing as the springs screamed in protest. A sharp, metallic grating that tore her from restless sleep.
Staring up at the ceiling, she traced the familiar water stain in the corner, a map of a nonexistent country. Above it, a spiderweb swayed gently in the draft from the window that refused to close.
It had been two weeks.
Two weeks since she had dropped the heavy brass key on the glass table. Two weeks since she had walked out of the elevator.
For six months, her life had been a tale of two cities: Monday to Thursday, a student in a shoebox. Friday to Sunday, a princess in a Mayfair castle. Now the castle was gone, leaving only the girl in the shoebox.
A crash from the kitchen, followed by a burst of raucous laughter, shattered the quiet.
"Oi! You stepped on my charger!"
"Mate, watch where you are going!"
Josh. Her roommate.
At twenty-three, Josh was perfectly nice. He was studying sports management and possessed the energy of a golden retriever that had just consumed an espresso. And Y/N hated him.
She hated herself for it, knowing it was unfair. But every time Josh laughed at the television at 8 AM or left his sneakers in the middle of the hallway, a physical tightness constricted her chest.
God, she missed the silence.
She missed the fortress-like solitude of the townhouse. She missed the way Harry moved through a room like he owned the air inside it. Harry didn't leave sneakers in the hallway. Harry didn't yell about chargers. Harry was a man. Josh was a boy.
Dragging herself out of bed onto creaking floorboards, she shuffled down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. The tiles were cracked and cold under her feet.
She turned on the shower, waiting as the pipes groaned before spitting out a stream of lukewarm water. The pressure was pathetic, barely enough to wash the soap off her skin. Standing under the drizzle, she closed her eyes, trying to conjure the memory of the rainfall showerhead, the steam, the heated towel rack.
She had walked away from it. She had chosen the sticky floors and the freedom. But freedom, it turned out, felt a lot like being cold and tired.
Half an hour later, she sat at the wobbly kitchen table, her laptop screen the brightest thing in the room.
Josh walked in, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a t-shirt that read Beer Me.
"Morning Y/N," he chirped, opening the fridge to swig milk directly from the carton.
A wave of irrational nausea rolled over her.
"Morning Josh," she mumbled.
"You look rough," he noted helpfully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Rough night?"
"Something like that."
"You should come out with us tonight. Me and the boys are going to Wetherspoons. Pitchers are two for one."
"I am busy," Y/N lied.
"Suit yourself. More cheap booze for me." Grabbing a slice of toast, he wandered back to his room.
Y/N turned her attention back to the screen.
Thank you for your interest in the Assistant Editor position. Unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with other candidates. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
The rejections were piling up. Despite the honors degree and the dissertation praised by her professors, the real world saw her as just another twenty-two-year-old with zero experience and no connections.
Harry could have made a call.
The thought intruded before she could stop it. Harry knew everyone. One word from him, and she would be sitting in an office at Bloomsbury right now. He would have handled it. He would have smoothed the path.
Opening her banking app, she stared at the number on the screen.
It was large. Six months of allowance saved diligently. It was enough to pay rent in this dump for two years, to buy a new wardrobe, or to book a holiday to Bali.
She hadn't spent a penny of it. Once a high score, a safety net, it now felt like a bomb.
It was the only thing keeping her alive. She had quit the café to focus on finals because Harry had told her to. Focus on your studies, he had said. Let me handle the finances. So she had.
Now she was unemployed, relying on the money of a man she had dumped. Every time she bought a carton of milk or paid the electric bill, she felt like she was stealing. It was blood money, and she was terrified of the day it would run out.
Closing the app, she looked around the messy kitchen. The sink was full of grey water and Josh’s cereal bowls; the window looked out onto a brick wall and a row of overflowing bins.
This was reality. This was the "normal" life she had screamed at Harry that she wanted.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to call him. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that the light he talked about was actually just fluorescent and flickering, and that she missed his darkness. She missed his protection.
Harry hadn't just been a lover. He had been a shield, standing between her and the ugly, difficult parts of the world. Now the shield was gone, and she was exposed.
Y/N picked up her phone again, opening their message thread. The last text was from April.
I am not hungry.
Her thumb hovered over the text box.
I miss you. I made a mistake. Please come get me.
She typed the words out, staring at them. They looked pathetic. They looked like defeat.
She erased them.
Placing the phone face down on the table, she took a sip of the bitter black coffee. She hadn't bought milk because she was too scared to dip into the savings for luxuries.
She had made her choice. Now she had to live with it, even if living with it meant watching Josh drink from the carton while her heart broke a little more every single day.
The restaurant was quiet. The kind of quiet that cost three hundred pounds a head.
The air smelled of truffles and old money. In the corner, a harpist plucked at something unrecognizable while waiters moved like ghosts across the plush carpet, terrified of disturbing the peace.
Harry sat at the best table in the house, wearing a Tom Ford suit that fit like armor. He had shaved, styled his hair, and curated an appearance worthy of a Forbes cover.
Across from him sat Victoria.
Victoria was perfect. Forty-two years old, the daughter of a Viscount, and the ex-wife of a hedge fund manager, she was a study in elegance. Her blond hair was blow-dried into submission, her teeth were blindingly white, and her pearls were tasteful.
She was appropriate.
She was exactly the kind of woman a man in Harry’s tax bracket was supposed to be with, a partner whose presence at a board meeting signaled stability, a woman fluent in non-dom statuses and offshore accounts.
