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The Ex Education

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

series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter

Lesson 13

Summary: Harry doesn’t answer your calls, and the ghosts of the past begin circling again. As scandals resurface and loyalties are tested, you and Harry are forced into yet another trial. When midnight strikes, will love still choose you both?

Warnings and WC: 15.7k. (oops) 18+⚠️SMUT/EXPLICIT CONTENT/ MDNI, lap sex, dirty talk, sexual tension, explicit language, rough sex, shameless smut, possessive behavior, lust, desire, creampie, piv, touching, fluff, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do that), kissing, second chance romance, ex husband ex wife, upper east side drama, rich family problems, scandal, mention about paternity lawsuit, protective!Harry, society drama, corporate politics, jealous!Harry, argument, protective John, Reader gently rejects John, Lucas is being jerk, christmas eve, birthday on christmas vibe, plaza hotel, slow burn payoff, emotional healing, past trauma mention, angst, mention of periods, fluff, romance, emotional tension, family drama, rom-com, comedy, sassy!reader, OC Characters (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 🤍 This chapter was a little delayed because of internet issues (sorry)😭, so thank you for being patient with me. I wrote every bit of it with so much love during those quiet breaks, and I really hope you feel it while reading...💋

Love Doesn't Belong on the Balance Sheet

At dawn, the Upper East Side never looked real. It looked edited. The glass towers caught light before the streets were fully awake, and for a few minutes everything felt suspended—like someone had turned the contrast up too high. Central Park still held onto the last of the night. The air was thin, cold, almost polite. From below, the buildings seemed calm. Untouched. Expensive in a way that suggested permanence.

People always slowed down when they looked up. They tried not to, but they did.

A jogger paused at the edge of the park, stretching longer than necessary just to stare. A woman with a stroller followed the line of someone’s pointing finger. A tourist zoomed in with her phone as if she might catch a glimpse of a life happening behind the glass.

“Imagine living up there.” “How much do you think that costs?” “I bet it’s insane at night.”

It wasn’t envy. Not exactly. It was projection.

From far enough away, height looks like safety. Money looks like insulation. Glass looks like freedom. Distance is kind like that. It edits out the parts where the lights never really turn off.

From the penthouse, the city didn’t feel romantic. It felt exposed.

People assumed height meant power. That floor-to-ceiling windows meant you owned the view instead of the view owning you. That security meant peace.

Sometimes security meant you had fewer things to worry about. It did not mean you had fewer consequences.

From your windows, the city moved in loud, messy waves. Sirens. Laughter. Arguments on sidewalks. Someone crying into a phone without caring who heard. A couple kissing in the middle of a crosswalk while traffic waited.

They were visible to each other. You were visible to everyone.

They could disappear into a crowd if they needed to. Change neighborhoods. Change hair. Change jobs. Start over quietly. You could trend before noon.

For them, a mistake could dissolve by Monday. For you, it calcified.

One careless sentence and someone would clip it, circulate it, dissect it. One photograph at the wrong angle and analysts would start whispering. One dinner with the wrong person and it would become narrative.

You learned to check rooms before entering them. Learned which cameras belonged to press and which belonged to staff. Learned to keep your shoulders squared even when your stomach dropped.

You didn’t resent the weight. That would’ve been dishonest.

You were raised for it.

Raised to understand that your last name came with infrastructure. Lawyers. Advisors. Quiet phone calls that made problems shrink before they reached headlines.

But power doesn’t forgive distraction. And legacy does not allow softness.

When the pressure built too high in your chest, when breathing felt mechanical and rehearsed, your mind always returned to the same image.

A golden cage.

It was comfortable. Temperature controlled. Secured. Furnished with better views than most people would ever know.

But it was still containment.

Access restricted. Movement documented. Security guards who pretended not to watch but always did.

From the outside, it looked like privilege. Inside, it felt like a role you could never fully step out of.

You knew it was still privilege. You were not naïve.

There were women whose cages were not metaphorical.

Women without lawyers. Without security. Without silence purchased on their behalf.

You never confused comfort with innocence. But comfort didn’t erase the cost.

Other women could unravel publicly. Cry in restaurants. Leave town for a month and let people speculate. Gain weight. Lose weight. Fall apart. You couldn’t.

Your pain was processed. Filtered through legal teams. Reshaped by PR. Contained in statements that said just enough and nothing at all.

When you returned from Switzerland that year, you smiled on cue. Not because you were healed. Because you were briefed.

No one saw how white your hospital sheets had been. How the antiseptic smell clung to your hair for weeks. How your body felt unfamiliar—like something that had betrayed you quietly.

No one knew how close the monitors had come to flatlining. No one knew his name.

You attended charity dinners three weeks later. You stood under chandeliers and let photographers say your name. You laughed at jokes you didn’t process.

You learned how to survive without looking like you were surviving.

That was the exhausting part. Not the wealth. The performance.

You didn’t hate the other Upper East Side women. Some of them had mastered it. Some of them believed in it. They wore couture like uniform. Diamonds like punctuation marks at the end of declarative sentences.

They understood timing. Angles. When to speak and when to let silence look intentional. Sometimes you wondered if you would’ve become one of them. If you hadn’t fallen in love.

Because love was inefficient. Love didn’t respect structure. Love didn’t consult legal.

You had been raised to be formidable. Disciplined. Controlled.

A woman who did not bow. Did not soften. Did not need.

Until Harry.

When he said I love you, it wasn’t grand. There were no witnesses. No skyline behind him. No perfect lighting.

It was quiet. Simple. Earnest.

And maybe that was the moment you realized it was the first time you had ever really been in love.

It wasn’t overwhelming. It didn’t sweep you off your feet. It made space.

With him, you weren’t a surname. You weren’t an asset. You weren’t strategy. You were just a woman — and for the first time, that felt like enough.

You had found the center of your life. Until life turned cruel and tore you apart without mercy.

Five years. Life had stolen five years from you.

And now that you had found each other again, the past hovered over you like a storm cloud—heavy, inevitable.

You had lain awake all night, trapped in memory and fear, until exhaustion finally claimed you. When the first pale light of morning slipped through the windows, you opened eyes swollen from crying.

Your hand moved instinctively toward your phone. Harry. Message after message—blue bubbles lined up on the screen, each one sitting beneath the small, indifferent word: Delivered.

You: Are you okay? (5:02 PM) You: Please call me. (5:47 PM) You: Harry? (6:31 PM) You: I’m worried. (8:18 PM) You: Please. (11:56 PM)

Below them, a quiet row of outgoing calls. His name repeated over and over in the call log. Time stamps stretching from yesterday evening into the early hours of the morning.

You had called from the car. Called again when you reached the apartment. Called sometime after midnight, when the silence had grown too loud to ignore. And once more just before dawn, half-awake, desperate.

Fear tightened around your ribs, sharp and breath-stealing.

You could still see him. The way he had stood outside his company building as your father’s men closed in.

And his face—

God, his face.

It was the same look he had worn in Vermont.

You rolled onto your back with a strained, broken sound, pressing a pillow hard against your face as frustration and fear collided in your chest, and screamed into it. “Damn it.”

You needed to see him. To look at him—properly.

The image of him standing there, stricken and still, lingered with a cruel clarity. That look. You couldn’t let that be the last version of him your mind carried.

You needed to see his composure return. That quiet curve of his mouth. The warmth that softened his eyes when he looked at you.

You needed to know that yesterday had not broken something permanent.

Not in him. Not in you.

You called him again. It rang. And rang. And then went to voicemail. The automated tone felt colder than silence.

You lowered the phone slowly, your eyes drifting to his profile picture.

“You’re not angry with me… are you?” you murmured softly to the screen. “For not telling you sooner.”

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

I’m sorry...

You typed it. Stared at it. Then deleted it.

Apologizing felt wrong. Not because you weren’t sorry— but because this wasn’t that simple. You exhaled sharply and pushed yourself upright in bed.

Yesterday, Richard had practically dragged you out of Castillo Capital.