Harry wanted to scream.
"And then Charles said that the merger with the German firm was dragging on simply because of the unions," Victoria was saying, taking a delicate sip of her white wine. "Can you imagine? Holding up a billion-pound deal because of pension disputes. The working class is becoming so entitled."
She laughed, a light, tinkling sound like ice hitting glass.
Harry forced the corners of his mouth up. "Terrible."
"Exactly," she beamed. "So I told him to just liquidate the subsidiary and be done with it. It’s cleaner on the balance sheet."
She paused, looking at him expectantly. She was waiting for him to agree, to talk shop, to discuss the ruthless efficiency of capitalism.
"Liquidation is certainly efficient," Harry said, his voice sounding flat to his own ears.
"It is," she agreed. "Speaking of efficiency, I saw the quarterly reports for your firm. Your aggressive acquisition of that tech startup? Brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant."
Harry picked up his wine glass and drank half of it in one swallow.
Looking at her, he acknowledged the facts: she was beautiful, smart, and successful. She spoke his language, the dialect of money, assets, and liquidity.
But she was suffocatingly boring.
His gaze drifted to her hands. Her nails were manicured in a pale, perfect pink.
Instead of admiring them, he remembered Y/N’s hands. He remembered the ink stain on her thumb from taking notes in the library, the way she gripped a pen like a weapon, the way she tapped her fingers on the dashboard when a song she liked came on the radio.
"Harry?"
He snapped his head up. Victoria was frowning slightly.
"I am sorry," Harry said. "I was miles away."
"I asked if you play tennis," she said. "The club has a mixed doubles tournament next month. I need a partner who can actually serve. My ex-husband had a wrist like a wet noodle."
"I don't play," Harry lied. He played very well, usually every Sunday with his banking friends.
"That is a shame," she pouted. "You have the build for it."
The waiter arrived with their appetizers: a single scallop sitting in a pool of foam.
Victoria looked at it with delight. "This looks divine. I love this chef. He keeps the portions so... manageable."
Harry looked at the scallop.
The memory hit him instantly: Y/N forcing him to eat a kebab at 2 AM on a street corner in Soho. The grease on her chin, her laughter when he dropped garlic sauce on his five-thousand-pound coat, her voice saying, It’s not food if you don’t need a napkin, Harry.
Victoria cut a tiny piece of the scallop and chewed slowly.
"So," she said. "I heard you’re looking into buying that property in the Cotswolds. The estate next to the Beckhams?"
"I am thinking about it," Harry said.
"You should," she nodded. "It’s a good investment. Land is the only thing that holds value these days. Besides, you need a place to escape the city. London is becoming so... crowded. Don't you think?"
She gestured vaguely to the window, to the streets below where normal people lived.
"Crowded," Harry repeated.
"Yes. Too much noise. Too much grit. I prefer the quiet."
Harry stared at her.
Y/N loved the grit. She loved the noise, the sticky floors, the mess of life. She made him feel alive because she dragged him into the crowd, not away from it.
Victoria was offering him a sterile, quiet, perfectly managed life where scallops were small, people were "manageable," and no one made bad decisions.
It felt like a coffin. It felt like death by small talk.
If this was the "appropriate" life he had sacrificed his happiness for, then he had made a terrible mistake. He didn't want the quiet estate in the Cotswolds. He wanted the argument. He wanted the passion. He wanted the girl who challenged him on literature and stole his t-shirts.
He could not do this. He could not sit here for another hour and pretend that he cared about property values or pension disputes.
Harry signaled the waiter.
"Check please," he said.
Victoria looked stunned. "Harry? We haven't even had the main course."
"I am not hungry," Harry said, pulling out his heavy titanium black card and dropping it on the table.
"Is something wrong?" Victoria asked, her smile faltering. "Did I say something?"
"No," Harry said. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. "You were perfect, Victoria. You were absolutely appropriate."
He looked down at her.
"That is the problem."
He didn't wait for the receipt. Turning on his heel, he walked past the harpist, past the maitre d', and out into the cool London night.
The air smelled of exhaust and rain. It smelled real.
He was alone, miserable, and definitely going to die in his big empty house with his millions in the bank. But at least he didn't have to talk about tennis.
The wifi in the flat was a test of patience, buffering constantly as Y/N sat on the bedroom floor.
She leaned against the radiator, hoarding its meager heat, wrapped in a crew neck sweatshirt she had stolen from Harry months ago. It no longer smelled of his expensive cologne or the unique warmth of his skin; now, it just smelled of her cheap laundry detergent.
With one final, agonizing refresh, the page loaded.
It was a grainy paparazzi shot taken from across the street, but the subject was unmistakable.
Harry.
He was walking out of that Mayfair restaurant with the three-month waiting list, wearing the charcoal suit she loved—the one with the silk lining. Even in low resolution, he looked devastating.
But he wasn't alone.
Beside him was a woman. Tall, blonde, and draped in a cream coat that likely cost more than Y/N’s entire student loan debt. She was laughing, head thrown back in an elegant display of joy.
Harry Styles, Chief Executive Officer, Vanguard Holdings, spotted dining with Victoria St. Clair, heiress to the St. Clair shipping fortune.
The caption was simple, yet it felt like a slap: New Power Couple?
A cold stone dropped into Y/N’s stomach.