He’d explained in the car—Eduardo had shown up. The reporters had caught wind of it within minutes.

By the time Eduardo’s name started circulating through the press like blood in water, the entire swarm shifted direction.

Cameras. Microphones. Headlines forming before facts.

Richard had pulled you away just before they flooded the entrance.

In a way, he had protected you. But the method—

The way he grabbed your arm. The way his men closed in around you. The way the scene unfolded in full view of the lobby.

That single moment ruined everything.

Every single person inside Castillo Capital had seen it.

You weren’t just Queen. You weren't an intern. You were Richard Queen’s daughter.

Visibly. Undeniably.

And while that should have been your concern— It wasn’t.

Harry was.

Because the second you were forced into that car, you hadn’t seen what happened next.

You dialed Ron.

He answered on the third ring.

“Please tell me you’ve seen him.”

A pause. Office noise in the background. Low voices. Movement.

Dana’s voice faintly somewhere behind him.

“We’re at the office,” Ron said. “He hasn’t come in.”

Your stomach dropped.

“After you left yesterday…” Ron hesitated. “It was a nightmare. Cameras everywhere. They cornered him outside the building. We barely got them off the entrance.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple. “Oh God,” you whispered.

“I’ve never been that close to a cameraman before,” Ron muttered. “They were practically shoving lenses in our faces.”

“Yeah, believe me, I know,” you said quietly. “Did you check his place?”

“I went by this morning. No answer. I’ll try the spare key if we don’t hear anything by tonight.”

Spare key. Right. You had one too.

He’d handed it to you yesterday morning over breakfast—casually, like it meant nothing.

It had meant everything. But leaving the house right now was impossible. Reporters were already stationed outside.

Eduardo’s return had shaken your family’s name, and the revelation that you’d been working at Castillo Capital for months had been the final drop.

If they saw you step outside—

They would descend.

“Call me the second you hear anything,” you said.

“Sure, and Ms, Queen,” Ron’s tone softened. “Don’t stress yourself out, okay? He’s probably just… clearing his head. You know him. He’ll be fine.”

You wished you had his confidence. “Thank you, Ron.”

In the bathroom, you splashed cold water over your face until your skin tingled, until the sting helped quiet the noise in your head. You brushed your teeth mechanically, staring at your reflection as foam gathered at the corner of your mouth, as if even your body were moving on habit alone.

Normally—even on your worst days, even during your period—you dressed impeccably. Presentation was instinct. Precision. Armor.

Even pain had a dress code.

Today, you pulled on a simple day dress. Soft. Unstructured. The kind of thing you’d never wear to a meeting. A cardigan followed, sleeves pushed up without care. Your hair went into a loose, almost careless bun, strands slipping free at your temples.

No makeup.

You studied yourself in the mirror.

Your eyes were swollen. Shadows pooled beneath them. The faint redness along your nose betrayed how much you’d cried.

You didn’t reach for concealer. You didn’t care.

For once, you allowed yourself the small, almost absurd thought—

I’m just a woman. My boyfriend isn’t answering me. My father dragged me away from him. And I am absolutely allowed to spend the day sulking.

The normalcy of it almost made you laugh. Just heartbreak. Hormones. And a stubborn ache in your chest.

You exhaled slowly and straightened your shoulders.

Breakfast had long passed. And this house had rules. If you missed breakfast, no one recreated it for you.

Even back when there had been a full staff moving like clockwork through marble hallways and silver trays—that rule had stood.

Structure. Discipline. Control.

You walked toward the kitchen, passing one of the bodyguards stationed near the elevator.

He straightened the moment he saw you.

They’d doubled security overnight.

After the reporters had somehow slipped past the front line and made it into the building lobby—shouting questions, flashing cameras, trying to force their way toward the private floors—Richard had gone quiet in that dangerous way of his.

By midnight, there were men stationed at every access point.

You narrowed your eyes at the bodyguard.

He shifted slightly under your gaze.

He looked away first.

Lara was arranging fruit on a porcelain plate with a great care.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, glancing up. “I was just bringing this up to you. You missed breakfast.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“And I had a feeling you wouldn’t have much appetite.”

You wrinkled your nose at the plate, a faint, tired smile touching your lips.

“Yeagh, good guess,” you said softly.

Her gaze lingered on you—on the loose bun barely holding, on the soft cardigan hanging off one shoulder, on the absence of mascara. She stilled. She hadn’t seen you dressed like this in years. This was your quiet uniform. Your unspoken signal. Your depression style. Sometimes Lara understood you better than your own mother did.

“Oh, my darling,” she murmured, her voice gentler now. “Then sit. I’ll make your special tray.”

You exhaled slowly. Everyone in this house knew what that meant. Chocolate chip ice cream. Your favorite. With pistachios on the side—because too much sweetness overwhelmed you, and salt grounded it. You’d once mentioned that in a magazine interview, half joking about how it was your “emergency combination” on bad days. It had trended on Instagram for a week. Now it was just… ritual.

The television’s low volume drifted in from the sitting room. You followed the sound. Mikey was sprawled across the couch, controller in hand, PlayStation glowing against the muted elegance of the room. And he was sulking. That was new.

“Hey,” you said, dropping down beside him, tucking one leg beneath you.

“Hey, sis.”

He barely glanced away from the screen. “Period? And… heartbreak double feature?” he asked casually.

Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. “Heartbreak solo. No period. Yet. Thankfully.”

He lost the round and dropped the controller harder than necessary. “So what’s your excuse?” you asked dryly. “Did Dad fire you from the company?”

He groaned dramatically. “Sienna.” You closed your eyes. “God.”

“I think she’s cheating on me.”

You turned slowly to look at him. “You’re not even dating for god’s sake.”

“We will be. Eventually. And married.” He sat up slightly. “I’ve already thought of our future children’s names.”

You covered your face with your hand. “I’m not even on my period and you’re giving me cramps. Thank you.”

He grabbed your wrist and pulled your hand down with theatrical offense. “I went to her gallery thing, okay? Some guy showed up. Muscular. Big. They looked… close.”

He flexed his arm hopefully. “Should I go to the gym? Is that what you girls want now? Big arms and emotional unavailability?”

“Mikey,” you deadpanned, “you used to walk around reading Dostoevsky like you were the intellectual wing of Manhattan. That didn’t work. Muscles won’t either.”

He sighed, deflating.

Lara reappeared with the tray. “My princess’s favorite mix,” she announced gently, placing it on the coffee table.

You leaned your head back against the couch. “Lara, I really don’t want—”

Mikey reached for the ice cream. She slapped his hand without hesitation.

“Hey! I’m heartbroken too,” he protested.

Then he looked at you more seriously. “By the way… you’re worrying for nothing. I’m telling you.” His tone softened as he really looked at you this time. “Harry would never be mad at you. That guy is madly in love with you.” He huffed. “He fucking worships you, sis.”

You looked at him properly. A small, fragile smile tugged at your lips.

You lifted the spare controller and waved it in front of him. “Come on. Let’s play Sims.”

Mikey narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Oh no. Absolutely not. We are not designing emotionally unstable billionaires and trapping them in architectural experiments again.”

You tilted your head, sweet and dangerous. “What if we make a girl that looks like Sienna?”

He froze. “…What?”

“A perfect replica. Same hair. Same sweet smile.”

He stared at you. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.” You leaned closer. “And then we’ll see if she still chooses the muscular guy when her kitchen mysteriously disappears.”

“That’s sick.”

“That’s the game.”

He grabbed the controller tighter. “Fine. But then I’m making a guy that looks like Harry.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. And,” he added casually, “I’m not letting him shower.”

You gasped. “Noooo.”

“We’ll see how long he keeps that brooding billionaire vibe when green fumes start coming off him.”

You stared at him in horror. “He does not have fumes.”

“In Sims, everyone has fumes.”

“I will drown your character in the pool.”

“You always threaten that!”

“And I always follow through.”

He smirked. “Relax, making him that good-looking is going to take time. The Sims sliders aren’t built for that level of unfair genetics.”

You burst out laughing before you could stop yourself and smacked the back of his head lightly. “Idiot.”

“Ow!” He rubbed his head dramatically. “Domestic violence.”

You lunged for the controller again. “Give me that before you ruin my man digitally.”

“No.”

“Mikey.”

You tried grabbing the controller again; he twisted away, both of you half-standing, half-laughing, mock wrestling like children in an impossibly elegant living room.

“Give it, you tool!”

“Never!”

Lara sighed, a soft smile touching her lips. “Oh, you two,” she said gently. “Just like when you were little. Some things never change.”

You and Mikey froze mid tug-of-war. You straightened first, smoothing your cardigan as if nothing had happened.

The elevator chimed.

No one looked at first, Lara tensed. Then came the soft roll of garment racks over marble. And then—

Scarlet’s voice.

“Oh. My. God.”

All three of you turned.

She stepped into the living area like she had rehearsed the entrance. Cream silk blouse. Tailored trousers. And draped over her shoulders, a long, structured wool coat in the softest shade of ivory — floor-length, perfectly cut. Cartier bag dangling from her wrist.

Her eyes scanned the room in one slow sweep. Mikey slouched. You curled into the couch. The untouched tray.

Scarlet inhaled. “What,” she said calmly, “is happening here?”

You didn’t look at her. “As if you don’t know.”

Lara leaned toward her gently. “Scarlet… I don’t think tonight would be the best evening for this. They’re both a little… fragile.”

Scarlet’s expression flickered for half a second—calculating, adjusting.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, moving closer, placing the Cartier bag on the coffee table. “I brought you something.”

You glanced at it. Beige. Predictable.

You looked back at her. “I don’t want it.”

She tilted her head slightly, disappointed but patient. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about lifting your mood.”

“My mood doesn’t need lifting,” you replied evenly. “It needs space.”

Mikey muttered, “I’m heartbroken too and no one buys me Cartier.”

Scarlet ignored him entirely, but she sat between you and Mikey, one arm resting lightly behind your shoulders—not quite hugging, not quite distant.

“Listen to me,” she said, voice lowered now. Controlled. Intimate. “You think I enjoy this? You think I enjoy security outside, press circling like vultures? I don’t. But this is our world.”

There it was. Our world.

“You cannot afford to look unstable right now,” she continued gently. “Not after yesterday.”

Your jaw tightened. “He dragged me out of there.”

“He removed you before you were devoured.”

“He exposed me.”

“No,” she corrected calmly. “He protected you from something far worse.”

You held her gaze now. “Worse?” Your voice sharpened. “What could possibly be worse? The worst already happened.”

Scarlet inhaled slowly, then she stood up, Lara helping her to remove the coat.

“Go upstairs,” she said. “Take a proper bath. I’ll have the tub prepared.” She turned slightly—just enough for the staff to understand the shift. “Warm water. Not too hot. Lavender oil.” A brief pause. “And have the manicure and pedicure set brought up.”

Two members of staff straightened immediately. “Yes, Mrs. Queen.”

Then she looked back at you. “And then we begin getting ready.”

Your eyes moved past her. The hanging garments. The makeup artists pretending not to listen. The garment racks.

You blinked once. “Getting ready for what?”

Scarlet removed her gloves with deliberate calm, one finger at a time. “For dinner.”

You raised your eyebrows. She met your eyes evenly.

“With the Whitmores.”

Translation: With Lucas. And the family that manufactured him.

“Are you kidding me?” you said and jumped to your feet, “I am exhausted, publicly humiliated, and the man I love is not answering my calls. God knows what state he’s in. And your solution is a family dinner with a man I have absolutely no interest in? Is that really what you think I need right now?”

Scarlet didn’t flinch. “We warned you,” she said evenly. “We told you that working there would complicate things. So now you’re facing the consequences.”

You let out a disbelieving breath.

“Our family needs that tonight,” she added quietly.

You held her gaze. Then you tilted your head slightly—too calm now.

“You’ll manage without me,” you said smoothly.

Scarlet’s expression barely shifted. “This is not a request.”

A faint smile curved your lips. “Then consider this my rebellion for the week.”

You stepped back. “I’m not going.” Your voice was steady now. “You and dad can explain my ‘fragility.’ I’m sure it will play beautifully.”

And with that, you turned toward the staircase.

Scarlet watched you until you disappeared from view. Only then did she speak.

“She will come,” she said calmly. Not hopeful. Certain.

Lara hesitated. “Scarlet… maybe tonight is—”

Scarlet glared at her. “Don't.”

In the sitting room, Mikey had resumed eating the ice cream.

“Mikey.”

He froze mid-spoon. “Yes?”

Scarlet glanced at the bowl. “Put that down.”

He stared at her. “We’re policing snacks now? This is getting ridiculous.”

“Michael Nathaniel Queen, do not test me tonight.”

He paused. Full name meant no one was winning this argument but her. He sighed and set it down dramatically. “No emotional support dairy in this house.”

“And choose a proper suit. Immediately.”

He groaned, standing up. “We can’t even be depressed here. What is this, a dictatorship?”

Scarlet simply looked at him.

He straightened instantly. “…Fine. I’ll go pick a dark suit. Matches my mood anyway.”

He shot one last dramatic glance at the abandoned ice cream. “Tell it I loved it.”

Back in your room, you closed the door a little harder than necessary. Silence rushed in.

You pulled your phone out again. Harry. You called. It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail. Again.

You stared at the screen for a long second before lowering the phone slowly onto the bed beside you. “Pick up…” you whispered under your breath, though you knew he couldn’t hear you.

You lay back against the pillows, ceiling blurring slightly above you. If he wasn’t answering you, maybe distraction would.

You opened your group chat. Emily. Chloe. They responded almost immediately. Of course they had heard.

Eduardo’s return hadn’t just “circulated.” It had detonated. Before you even asked, they both told you the same thing.

Whatever you do, don’t open X. Not Instagram. Not the news. Not anything.

They knew how fast it moved. How ruthless it became once it started trending.

You told yourself you wouldn’t look.

You lasted forty seconds.

You opened X. Your name was already there. Trending.

#CastilloReturn #QueenFinancial

Your chest tightened.

The first post you saw wasn’t even from a gossip account. It was from a financial journalist.

Eduardo Castillo returns to NYC amid paternity lawsuit rumors. Sources confirm Queen Financial heir has been working inside Castillo Capital for months.

You swallowed. Scroll. Page Six had picked it up. Scroll.

Another finance blog you recognized.

Castillo Capital Turmoil: Was Queen Embedded as “Intern” Before Eduardo’s Reappearance?

Embedded. Like you were corporate espionage.

Scroll.

Someone had already made a thread.

So she wasn’t “just” an intern. Five-year sealed case resurfaces. Coincidence?

Your hand went cold.

You exited.

Stupidly, instinctively, you opened Instagram.

And that was worse.

The DMs kept pouring in. Notifications stacking. Buzz after buzz after buzz. It felt as if the screen had burst open and spilled directly into your hands—strangers’ opinions crawling over your skin.

You locked the phone. Then threw it onto the bed like it might explode.

Lara slipped in quietly, carrying a small plate and a cup of tea. You made an effort to eat something, pushing through the discomfort. Afterward, you took a painkiller to ease your headache.

But it wasn’t the pain that was suffocating you. It was waiting.

If you stayed another minute, you were going to lose your mind.

You stood. Dressed properly this time. You opened your door.

The makeup artists were still stationed in the living room. Garment racks lined the marble hall like silent witnesses.

You didn’t look at them. You walked straight toward the elevator.

The bodyguard stiffened the second he saw you move with intent.

You stepped forward. He stepped in front of you. “Move.”

“Sorry, Miss Queen,” he said carefully. “Mr. Queen’s direct orders. Until he returns home, you’re not permitted to leave.”