It had been only three weeks.
Three weeks, and he was already out dining with heiresses, slipping back into the world of cream coats, pearls, and tax brackets that matched his own.
Victoria St. Clair looked perfect. She looked like someone who knew exactly which fork to use for the fish course and had never eaten instant noodles in her life. Y/N looked down at herself, sweatpants with a hole in the knee, toast for dinner, unemployed.
Zooming in on Harry’s face, she searched for a sign. He wasn't smiling. His expression was the unreadable mask he wore when closing a deal, but the context was clear. He was there. He was moving on.
She closed her laptop and pulled her knees to her chest, feeling incredibly, stupidly small. She had walked away to save herself, but looking at that photo, she realized she hadn't saved anything. She had just vacated the seat for someone who fit the mold.
Across the city, 9:00 PM found Harry still sitting in his office long after the cleaning crew had come and gone. Below him, the city lights of London sprawled like a circuit board, cold and distant.
He ignored the view. He ignored the merger documents on his desk. His attention was fixed solely on his computer screen.
A secure window was open. One requiring two-factor authentication and a biometric scan to access. It was the portal for his personal accounts. And hers.
He hadn't revoked his access. He told himself it was an oversight, a forgotten administrative task after the contract ended. But that was a lie.
He scanned the transaction history for Y/N’s account.
Tesco Metro - £12.50
TfL Oyster Top Up - £20.00
Pret a Manger - £3.50
Rent Payment (Theo Miller) - £600.00
Harry stared at the name. Theo Miller.
A flare of irrational, burning jealousy scorched through him. Who was Theo Miller? The landlord? A boyfriend? The guy with the nose ring from the pub?
He looked at the amount. Six hundred pounds. In London, that bought you a closet with mold on the walls and drafty windows.
Yet, the balance remained high. She hadn't touched the bulk of the allowance from the last six months. It just sat there, accumulating interest. She was living in a shoebox with some guy named Theo, eating Tesco meal deals while sitting on a small fortune.
Why? Why was she punishing herself?
Harry moved his mouse, hovering the cursor over the Transfer Funds button.
He could double it. Triple it. He could send enough right now to buy her a flat of her own, making her life easy again with a single click. His finger twitched over the mouse. He wanted to play the hero. He wanted to fix it, because throwing money at a problem was the only way he knew how to show love.
But then he remembered her voice.
I don't want a normal life! I want you!
She had rejected the money and the ease. Sending funds now wouldn't be a gift, it would be an insult. It would be a declaration that he didn't believe she could survive without him.
He couldn't do that to her. He had to respect her choice, even if watching her struggle felt like physical pain.
Closing the browser tab, the screen reverted to his generic landscape desktop background.
Swiveling his chair around, he faced the window and the city beyond. She was out there somewhere eating cheap food, living with Theo Miller, probably hating him. And he was up here in his glass tower, safe, rich, and completely empty.
He picked up his phone, scrolling past photos of potential real estate investments and art pieces until he stopped on a photo from six months ago.
It was accidental, blurry, taken in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. Y/N was wearing his t-shirt, laughing, her hand coming up to block the camera as the sun hit her hair. She looked happy.
Harry stared at the photo until the screen dimmed. He missed her so much it felt like bleeding out.
But he stayed in his tower, and he let her struggle. Because that was what she wanted.
The music wasn't just sound. It was a physical sensation. A relentless, thumping rhythm shook the floorboards and rattled the bottles on the bar, thickening the air with the smell of spilled lager, sweat, and cheap vanilla body spray.
Standing by the bar, Y/N lifted her boot, grimacing at the audible peeling sound as the sole separated from the layer of dried alcohol coating the wood. Her feet were literally stuck to the floor.
"Chug! Chug! Chug!"
Nearby, Josh stood on a stool, tilting a pitcher of something neon blue into the mouth of a girl Y/N didn’t know while Sarah cheered him on.
Y/N took a sip of her vodka cranberry. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and sugar syrup, warm and watery because the ice had melted twenty minutes ago.
She checked her phone: 11:15 PM.
In her old life, 11:15 PM on a Saturday meant sitting on the velvet sofa with Harry. It meant a glass of Pinot Noir that cost more than her rent, quiet conversations about books or politics, and the weight of his hand resting warm and heavy on her knee.
Here, it meant getting jostled by sweaty strangers in a room that smelled like a locker room.
"You look like you are at a funeral."
The guy sliding into the space next to her was cute enough, floppy hair, a nice smile, and a t-shirt that was a size too small. He smelled of vape smoke and Lynx.
"I am just tired," Y/N shouted over the bass.
"I’m Liam," he shouted back, leaning in too close. "I’m Josh’s mate from uni."
"Y/N."
"I know," he grinned. "Josh said his roommate was hot. He wasn't lying."
Y/N forced a brittle smile. Six months ago, this would have been flattering. A cute boy her age hitting on her in a bar. This was supposed to be the dream, the "normal life" Harry had insisted she needed.
"Can I get you a drink?" Liam asked. "You look like you need something stronger than that."
"I am okay."
"Come on," he insisted, signaling the bartender without waiting for her answer. "Two tequila shots! The good stuff!"
The bartender poured two shots of the house tequila, which was definitely not the good stuff. Liam handed her one, clinking his glass against hers so hard that liquid sloshed over her hand.
"To being young and dumb!" he cheered.
Y/N stared at the sticky liquid coating her knuckles.
Harry never spilled. Harry moved with a grace that bordered on supernatural. He would have handed her a glass by the stem, toasting to her eyes, her intelligence, or her future.
"Cheers," she mumbled, throwing the shot back. It burned all the way down.
Laughing, Liam wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned his elbow on the sticky bar.
"So," he yelled. "Josh says you just graduated. English lit, right?"
"Yeah."
"What are you gonna do with that? Teach?"
"I want to work in publishing," she said.
"Publishing," he nodded, glancing around the room as if already bored. "Sounds intense. My cousin tried to get into that. Said it pays peanuts."
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking a notification while she was still talking.
"Anyway," he said, shoving the phone back. "You wanna dance? This song is a banger."
He reached out and grabbed her waist.
His hand was sweaty. His grip was clumsy.
Y/N froze.
The memory of Harry’s grip crashed over her, the size of his hand, the way his thumb would stroke the sensitive skin of her hip bone, the heavy, possessive weight of his touch. It felt grounding. It felt like he was anchoring her to the earth.
Liam’s touch just felt clammy.
She pulled away sharply. "I can't."
Liam looked confused. "What? Why?"
"I have to go."
"Go? It’s not even midnight. The night is young!"
"I am not," Y/N said.
She pushed past him. She pushed past Josh, who was now wearing the empty pitcher on his head like a hat. She shouldered her way through the wall of bodies and noise, stumbling out of the club and onto the pavement.
The air outside was cool and wet. It was raining again.
Y/N leaned against the brick wall of the club, burying her face in her hands.
She was ruined.
Harry had ruined her. Not with malice or cruelty, but by being perfect. He had shown her what it felt like to be treated like a woman, to be listened to, cared for, and touched with reverence. Now, every other man on the planet felt like a child in comparison.
Looking up, she watched the boys stumbling out of the club. They were loud, messy, and exactly who she was supposed to be with.
But she didn't want them.
She wanted the silver hair. She wanted the lines around the eyes. She wanted the man who drank scotch, read Jane Austen, and made her feel safe.
"I hate you," she whispered to the empty street.
Wiping the tears from her face with the back of her sticky hand, she started the long walk back to the cold flat with the screaming roommate and the empty fridge.
The tray was heavy, loaded with flutes of cheap prosecco trying very hard to pass as champagne. Y/N balanced it on her left hand, feet throbbing in the cheap black flats she had bought at Primark only because the gallery manager insisted all temporary staff wear "sensible black footwear."
She was not an assistant editor. She was not a writer. She was "Event Staff."
It was a temporary gig. Two nights a week, ten pounds an hour plus tips. It barely covered the cost of her travel card, but it was money that didn't come from Harry’s bank account, so she took it.
The gallery in Soho was a white box with concrete floors and track lighting bright enough to perform surgery. The art on the walls was incomprehensible, a collection of red squares and twisted metal that cost more than most people earned in a decade.
Y/N moved through the crowd, keeping her head down, trying to make herself invisible.
Then the room went quiet.
It wasn't a total silence, but a shift in atmospheric pressure. A sudden drop in volume that started at the front door and washed over the crowd like a cold wave. Heads turned. Whispers started. The energy in the room shifted instantly from bored pretension to electric alertness.
Y/N looked up. Her heart didn't just stop, it plummeted through the floorboards.
Harry was standing in the doorway.
He looked like a weapon in a bespoke suit. Dressed entirely in black—shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tops of his tattoos, blazer with sharp lapels, his hair was pushed back, and his rings caught the harsh gallery lights.
He wasn't looking at the art. He wasn't looking at the frantic gallery owner buzzing around him. He was scanning the room, his eyes dark and predatory. He was hunting.
Y/N froze, hugging the tray of glasses to her chest like a shield as she stood near the center of the room, surrounded by people in furs and tuxedos.
Harry’s eyes locked onto her.
He didn't blink. He didn't look away or check to see if anyone was watching. He just started walking.
Cutting through the crowd like a shark moving through water, he ignored the people stepping out of his way, the whispers, and the pointing fingers. He walked straight toward her with a terrifying, singular focus.
Y/N’s breath hitched. She felt exposed, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming train.
Harry stopped less than a foot in front of her.
He was so close that his scent, tobacco and expensive wood, overpowered the smell of the cheap wine, creating a sudden intimate vacuum in the middle of the crowded room.
The gallery owner hovered a few feet away, looking nervous, but Harry ignored him. The guests were staring openly now, watching Harry corner a waitress.
But when Harry spoke, he lowered his voice so that only she could hear him.
"Put it down," he murmured, a low vibration she felt in her chest.
"I am working," she whispered back without moving her lips. "I can't put it down."
"You are not a servant, Y/N," he rasped, eyes furious.
"I am tonight," she hissed. "People are staring, Harry."
"Let them stare." He took a half step closer, invading her personal space completely and forcing the world to disappear. "I don't care if they stare. I don't care if they take pictures. Look at me."
She looked up at him. His eyes were wrecked.
"You look thin," he accused quietly. "Are you eating?"
"I am fine."
"You are lying," he whispered. "I checked your account. You haven't touched the money. You are living on pennies and paying rent to some idiot named Theo Miller."