You stared at him. “Should I hand over my phone too? Or are we skipping straight to house arrest?”

He didn’t move.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. Richard stepped out.

Perfect timing.

You smiled without warmth. “Well,” you said lightly, “father’s home. I assume I can resume my adult status now?”

He grabbed your arm. Not violently. But firmly.

“Where are you going?”

You pulled your arm back sharply.

“To buy a balloon and run away with the circus,” you replied flatly. “Where do you think I’m going?”

“Don’t be childish.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “If I sound childish, it might be because I’m being handled like one.” Your voice echoed across the marble.“Should I start practicing my Godfather monologue now? Or do we skip straight to the part where I kiss your ring?”

The bodyguard tried — he truly did — to keep his face neutral. The corner of his mouth twitched anyway.

He cleared his throat, glancing at Richard almost apologetically. “Sorry, Mr. Queen,” he muttered under his breath, a reluctant grin slipping through. “It’s just… you do have a bit of a Marlon Brando thing going on. I mean that respectfully.”

Richard turned his head slowly. “Do I,” he said evenly.

The bodyguard’s grin died instantly. Spine straightened. Shoulders squared. Face blank. “No, sir.”

You bit your lip, trying not to burst out laughing.

Richard held his gaze for a second longer then looked back at you. Softer.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

You crossed your arms and followed him into the sitting area.

He gestured toward the sofa first, a quiet indication that you should sit.

You hesitated for half a second — then lowered yourself onto the cushions, smoothing your dress instinctively.

Only after you were settled did he take the armchair across from you.

He still hadn’t removed his coat.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped — posture controlled, but his eyes warm.

“Do you have any idea how important you are to me?”

You hadn’t expected that. You had expected resistance. Authority. Strategy. Not this.

You swallowed.

He held your gaze.

“The day I saw your mother,” he said quietly, “she was pregnant with you. Mikey was barely standing on his own two feet.”

You shook your head slowly. This topic was rarely opened in this house. Never by him.

“A woman like your mother,” he said quietly, “robbed of everything — not just her money, but her trust, her sense of safety. And two innocent children who had done nothing to deserve being left behind.” He exhaled slowly. “I remember thinking… what kind of man looks at that and chooses to walk away? What kind of man leaves his family like unpaid debts?”

His gaze settled on you, steady and unflinching.

“That’s when I understood something. Being a father isn’t biology. It isn’t blood. It isn’t a name on a certificate. It’s a choice. One you make every single day.”

His voice lowered.

“I chose your mother because I loved her. But the day you were born… I chose you.”

A pause.

“I chose you and Mikey. I swore to myself that everything I had — and everything I would ever build — would be yours. That you would never feel the absence of a man who didn’t have the strength to stay. I promised you would grow up protected. Wanted. Safe. I never saw you as another man’s child. Not once. Not for a second.”

Your throat tightened.

He reached for your hands.

“I haven’t always been gentle. I know that. I pushed you. Forced you into things. Into schools. Into the company. I thought I was protecting you from disappointment.”

He exhaled. “That was my way.”

You blinked rapidly.

“And what happened to you…” His jaw tightened. “That day.”

Silence settled.

“I have never felt that powerless,” he said quietly. “Never that enraged.”

His hands trembled slightly. “I wanted to kill him.”

Scarlet stepped forward instinctively. “Richard.”

He didn’t look at her. “I would have done it,” he said. “Even if it meant prison.”

You swallowed. “Dad…”

“You don’t understand what it does to a man,” he said quietly, “to see the person he loves most bleeding and broken.” His jaw tightened. “I can’t describe it to you. Maybe one day, if you have a child of your own, you’ll understand. They told me you might not make it,” he said calmly. “And my heart didn’t take it well.” A beat.

Your chest tightened. “What do you—”

Richard didn’t look away. “I had a heart attack.”

"What..." You stared at Scarlet then Richard. “Oh my... Dad... You… How-” Your voice cracked.

Scarlet sighed. “We didn’t tell you. You were sedated, fighting for your life. Nearly a week.”

“I’m fine now,” he said evenly. “Medication. Monitoring.”

You looked at his hand gripping yours. It was still shaking.

“This man,” Richard said more firmly, “destroyed something in this family. I will not allow him to do it again.”

You understood the depth of his rage. “Eduardo…” you said slowly.

Scarlet and Richard exchanged a look.

“That bastard's mother has filed for paternity,” Richard said. “Publicly.”

“But why now?” you asked.

Richard leaned back, expression hardening. “Because Eduardo is out of money.”

Scarlet exhaled softly. “Vivienne is preparing to file for divorce,” she added, smooth but precise. “And when she does, what’s left of his pride will be audited along with his accounts.”

The way she said it — calm, premeditated — told you this was not new information. They had already discussed this. Already calculated the fallout.

And in that moment, your first thought wasn’t any of this. It was Harry. And how bad he must feel right now. You stood up.

“Let’s be very clear about something.” Your voice was no longer soft. “This has nothing to do with Harry.”

The temperature in the room shifted.

Scarlet moved first. “Sweetheart—”

“No, Mom. Please.” You lifted your hand gently, but firmly. “Eduardo’s sins are not Harry’s inheritance.”

Richard didn’t interrupt. But his gaze sharpened.

“Five years,” you said quietly. “I lost five years. Because of them. And Harry lost five years too.”

Richard’s voice was measured now. “He didn’t protect you.”

The words hit. But you didn’t flinch.

“No one could have protected me that day,” you said evenly. “Not him. Not you. Not anyone.”

Silence.

Scarlet closed her eyes briefly.

“What happened to me was the result of one man’s rot,” you continued. “Not Harry’s failure. Dad,” you said, softer now — but stronger. “If you’re going to assign blame, assign it correctly. But do not punish the wrong man.”

You stepped back slightly, lifting your chin.

“I love him.”

There was no tremor in your voice.

“I loved him before any of this. I loved him through it. And I love him now.”

Scarlet inhaled sharply.

Richard didn’t move.

“You raised me to be strong,” you continued. “To stand my ground. To protect what matters.”

A faint, almost ironic smile touched your lips.

“Well… this matters.”

You looked directly at him.

“I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me. But gratitude does not mean obedience. I am not a debt you get to collect. I will not sacrifice the man I love to soothe a war between fathers. If defending my future means standing against you, then I will do it. This is my life.” A pause. “And Harry is in it.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

Not rebellion. Not hysteria. Authority.

For the first time, you weren’t speaking as their daughter. You were speaking as their equal.

“So... Are you not attending dinner?” Richard asked finally.

There was something unfamiliar in his tone. Not anger. Expectation. Controlled… but edged with something close to need.

“Tonight isn’t about Lucas,” Scarlet said smoothly. “It’s about the board.”

You didn’t answer.

Richard stepped in.

“There are investors already nervous about Eduardo’s return. If we appear divided, speculative pressure increases. The market reads silence as weakness.”

You turned slowly. “You knew he would return,” you said evenly. “That’s why you didn’t accept Harry’s offer.”

Richard didn’t deny it.

Disappointment flashed across your face before you could mask it.

“I can’t believe you.”

Silence stretched between you — taut as wire. Then you exhaled. “Fine.”

They both stilled.

“I’ll go. But,” you continued, lifting a single finger, “I have conditions.”

The private dining room at The Carlyle glowed in low amber light. Crystal stemware. White orchids. Silver that reflected candlelight like quiet fire.

Mark and Richard were already deep in discussion — interest rates, liquidity positioning, investor confidence, words like stability and exposure sliding across the table with polite precision.

You sat across from Lucas. Mikey beside you.

Lucas hadn’t changed. You had last seen him at a gala six years ago — one you’d attended with Harry. Same detached expression. Same faint superiority. Same calculated indifference.

Fortunately. You had absolutely no intention of engaging in anything remotely romantic or friendly.

And tonight, you were breathtaking.

Not styled. Engineered.