Y/N felt her face burn. "Harry, stop it. Not here. Theo is Josh's first name"
"I drove across the city because I saw the shift roster for this event," he confessed, voice raw and aching. "I came here to see you. Not to see art. Not to drink bad wine. Just you."
"You can't do this," she pleaded softly. "You can't just walk in here and act like you own me."
"I don't own you," Harry said. "But I am responsible for you. And seeing you like this... serving these people... it is killing me."
He reached out.
In full view of the room, he lifted his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek for a heartbeat. A gesture that was possessive, tender, and told everyone watching that they knew each other. But the words remained a secret between them.
"Come home," he breathed into the space between them. "Please."
Y/N looked at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes. She saw that he had broken every rule he had ever made about privacy just to stand here and ask her that question.
"I can't," she whispered. "I need to do this."
Harry’s hand dropped. The rejection hit him hard. Stepping back, the bubble burst, and the sounds of the room rushed back in. He looked around as if remembering where he was.
He turned to the wall beside them, staring at the massive black canvas with the red dot.
"This is garbage," he announced. His voice was loud now, carrying clearly over the murmuring crowd.
"It is titled The Void," Y/N said automatically, falling back into her role though her voice shook. "It is fifty thousand pounds."
"It matches your mood," Harry muttered low enough that only she heard it.
He looked at her, a dark humor flashing in his eyes.
"If I buy it," he asked loudly, "do you get a commission?"
"No," she said. "I am just the help."
"Pity."
Harry turned to the gallery owner, who was watching with his mouth open.
"I will take it," Harry said, pointing at the black painting. "Wrap it up. Send it to this address."
Pulling a card from his pocket, he scribbled something on the back and handed it to the owner. Then he looked back at Y/N, holding her gaze one last time.
"Don't let them work you too hard," he said softly.
He turned and walked away, cutting through the crowd that parted for him, leaving Y/N standing in the center of the room with a tray of champagne and a heart beating so hard it hurt.
The next morning.
Y/N was sitting in the kitchen eating dry toast. Josh was playing FIFA on the sofa.
There was a knock at the door.
"I'll get it!" Josh yelled.
He opened the door.
"Holy shit," he said.
Y/N walked into the hallway.
Two men in blue coveralls were standing there. They were holding a massive crate.
"Delivery for Y/N," one of them said.
"For me?"
They carried the crate inside. It barely fit in the hallway. It took up the entire living room.
Josh grabbed a screwdriver. "What is it? A fridge?"
They pried the lid off.
Y/N stared.
It was the painting. The black canvas with the red dot. The fifty thousand pound garbage.
There was a small white envelope taped to the front.
Y/N pulled it off. Her hands were shaking. She opened it.
Inside was a note written on heavy cream cardstock. The handwriting was messy and all caps.
IT IS PRETENTIOUS GARBAGE. HANG IT OVER YOUR WALL. - H
Y/N looked at the painting. She looked at the note.
"What is it?" Josh asked staring at the black canvas. "Is that art? It looks like a spot."
"It is," Y/N said pressing the note to her chest.
The painting was a problem.
Physically, it was a problem because it was four feet wide and six feet tall. In a gallery, it looked imposing. In a hallway that smelled of damp carpet, it was a monolith. It blocked the bathroom door. If you wanted to pee, you had to turn sideways and suck in your stomach to squeeze past it.
"We should sell it," Josh said for the tenth time.
He was standing in front of it, eating a bowl of cereal. He pointed his spoon at the red dot in the center of the black canvas.
"I Googled it, Y/N. The guy who painted this? Some Danish dude. His stuff goes for insane money. We could put it on eBay. Or Gumtree."
Y/N sat on the floor, her back against the peeling wallpaper, staring at the canvas.
She looked at the pretentious red dot. She looked at the aggressive black void. She remembered Harry’s face in the gallery. The way he had looked at it with such disdain, only to buy it ten seconds later just to make her smile.
He hadn't sent flowers. Flowers were cliché. Flowers died. He hadn't sent jewelry. Jewelry was a transaction.
He had sent a fifty-thousand-pound inside joke.
He had sent a massive, inconvenient, ridiculous object just because they had shared a moment of snark about it. It was the most absurd, excessive, "Harry" thing he could have possibly done.
A bubble of laughter rose in her chest.
It started as a giggle, then bubbled up into a full, wet laugh. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
"What?" Josh asked, looking at her like she had lost her mind. "Why are you laughing? It’s just a spot."
"It’s not just a spot," Y/N gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "It’s a love letter."
"A what?"
"It’s him," she said, shaking her head. "He’s insane. He’s absolutely insane. And he squeezed this giant thing into my tiny life just to remind me that he’s there."
She stood up. The laughter settled into a warm, glowing resolve in her chest. The coldness she had felt for three weeks evaporated.
Harry wasn't trying to buy her. He wasn't trying to starve her out. He was trying to flirt with her. He was poking her from his ivory tower, waiting to see if she would poke back.
"I’m going out," she announced.
"Where?" Josh asked. "To sell it?"
"No," Y/N said, grabbing her coat. She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. She didn't look tired anymore. She looked like a woman with a plan. "I’m going to return the receipt."
"The receipt?"
"I’m going to negotiate, Josh," she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "Don't sell the painting. I think it really ties the room together."
The building was a fortress of glass and steel.