Your hair fell in controlled waves, swept to one side and secured with slender gold pins — not sparkling, just catching light at calculated angles. Every movement made them glint once, then disappear.

Your makeup was restraint weaponized. Skin luminous but untouched. A thin, deliberate line along your lashes. Lips softened into a muted rose that looked accidental — but wasn’t.

And the dress.

Valentino Haute Couture. Privately shown in Rome. Not photographed. Not released. Not discussed.

One shoulder sculpted in structured silk, the fabric folding across your collarbone like liquid architecture. The waist was tailored with mathematical precision before falling into a long, controlled line that didn’t cling — it obeyed.

The silk didn’t shimmer. It absorbed light. It moved when you moved, as if calibrated to your posture.

This wasn’t a girl wearing couture. This was couture recognizing bloodline.

There was no desperation in the look. No “look at me.” Just inevitability.

You didn’t look overdressed. You looked inevitable.

Lucas’s mother noticed. Immediately. “My dear, that dress is extraordinary,” she said, leaning forward. “Is it Valentino?”

You gave her a polite smile. “It is.”

She studied you with visible admiration. “You carry it beautifully.”

But Lucas?

He cut into his food, glanced once, and said: “Hm. Yes.”

That was it. A real jerk. Scarlet and Richard exchanged a nearly imperceptible look of disapproval toward him.

You sipped your wine to hide your amusement.

This was going perfectly.

Before dinner, you and Mikey had made a pact. He would “inadvertently” highlight your flaws. Subtly sabotage the illusion.

Unfortunately, Mikey lacked subtlety.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Lucas,” he began casually. “She looks elegant, sure. But she snores like a truck engine.”

Lucas smirked faintly. “That voice producing that sound? Hard to imagine.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of wine.

Mikey continued, warming up. “And the drooling. Don’t even get me started-”

Your stiletto pressed sharply into his foot beneath the table. "Aaahh!"

You turned sweetly toward him. “Are you alright, dear brother?”

Mikey forced a grin through pain. “Yes, I just… hit the chair leg.”

Conversation resumed.

Lucas’s sister let out a high, unnecessary laugh. “Oh Mikey, you’re adorable.” She touched his arm.

You stared into your glass to keep from smiling.

Mikey leaned toward you. “What is wrong with her?”

“She’s flirting,” you murmured. “She likes you.”

Mikey glanced at her again. She grinned like a Cheshire cat. His lip curled in mild horror. “Ugh.. She’s going to eat me.”

“You flirted with Sienna. This is karma.”

He scowled. Then turned back to Lucas. “Have I ever told you about the time my sister dressed up like Marilyn Monroe and rocked a blonde wig for a whole week? And-”

You moved quickly. Before he could finish, you calmly reached across and placed a truffle mushroom into his mouth.

Lucas laughed lightly. “That’s actually kind of charming.”

You narrowed your eyes at Mikey and pinched his arm under the table.

He winced.

After a few more minutes of polished smiles and strategic nods, you set your napkin down. “Excuse me.”

Your tone was calm. Final.

Scarlet’s eyes met yours instantly. A silent reminder.

We had an agreement.

She gave the faintest nod. Richard didn’t stop you.

You had arrived. You had been seen. That was the point.

This dinner, for you, was over.

The hallway outside was quiet. Plush carpeting muted every step.

You checked your phone immediately. Nothing. No new messages. No missed calls returned.

You exhaled slowly. You couldn’t take this much longer.

You needed to see Harry. Before you actually lost your mind.

You flagged a waiter. “Could you bring my coat, please?”

He nodded.

And then—

“Queen?”

You froze and turned.

John.

Oh shit.

You had been supposed to have dinner with him last night. You’d sent a rushed explanation. Half-truths. No context.

Seeing him here — at The Carlyle — impeccably dressed, composed, was almost cruel timing.

He glanced at the private dining room you just walked out of. "What are you doing here?" His blue eyes scanned you — not subtle admiration. Genuine awe.

You suddenly felt exposed. “John… I can explain.”

He gently lifted his hand. “No. I owe you an explanation.” You blinked. “I know,” he said quietly, “about everything."

Your expression hardened slightly. “You saw the news.”

“No.” His voice was calm. “I knew before that.”

You blinked.

“I was going to tell you at dinner,” he continued, lowering his gaze briefly. “About knowing who you really were.”

“Oh... I was going to tell you the truth too,” you replied evenly. “It felt unfair not to. But my father created a scandal and I wasn’t exactly permitted to leave the house last night.”

You lifted one shoulder slightly. “Upper East Side daughter privileges.”

John gave a small, understanding smile and nodded. “I figured it was something like that. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The waiter returned with your coat. “Ms Queen.”

John glanced toward the private dining room you had just exited. “Are you leaving? Your family’s still inside.”

You slipped your arms into the coat as the waiter held it open.

John stepped closer instinctively to help adjust the collar. Your hair caught in the fabric. You would have fixed it yourself—but he gently untangled it, polite, thoughtful. “You look amazing, by the way."

There was admiration in his voice. And something heavier.

You stepped back just slightly. “Thank you, John.” Then, honest: “I haven’t been able to reach Harry. I’m going to check on him.”

John’s jaw tightened. The smallest flicker.

And then—

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Both of you turned.

Lucas.

He walked toward you with restrained irritation that wasn’t as polished as he probably believed. “Dinner isn’t over.”

John straightened slightly. “Lower your voice,” he said calmly. “There’s no need for that.”

Lucas looked him over with thinly veiled contempt. “And you are?”

His eyes flicked to you. “As if Castillo drama wasn’t enough. Now there’s this too? Your father manipulates markets. You manipulate men.”

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you speaking from experience?”

“What did you just say?”

John stepped forward. “Careful.”

Lucas leaned in slightly. “Or what?”

John pushed him back—not violently, but firmly enough that Lucas lost his balance for a second.

“Raise your voice at her again,” John said low and controlled, “and we’re going to have a problem.”

You grabbed John’s arm immediately. “John. Stop.”

Staff had already begun moving toward you.

Lucas adjusted his jacket, humiliation flickering across his face. He looked at you once more—cold now. Then turned and walked back toward the private dining room without another word.

You exhaled sharply. “This is bad.”

John looked at you. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“Yeah… but…”

John didn’t press further. “I was just about to leave anyway. I’ll have my driver take you there.”

You nodded.

He placed a steadying hand at your back and guided you toward the exit.

John’s driver merged smoothly into downtown traffic. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows.

You sat rigidly in the backseat, fingers curled tightly around the strap of your clutch. The leather creased under your grip.

John noticed.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said gently.

You looked at him.

"I mean Harry. He's strong."

“Thank you. For everything." A faint, bitter smile touched your lips.

John smiled back, softer. “That’s what friends are for. Right?”

You returned the smile. Warm. Measured.

You weren’t blind. You saw the way he looked at you. The restraint. The hope he kept swallowing. But pretending not to notice was kinder.

“Yes,” you said lightly. “You’re a very good friend.”

He leaned back slightly.

“The office's pretty quiet without you,” he mentioned. “There’s no one to pick up coffee for. No one to drag out for lunch.”

You glanced at him. “I’m sure someone will. Eventually.”

He understood the double meaning instantly. His smile faltered.

You turned your head toward the window, watching New York pass by. Snow had begun to fall lightly — delicate flakes catching in the glow of streetlights.

The city had never felt so loud. Or so distant.

John fell silent for the remainder of the ride. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes drifting toward you occasionally, as if fighting something internal.

When the car pulled up outside Harry’s building, snow was beginning to settle.

You didn’t move immediately. You turned to him.

"Thanks for the lift. I really appreciate it and hope we run into each other again soon," you said with a smile.

You stepped out. Cold air hit your skin.

You reached into your bag, checking for Harry’s spare key. The car door opened again. You looked up, surprised.

John stepped outside and called your name, while snow collected in his hair.

You froze slightly.

“I was going to tell you something last night,” he said quietly. “If you’d come to dinner.”

You waited. Respectful.

“I’ve known who you were for months,” he said. “But that wasn’t it.” A pause. “I—” He stopped. The words sat visibly in his throat. “I’ve known since the first day I saw you,” he tried again, voice lower.

You closed your eyes briefly. Please don’t.

He exhaled.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since then.”

The snow fell heavier now, settling on your shoulders. You looked at him steadily. “I know, John.”

He swallowed. “I should have told you sooner.”

“You shouldn’t have,” you said gently. “Look. You are important to me,” you said evenly. “But not in the way you want.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My heart was never undecided,” you continued. “It’s always been Harry.” You let that sit. “It will always be him.” That one hurt him. You saw it. But you didn’t retract it. “I don’t want to give you false hope,” you added quietly. “You deserve something returned, not borrowed.”

He looked down briefly. Then back up. “I appreciate the honesty.”

You softened — just a fraction. “You’ve been kind to me. Consistently. And I respect you for that. But I can’t change how I feel.” A beat. “And I won’t pretend to.” Snow clung to your lashes. You brushed it away lightly. “I hope one day you meet someone who looks at you the way I look at him.”

That was as warm as you could allow yourself to be.

His expression cracked slightly — not dramatically. Just human.

He nodded once.

You stepped backward slowly toward the building entrance. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You turned. Walked toward the glass doors. Just before entering, you glanced back. He was still standing there. Snow settling in his hair. Watching you. You offered a small, apologetic smile. Then disappeared inside. John remained motionless for several seconds after the door closed.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“Even when you reject me,” he murmured to himself, “you do it perfectly.”

He wiped his face quickly.

The elevator doors slid open onto the quiet penthouse floor. You stood there for a second, staring at the spare key resting in your palm. “Please be home,” you whispered under your breath. You reached his door. Your hand hovered. Then the key slid into the lock. The click sounded louder than it should have.

You stepped inside. Dark.

For half a second your heart dropped — until the smart lighting sensed movement and the apartment slowly came to life. Warm recessed lights glowed along the walls, outlining the sleek architecture in soft amber.

“Harry?” you called softly. No answer.

You walked further in. The penthouse felt too still. Too untouched. The air faintly smelled of whiskey. You moved down the corridor, your heels striking the hardwood now — sharp, rhythmic, echoing in the silence. You were about to call his name again when—

You saw him.

At the end of the hallway, sitting on the floor. Back against the wall. One knee bent. A black sweater clung to his frame, sleeves slightly pushed up. Black pants, slightly creased from sitting. A whiskey bottle beside him. A glass tipped near his hand.

He wasn’t moving. You froze. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe.

Then you were walking fast — too fast for the heels, the sound of them ricocheting off the walls. “Harry—” You dropped to your knees in front of him.

He blinked slowly, like he’d been somewhere far away.

Your hand came up instinctively, cupping his face. “Baby?”

When he looked at you properly, it felt like something sharp slid into your chest. His eyes were tired. Not wild. Not angry. Just… hollow.

But the second he focused on you, something shifted. Recognition. Relief.

He inhaled. “You came,” he murmured. His voice was low, rough. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

Was he drunk?

“Of course I came,” you breathed. “What happened? Are you okay? What is this?”

Your eyes dropped to the bottle. You exhaled deeply. “Oh, Harry…”

He lowered his gaze slightly.

You felt anger flare — not at him. At everything.

You slipped one arm around him firmly. “Come here, you handsome mess. You cannot spiral on a hardwood floor. It’s undignified.”

He gave a faint, crooked smile. “Didn’t know you were grading my breakdown.”

“Oh, I am,” you replied sharply. “And this is a C-minus at best.”

You struggled slightly but managed to pull him up. He was heavy, solid, warm, and he swayed just a little.

“One arm around me,” you ordered. “Unless you plan on face-planting.”

He obeyed, wrapping his arm around you. You slipped yours more firmly around his waist and guided him toward the bathroom, your heels striking the hardwood in sharp, echoing clicks. His weight leaned into you — not collapsing, but trusting. Familiar.

“Cold shower again?” he murmured, a lazy half-smile curving his mouth. “Together?”

You shot him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes heavy but amused.

“Not me,” you said, stepping closer and pressing a firm palm against his chest. “You, mister.” You gave him a small shove toward the shower glass. “You need to sober up.”

Then you wrinkled your nose dramatically. “And you smell like expensive whiskey, masculine rage, and regret. Honestly, I can practically see the fumes rising off you, just like Mikey said.”

He blinked. “What did you just say?”

“Like in The Sims,” you replied smoothly. “You know... when they haven’t showered and the little green cloud starts floating over their head? We were playing this morning.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You made a Sim that looks like me? And then made him... smell?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Take this off.”

You reached for the hem of his black sweater, fingers brushing warm skin as you pulled it up over his head. His hair fell slightly out of place. His chest rose and fell slowly, the faint scent of cologne and whiskey clinging to him.

When your hands reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused.

Your cheeks warmed.

You looked up.

He was already looking at you.

“I’ll handle the rest,” he said quietly.

You held his gaze a second longer than necessary. “Okay.”

You stepped back, giving him space, turning just as he began to undo his belt. You slipped out of the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind you.

You walked back into the living area. The apartment was still dim, snow now brushing softly against the windows. You picked up the whiskey bottle and the glass, carried them into the kitchen, and set them down quietly.

You slipped your coat off and adjusted the thermostat. The air felt cold — right. You had seen it that morning, buried between scandal headlines and speculation threads while you were scrolling through Instagram. A reposted news alert:

WINTER STORM WARNING – HEAVY SNOW EXPECTED THROUGH CHRISTMAS.

You increased the temperature from the control panel near the kitchen. As the heat clicked on, you moved to the espresso machine. Ground. Pressed. Waited. The low mechanical hum filled the quiet kitchen, followed by the soft hiss of pressure releasing. Then the sound — that warm, steady trickle — espresso flowing into porcelain. Dark. Fragrant. Precise.

You smiled faintly to yourself. You would never do this for anyone else.

You set the cups down just as the bathroom door opened.

Harry appeared in the hallway wearing only a robe, hair damp, face clearer already. He paused when he saw you. He just stood there for a moment. Watching.

Your red Valentino against his minimal, masculine kitchen — the contrast was almost cinematic.

He exhaled under his breath. “God.”

You turned at the sound, your earrings swaying with a soft metallic chime. Your hair brushed over the draped shoulder of your dress. “What?” you asked. “Are you okay?”

He leaned forward, palms braced against the counter, that crooked, familiar smile returning slowly. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “You just look… achingly beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “Silly man. I thought something was actually wrong.”

You slid one of the cups toward him. “Drink.”

He sat on the stool and wrapped his hands around the espresso. “Thank you.”

You moved beside him, crossing your legs, resting your elbow on the counter. You reached for his free hand, squeezing it.

“Harry,” you said softly. “Why didn’t you answer me? I must’ve called you a million times.”

He stared into the cup for a second before replying. “I’m sorry.” A pause. “I needed to be alone.”

Your chest tightened. “I thought you were angry with me.”

He looked up immediately. “No.” His voice softened, shaking his head. “No, baby.” He set the cup down and touched your cheek. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“Because I didn’t tell you sooner,” you whispered. “I couldn’t.”

Your gaze dropped.

He lifted your chin gently. “I will never be angry at you for something like that,” he said. His hand brushed your hair back. “You had reasons. How is anyone supposed to say something like that out loud?”

“My father did,” you murmured. “To your face. I wish you’d heard it from me.”

“He was protecting you,” Harry said, taking a sip from his cup. “After he took you, the press swarmed the building. Cameras, lights — it was chaos.” His jaw tightened. “But watching them pull you away from me… that really hurt.”

He lifted your hand and pressed his lips against it. Then against his own cheek, holding it there.

Silence settled between you. You inhaled. You had to ask. “Did you speak to him?” You didn’t say 'your father'. “After...”

Harry didn’t let go of your hand, but tension crept into his shoulders.