Vanguard Holdings occupied the top ten floors of one of the tallest skyscrapers in the City of London. It was a building designed to intimidate. The lobby was three stories high, filled with polished marble and security guards who looked like they were ex-SAS.
Y/N stood outside the revolving doors.
She looked down at herself. She wasn't wearing an interview suit. She was wearing wide-leg jeans rolled at the ankle, a crisp white tank top, and a long, structured black coat. A black baseball cap was pulled low over her hair, and a leather crossbody bag was slung across her chest.
She looked young. She looked like the kind of person who didn't belong in a place like this, which made her stand out even more.
She pushed through the revolving doors.
The air inside was cool and smelled of expensive sanitizer. The noise of the city vanished, replaced by the hushed murmur of commerce. Men in blue suits walked with purpose, checking their phones. Women in heels clicked across the marble.
Y/N walked straight to the reception desk. The receptionist was beautiful, intimidating, and wearing a headset.
"Can I help you?" she asked, not looking up from her screen.
"I am here to see Harry Styles," Y/N said clearly.
The receptionist stopped typing. She looked up. Her eyes swept over the jeans, the baseball cap, the trainers. It was a look of dismissal.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
The receptionist gave a small, pitying smile. "Mr. Styles’ calendar is booked months in advance. I can't just—"
"Tell him it’s Y/N," she interrupted, leaning slightly onto the high desk. "Tell him I’m here about the commission."
The receptionist blinked. "The commission?"
"He’ll know what it means."
The receptionist hesitated. There was a spark in Y/N’s eyes that suggested she wasn't a random petitioner. She looked like trouble.
"One moment."
The receptionist picked up the phone. She dialed a number. She spoke in a hushed voice, turning her chair slightly away.
"Yes... a woman named Y/N... No, no appointment... She says it’s about a commission?"
Pause.
The receptionist went pale. Her eyes went wide.
"Yes. Yes, sir. Immediately."
She hung up the phone. She looked at Y/N with wide, terrified eyes. The pity was gone. Replaced by awe.
"Mr. Styles says you are to go up immediately," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Top floor. The private elevator is to your right. Scan this pass."
She handed Y/N a plastic card.
"Thank you," Y/N said, tucking the pass into her pocket.
She walked to the private elevator. She scanned the pass.
The doors slid open.
There were no buttons inside. Just a single panel that lit up as soon as she entered.
Floor 45.
The elevator rose. Her ears popped.
She watched the numbers climb. 10... 20... 30...
Her stomach did flip-flops. She wasn't just going up a building. She was ascending back to Olympus. She was going back to the god who had thrown lightning bolts at her in a gallery and left her with a storm.
40... 45.
Ding.
The doors opened into a sleek, minimalist reception area. It was all glass and white marble. A severe-looking assistant sat behind a desk that cost more than Y/N’s university tuition.
"You are Y/N?" the assistant asked, looking her up and down with open disapproval. The baseball cap seemed to offend her personally.
"Yes."
"Mr. Styles is currently in a meeting," the assistant said coldly. "Take a seat. He will see you when he is finished."
Y/N didn't argue. She walked over to a black leather bench and sat down. She stretched her legs out, her trainers scuffing the pristine floor. She crossed her arms and waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then, the large double doors to the inner office opened.
A woman walked out.
She was in her forties. She had perfectly coiffed blonde hair and was wearing a tailored navy suit that fit her like a second skin. She was carrying a leather portfolio and looked every inch the successful, "appropriate" executive.
She stopped when she saw Y/N.
Her eyes raked over the younger girl, the baggy jeans, the tank top, the baseball cap. Her lip curled slightly in a look of pure disdain. It was the look of someone who recognized an intruder. A tourist.
She shook her head slightly and walked to the elevator without a word.
Y/N watched her go. That was the competition. That was the life Harry was supposed to have.
The assistant’s phone buzzed.
"He will see you now," she said stiffly.
Y/N stood up. She adjusted her bag. She walked to the heavy double doors.
She pushed them open.
Harry’s office was massive. It occupied the corner of the building, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls on two sides. London lay spread out below like a toy set.
Harry was standing by the window.
He was wearing a suit identical to the one he wore to the gallary. It was perfectly fitted, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. He was holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He looked breathtaking. He looked rich. He looked untouchable.
He heard the door close. He turned around.
He saw her.
He froze. The glass lowered slowly in his hand. His eyes swept over her, the coat, the jeans, the cap casting a shadow over her eyes. The contrast between her youthful, cool aesthetic and his severe, corporate surroundings was jarring.
He didn't smile, but his eyes lit up. It was the first time she had seen life in them in weeks.
"You came," he said.
Y/N didn't walk further into the room. She stayed by the door, her hand gripping the strap of her bag.
"Who was she?" she asked.
Harry blinked, confused by the lack of greeting. "Who?"
"The woman," Y/N said, her voice tight. "The blonde. The suit. The one who looked at me like I was the cleaning crew. Is that her? Is that the appropriate choice?"
Harry’s expression hardened. He set his glass down on the window sill with a sharp clink.
"That was Victoria," he said. "She is a client. We are discussing a merger."
"She looked like more than a merger," Y/N accused. "She looked like a Sunday morning. She looked like someone your parents would love."
"She is a bore," Harry said flatly. "She talks about tennis and pension funds."
"So you haven't moved on?" she asked. Her voice wavered slightly, losing its edge. "You aren't... replacing me?"