“I had to... He just showed up… like, out of nowhere...” he said, eyes shifting toward the dark skyline behind you. “Not for me. Not for my mother. Not for Siena. Not for this family.” His jaw tightened. “He came back... For him. For that fucking bastard.”

Your voice lowered. “My father said Ilan’s mother filed for paternity.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly. You felt his hand stiffen. “He asked me to help him,” Harry said bitterly.

Your brows shot up. “What?”

He ran a hand over his face. “He knows exactly what he did to you,” Harry said, his voice low but vibrating with restrained fury. “He knows why he’s in prison. He knows.” His jaw tightened. “And he still doesn’t give a damn.” His fist curled against the counter, knuckles blanching white as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “They want the name. The legacy. The fucking entitlement of it. And he's willing to give it to him.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, dark and raw in a way that made your chest ache.

“How can that man be my father? How can I carry his blood and not feel disgusted? What the hell did we ever do to deserve this?” He shook his head once, bitter and wounded all at once. “He destroys everything and still thinks he gets to claim us.”

He leaned into you.

And this time, he didn’t try to hide the tears.

You wrapped your arms around him and pulling his head against your chest, holding him there as his shoulders finally gave in. You pressed him close, one hand sliding into his hair, warm and protective.

You knew that pain. You had witnessed it. The unanswered questions. The waiting. The stubborn, quiet hope that refused to die—until it finally did.

After a moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him. “Harry.” He lifted his head. “Enough.” Your voice was steady. “This was not our fault. None of it. Not Ilan. Not the divorce. Not the chaos. Not the-”

You swallowed and cupped his face.

“We are not victims of his mistakes. Not anymore.”

He watched you carefully.

“We are Castillo and Queen,” you said softly, a small smile forming. “And when we’re together? We’re strong, unstoppable.” A faint, tired smile returned to his lips. “So promise me something.” He blinked. “Stop crying over a man who doesn’t deserve to be called your father.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

He nodded slowly.

“I promise.” He exhaled again, heavier this time. “But it kills me. Everything traces back to him. Ilan. The divorce. My mother’s trauma. Eloise’s illness. All of it. One selfish,stupid decision.” He inhaled. “I won’t let him near you. Or mom. Or anyone I love. I’ve already spoken to the lawyers. I’ll strip him of every right attached to the name.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Do what you have to,” you whispered. “I’m with you.”

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

Soft at first. Reassuring.

But the moment your lips touched his, something shifted. He quickly wrapped his arm around your waist as he deepened the kiss.

He tasted like coffee and the faintest trace of whiskey—bitter and warm and unmistakably him. The combination was intoxicating in a way that went straight to your bloodstream. You melted into it instantly, fingers curling into his shoulders as your mouths moved together.

Every time. Every single time it was like gravity reset.

Your lips parted, and the kiss deepened naturally—no hesitation, no question. There was that pull again, that familiar rush where it felt like you were dissolving into each other, something hot and electric threading between your mouths and sinking lower, deeper.

His other arm wrapped around you, and suddenly you were lifted—drawn into his lap in one sure motion. The movement knocked the breath from you. The hem of your dress shifted, riding higher as your thigh brushed the warm, soft fabric of his robe—and the solid heat beneath it. The contact was enough to send a sharp, breathy sound from your lips into his mouth.

He answered it with a low, rough hum.

Your fingers slid into his still-damp hair, grazing the curls at the back of his head. The kiss turned messier, wetter, heavier—until he broke it with a wet sound and his mouth found its usual place at your neck.

Right there.

You gripped his shoulders, nails pressing into the robe’s plush fabric as your chest rose and fell too fast.

“Harry…” you breathed. He hummed against your skin.

“Harry, wait—I don’t have much time. I escaped dinner,” you said, breath still uneven but smiling. “If I’m gone too long, my mother will send out a search party.”

He leaned back just enough to study you properly.

Not playful now. Assessing.

His gaze traced the line of your collarbone, the fall of your hair, the careful way your lipstick hadn’t smudged despite him.

“So,” he said slowly, thumb brushing the fabric at your thigh, “this wasn’t for me.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was heat in them.

“Oh please. I didn’t choose any of this. My mother practically scheduled me. And yes, the dress was technically for dinner—” you tilted your head, deliberately brushing your nose against his, “—but I was coming here after. So indirectly? It counts.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “You still came to me.”

“Obviously.”

The smile faded. “Dinner you said,” he repeated, quieter now. “With who?” His hand caressed your thigh and lifted the hem of your dress. Your arms were still wrapped around his neck; his questioning brown eyes had captured yours, preventing you from thinking rationally.

“So… we weren’t wrong about why my father didn’t reach an agreement with Castillo Capital. He didn’t come to make a deal. You were right.”

“Meaning?”

You swallowed. “He’s planning to make a deal with Whitmore & Co.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “With Mark? Why am I not surprised? Your father is really very sly. But Mark doesn’t like taking risks,” he muttered thoughtfully. Then he stopped, and when he looked back at you, there was almost anger—and something dark—in his eyes. “I wonder about this dinner… what kind of dinner was it? Was it just old men discussing strategy? Was Mark’s son Lucas there too, hmm?”

The hand on your thigh squeezed your flesh lightly. You shrugged. “What if he was?”

“The Queen girl I know would never bow to her family. Why did you go to that dinner, sweetheart? Go on, tell me.”

“Harry, it’s not like you think.”

“Then tell me what it’s like,” he said in a seductive tone, his lips hovering dangerously close to your neck. His hand slipped under the hem of your dress. You weren’t wearing anything under your skirt except your panties—no tights—and as he lifted your skirt up to your hips, he noticed. More excited now, his fingers traced your skin until he found the edge of your frilled lace panties and tugged at them. Your heart began to race.

“Well… Mark is my dad’s old friend, you know, and—” You stopped when you felt his tongue against your exposed shoulder as his lips wandered there.

“And?” he prompted teasingly, lifting your skirt even higher. You were now sitting on his lap with your hips exposed.

“And… ohh…” Harry suddenly slipped his hand inside the edge of your panties and found your curves. He slipped his finger between your folds and searched until he found your clitoris.

“I haven’t even properly touched you yet, and you’re soaked, baby.”

He stroked your most sensitive spots, over and over, drawing a shaky whine from your lips. “Who are you soaking wet for?”

Another slow stroke.

You whimpered and swallowed. “Harry, stop teasing me,” you said.

“If you answer my question, maybe I will,” he replied, giving you another slow stroke. "I want to hear you say it…"

“F-for you,” you said in a shaky voice.

“That’s it, baby. Now tell me—what did you and Lucas talk about at dinner? Did he hit on you?” He hummed in your ear and kept stroking.

You shook your head as 'no', your brain short-circuiting from pleasure. But he pulled your panties aside more firmly and pushed his fingers deeper, all the way to the hilt, thrusting hard. His palm slapped against your slick heat with every movement, the wet sounds filling the space between you and making your head spin. You moaned loudly, your mouth falling open as the intensity stole the air from your lungs.

“Use your words, baby.”

“No!” you squeaked, your voice breaking. “He’s a stupid, arrogant jerk—a complete idiot. He didn’t even have the decency to compliment my dress… or my makeup,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips as Harry’s fingers moved in and out of your wet depths, stealing your breath. Your nails dug into his neck, clinging to him as heat pooled high in your stomach.

Harry laughed. “Some men really are that stupid. Anyway, as long as he doesn’t come near what’s mine, there’s no problem.”

You bit your lip and smirked at him, your hips rocking back and forth into his palm. “Yours, huh?”

“Yes, you’re mine. You proved it the other night—you said it pretty loudly, remember? Or do I need to remind you?” he said with a smirk.

You tilted your head slightly, lips curving.

“Do you know you’re extremely hot when you get all possessive like that?” you murmured. Your hands slipped inside the open collar of his robe, fingers spreading over his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the soft fabric. Slowly, you pushed the robe off him, letting it slide down his arms until his torso was bare to you.