Harry laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound.
"Replacing you?" he repeated. He walked toward her, stopping just out of reach. He looked at her with an intensity that burned. "Y/N, I have spent the last three weeks staring at a wall and checking your bank account every hour. I went to dinner with that woman once and I left before the main course because she wasn't you. I haven't moved on. I haven't moved an inch."
Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The knot in her chest loosened.
"Good," she whispered.
"Good," Harry echoed. He looked her up and down again, this time taking in the outfit with appreciation rather than shock.
"Ideally, I would have sent a courier," Y/N said, recovering her composure and walking further into the room. Her trainers made no sound on the plush grey carpet. "But the item in question is a bit difficult to transport."
Harry’s lips twitched. "Is it?"
"It’s four feet wide, Harry," she said, stopping ten feet from him. "It blocks the bathroom. I have to shimmy past fifty thousand pounds of Danish angst just to brush my teeth."
Harry chuckled. It was a rusty sound, but it was real.
"I thought it matched your mood," he said smoothly.
"It matches the damp spot on the ceiling perfectly," she countered. "Josh wants to sell it on eBay."
"He wouldn't dare."
"He might. He wants to buy a used Ford Fiesta."
Harry grimaced. "Please tell him I will buy him a Fiesta if he promises never to touch the canvas again."
"I’m not here to talk about Josh’s car," Y/N said.
"Why are you here?"
"I’m here to negotiate."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Negotiate? I didn't know we had an open deal."
"We do now."
She walked around the desk. She was now in his space. She was invading his territory just like he had invaded hers at the gallery.
"I have a counter-offer," she said.
Harry turned fully toward her. The playfulness dimmed slightly, replaced by an intense, hungry focus. "I’m listening."
"I am not signing a new contract," she stated.
"Okay."
"I am not taking an allowance for 'services rendered'."
"Okay."
"And I am not living in a schedule," she said. "If I want to see you on a Tuesday, I see you on a Tuesday. If I want to call you at 3 AM because I had a bad dream, I call you. No appointments. No shifts. No walls."
Harry looked at her. He looked at the fire in her eyes under the brim of the cap.
"That sounds chaotic," he murmured.
"It is," she agreed. "It’s messy. It’s unprofessional. It’s completely inefficient."
She took a step closer. She reached up and took off her cap, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. She looked up at him, baring her face.
"But it’s real, Harry. And I think you’re bored of perfect."
Harry stared down at her. He reached out and touched her hair, as if checking she was real.
"I am," he admitted softly. "I am bored to death of perfect. But I am also terrified of the mess.”
He looked up at her, and for the first time, the confident mask cracked completely. He looked vulnerable.
"You have to understand, Y/N... I don't know how to do that," he said, his voice rough. "I have lived my entire adult life in a contract. I understand terms. I understand boundaries. I understand ownership."
He stepped closer, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for her but wasn't sure if he was allowed to.
"I don't know how to do 'real'," he whispered. "I don't know how to handle the chaos without trying to fix it with money. So if we do this... if you want no walls..."
He took a shaky breath.
"You have to go slow with me. You have to be patient. Because this is new to me. And I am going to make mistakes."
Y/N softened. She saw the fear behind the power. He was a master of the universe, but he was a novice at love.
"I can be patient," she whispered. "As long as you are trying."
"I am willing to do anything to get you back," Harry swore. "I will burn the contracts. I will deal with the mess. Just... teach me how to do it."
"Deal," she whispered.
Harry looked at her mouth. He looked at her eyes. He looked like a man who had been holding his breath for a month and was finally exhaling.
"You missed a term," he said.
"Did I?"
"The living arrangements," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The painting doesn't fit in your flat. It’s a health and safety hazard."
"It is," she conceded.
"I have a wall," Harry said, stepping closer until their bodies were almost touching. "In Mayfair. It’s a very large, very empty wall. It needs something pretentious to tie the room together."
Y/N smiled. A genuine, blinding smile.
"Is that a job offer, Mr. Styles?"
"No," Harry said. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against the expensive fabric of his suit. "It’s a plea. Bring the painting back. Bring your toothbrush. Bring the chaos."
He lowered his head.
"Just bring yourself back," he whispered against her lips. "Because I can't survive another week of being appropriate."
"Deal," she whispered.
Harry didn't kiss her immediately.
He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath that seemed to empty his lungs of all the stress and distance of the last month. His hands moved up her back, large, warm, and firm. One hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her like she was something precious he had almost lost in a fire.
Then, he tilted his head and captured her mouth.
It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't a demand. It was worship.
His lips moved against hers with a slow, devastating tenderness. He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth all over again. He tasted like relief. He tasted like home.
Y/N melted into him, her hands clutching the lapels of his jacket, rising on her toes to get closer. The cold, sterile office faded away. The view of London disappeared. There was only the heat of his body and the beat of his heart against her chest.
Harry groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips. He deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his fear, his need, and his unspoken love into it. It was a promise signed not in ink, but in breath and skin.
He pulled her tighter until there was no air left between them, kissing her until her knees went weak and she had to cling to him just to stay upright.
Then, the shift happened.
He didn't pull away gently. He tore his mouth from hers with a sharp exhale, his forehead knocking against hers. His hands gripped her waist hard enough to leave marks.
"Three weeks," Harry rasped. It wasn't romantic; it was an accusation. "You vanished for three weeks."
"I had to," Y/N breathed, trying to find her footing. "I had to see if I could do it."
"And?" Harry demanded. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His gaze was dark, dilated, and terrifyingly focused. "Could you?"
"No," she admitted. "I hated it."
Harry let out a rough sound, half-laugh, half-groan.
"You have no idea," he muttered. "You have no idea what you did to me."
He grabbed her hips and lifted her effortlessly, backing her up until she hit the edge of the desk. He set her on top of it, stepping between her legs to get closer. The friction of his expensive suit against her denim jeans sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.
"I stopped going home," Harry confessed. He ran his thumbs over her jawline, holding her face still so she couldn't look away. "I stayed here. I slept on the sofa in the back office."
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers.
"I haven't slept more than three hours a night since you left," he said, his voice low and gritty. "I stare at the ceiling and I wonder where you are. I wonder if you're cold. I wonder if you're with someone else."
"There was no one else," Y/N promised.
"Good," Harry growled. "Because I don't share."
He didn't wait for more words. He crashed his mouth back onto hers.
This wasn't a soft reunion. It was a collision.
He kissed her like he was starving. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessive rhythm that made her head spin. It was messy, desperate, and necessary.
Y/N met him with equal force, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him flush against her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging hard, needing to feel the reality of him.
Harry groaned into her mouth. He tilted her head back, exposing her throat. He buried his face in her neck, but he didn't kiss the skin gently; he bit down lightly on the sensitive cord of muscle, scraping his teeth against her pulse.
"Harry," she gasped, her back arching off the desk.
"I hated it," he murmured against her skin, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss over the spot he had just marked. "I hated every second of the quiet. Don't ever do that to me again."
"I won't," she breathed.
"I mean it," he said, pulling back. His lips were red, his hair was a mess, and his tie was askew. He looked thoroughly unraveled. "We figure it out. We fight. We negotiate. But you don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere," she swore.
Harry stared at her for a second longer, cataloging the truth in her eyes. Then he nodded—once, sharp and decisive. The mask of control slid back into place, though his eyes remained wild.
He smoothed his tie with a hand that was still shaking slightly.
"Get off the desk," he said, his voice rough. "I'm taking you home."
Harry walked over to the intercom on his desk. He pressed the button with a heavy finger.
"Sophie?"
The assistant’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and professional. "Yes, Mr. Styles?"
"Cancel the board meeting," Harry said calmly. "Cancel the dinner with the investors. Cancel tomorrow morning while you are at it."
There was a stunned silence on the other end.
"Sir? The board meeting is regarding the Q3 projections. They are already seated in the conference room."
"Tell them something came up," Harry said. He looked at Y/N. He looked at her messy hair, her oversized coat, and the defiance still lingering in her eyes. "Tell them I am handling a volatile asset."
He released the button.
He grabbed his long wool coat from the rack and shrugged it on over his suit. He buttoned it once, his movements sharp and efficient.
He didn't ask if she was ready. He didn't offer his hand like a gentleman asking for a dance. He reached out and captured her hand. His grip was firm, warm, and absolute. It wasn't an invitation; it was a claim.
He pulled her toward the door.
They walked out of the inner office. Sophie was standing behind her desk, looking pale. She stared at Harry, then at Y/N in her baseball cap and trainers, and finally at Harry’s hand clamped possessively around the girl’s fingers.
"Sir," she stammered. "Should I reschedule for Monday?"
"Yes," Harry said. He didn't stop walking. "And Sophie?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Send someone to the address I am about to text you. There is a large black painting in the hallway. Have it transported to the townhouse. Carefully."
"The... painting, sir?"
"Yes."
Harry guided Y/N into the elevator, his hand moving to the small of her back to usher her in. The doors slid shut on Sophie's bewildered face.
They rode down in silence. It wasn't awkward. It was the charged, heavy silence of two people who had just narrowly avoided a collision.
When the doors opened in the lobby, the security guards straightened up. Usually, Harry walked through the lobby like a ghost—fast, focused on his phone, acknowledging no one.
Today he slowed down.
He kept Y/N firmly at his side. He walked her past the reception desk, past the marble columns, and through the revolving doors out onto the street. He didn't look at anyone else. He made it very clear that the only thing in the building that mattered was the woman wearing the baseball cap.
His driver was waiting at the curb. Harry opened the door for her, waited for her to slide in, and then got in beside her.
"Home," Harry said to the driver.
The car pulled away into the grey London traffic. The interior was quiet, sealed off from the noise of the city.
Y/N leaned back against the leather headrest, the adrenaline finally fading into exhaustion. She turned her head.
Harry was sitting in the corner of the seat, watching her. His arm was resting on the window ledge, his hand covering his mouth as if he was thinking. His eyes were heavy, dark, and unblinking.
"What?" she asked softly.
Harry dropped his hand. He didn't smile.
"I missed you," he said. It was a statement of fact, devoid of poetry.
Y/N let out a small breath, a corner of her mouth ticking up. She reached over and tugged lightly on the end of his tie, which was still crooked from their collision in the office.
"A volatile asset?" she teased softly. "Is that what I am now?"
Harry caught her hand before she could pull away, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. A ghost of a smirk finally touched his lips, bringing the light back into his eyes.
"High risk," he murmured, interlacing their fingers on the leather seat. "But very high reward."
➡️ chapter 5