Your hands explored him without hesitation—over muscle, over his biceps, warmth, memorizing.

Then you leaned in.

Your tongue traced the line of his neck, right over the place where his Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed. He let out a low moan at the sensation, breath hitching.

That was all it took.

Suddenly, his mouth crashed into yours—hungry now, impatient. It was possessive. Heated. Almost rough in the way he pulled you closer.

Without breaking the kiss, you reached down and pushed his hand away from your sex, guiding it aside just enough to replace it with his manhood. You felt him beneath your palm—hard, warm, slightly slick with precum—and your fingers wrapped around him with unmistakable need. You needed him inside you now; the mere thought made your mouth water. Your walls clenched hard.

His breath fractured against your mouth.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips. "Baby, get inside me," you moaned.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, lifting you with controlled urgency. The movement stole your breath as he drew you down against him, bodies aligning in a way that felt inevitable rather than sudden.

You sank into him in one smooth motion, a shared inhale breaking between you. The stool shifted against the floor as your hips found a rhythm, slow at first—testing, rediscovering—then deeper, steadier. His hands anchored you, guiding you, matching every movement like he knew your body by instinct. Of course he did.

Your foreheads brushed.

Breath tangled.

One of Harry’s arms stayed locked around you, keeping you close, steady, like he wasn’t about to let you drift even an inch away.

His other hand slid upward, gliding over the fabric of your dress until it curved over your chest. He palmed your tits through the material, testing, feeling the shape of you beneath the smooth lining.

His thumb brushed over the structured seam.

Then his fingers tugged lightly at the single strap resting on your shoulder, pulling it just enough to expose more skin.

His eyes darkened.

“No bra?” he murmured, voice low and amused.

You rolled your hips against him lazily, breath warm against his mouth as you answered.

“It’s built in, hon,” you said softly. “Structured. Supportive. Efficient.”

His mouth curved slowly.

“Efficient,” he repeated, thumb pressing more firmly through the fabric as if assessing the claim. “Let’s see."

Before you could react, his fingers slid to the structured edge of the bodice and gave it a subtle, curious tug—just enough to glimpse what was hidden beneath the tailored line.

You immediately caught his wrist.

“Excuse me,” you said sharply, though your lips were fighting a smile. “Be gentle. This dress hasn’t even walked a runway yet.”

His brow lifted.

“Oh?” he murmured, amused. “Should I feel honored it’s being… previewed?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, Harry’s grin turned slow and wicked.

“Good thing I’m more interested in what’s under it.”

You felt a shiver as he pulled your dress down to your waist and roughly cupped your breasts. His hand was warm, and your nipples had already hardened by the time he ran his thumb over the sensitive tip. You sighed in pleasure.

The sensation of him inside you, filling you, and his warm tongue circling your hardened nipple was overwhelming. When you took his full length and began to roll your hips faster, his thumb began working against your clit, you both moaned aloud.

“Mmm. You feel so good,” he growled.

“Harder, baby, faster…” you breathed.

You shifted your weight as he leaned back slightly. When you began to bounce up and down on him, he let out a louder groan, flicking your clit more firmly while his other hand came up to squeeze your breast. You cried out when he pinched your nipple between his forefinger and thumb, then gave the other the same attention.

“Yeah, baby. God, you are so fucking sexy,” he panted.

“Oh God, Harry,” you sobbed as your inner muscles began to spasm around him. You rode him harder, faster, and he squeezed your breast again, dragging the edge of his thumbnail over your clit in frantic strokes. “Oh God, yes—yes, yes, baby, it feels so fucking good—”

“Come for me,” he demanded.

You could feel the robe slipping from his hips, pooling on the floor, the cool air brushing against his damp skin. Your arousal made you tremble, your cries rising almost to a scream as Harry thrust up into you.

“God, your pussy feels like heaven, baby—so good for me. Fucking made for me,” he growled.

You flushed deeper, tipping your head back as you finally reached your climax.

“Oh fuck,” you sobbed, rocking your hips side to side, grinding down onto him as Harry dug his fingers into your ass cheeks groaning as he let himself come with a loud groan.

You collapsed against him as he throbbed deep inside you, the final hot pulses of his release pouring into you and leaving you trembling in their wake. You stayed locked together, bodies slick and flushed, skin pressed tight to skin, your breaths ragged and uneven as if the air itself had been stolen from your lungs.

Your head rested against his shoulder, but your eyes fluttered open when you felt his warmth begin to spill from you. It slid slowly between your thighs, thick and heated, tracing a languid path over his balls before dripping down onto the stool beneath you. The sensation made you shiver—hot messy, undeniable—proof that you had just had delicious sex.

Harry leaned forward and reached for a towel from the kitchen counter. His manhood softened inside you as your breathing gradually steadied, your warm breath brushing against his neck.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I love you so much.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I love you too.”

He kissed your lips again, slower this time, full of lingering warmth and passion. Then he carefully lifted you and slipped himself out of you. More of his release trickled down your thighs and onto the floor.

“Oops… I think we just disrespected the hardwood floors a little.”

He glanced down and smirked. “Actually, that was kind of hot,” he admitted.

You both burst into mischievous laughter.

Just then, there was a knock at Harry’s door.

You both froze.

When you heard Vivienne’s voice from the other side, panic shot through you. “Harry? Are you in there?”

You looked at him wide-eyed. “Oh my God, what are we going to do?” you whispered frantically, hurriedly straightening your dress.

“Shh. Calm down,” Harry murmured.

He grabbed a paper towel and quickly wiped between your legs. You adjusted your panties and tugged your skirt back down, smoothing the fabric while fixing your hair with shaky fingers. Harry cleaned himself up as well, then picked his robe up off the floor and slipped it on.

The phone on the counter was vibrating—his mother was still outside, calling him.

Harry tossed the used paper towels into the trash and looked at you. You gave him a small nod.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry walked toward the door and reached for the handle.

Harry had barely opened the door when Vivienne swept inside in a cloud of perfume and concern. “Jesus Christ, Harry, why aren’t you answering your phone? I was this close to calling security,” she scolded, already walking past him.

Then she saw you.

She stopped.

You lifted your chin slightly, smoothing a strand of hair behind your ear with deliberate calm, yet your cheeks flushed. “Vivienne. Hi.”

“Oh?” Her eyes flicked to Harry. Then down. The robe. Damp hair. The faint flush still on his face.

Her lips pressed together.

“Mom,” Harry said quickly, clearing his throat. “I just needed some time to myself. She got worried too and came to see if I was okay, so…”

He was trying very hard not to smile.

Vivienne inhaled slowly. "Ah,” she said. “I see.”

A beat of silence. Suspicious. Knowing.

You broke it. “Yeah, I better get going before my mom really loses it,” you said casually, grabbing your coat.

Harry stepped forward instantly, holding it open for you. You slipped your arms into it. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” He walked you toward the door. Your fingers brushed as you reached for the handle.

You leaned closer and muttered under your breath, “If you ever ignore my calls like that again, I’m kicking your ass.”

Vivienne rolled her eyes as she turned toward the kitchen, pretending very hard not to listen.

Harry suddenly leaned down, wrapped a hand around your waist, and pulled you back for one last kiss.

You laughed softly against his lips.

Vivienne’s shoulders shook faintly — she was smiling.

Harry caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “Text me before bed, baby. ”

“See you, handsome,” you said, giggling, stepping into the elevator.

He stood there watching you, eyes soft and openly unwilling to let you go — like a puppy watching its favorite person walk away until the doors slid shut.

Only then did he close the door and turn back inside.

“Mom,” he said, walking over and giving her a warm hug. “How you doing?”

“I’m alright, my son. I was nearby and thought I’d stop in for a moment… clearly I was beaten to it,” Vivienne said lightly, kissing his cheek, lingering just long enough to study him properly. “Hmm,” she murmured, tilting her head. “Interesting. You look like you just showered. But you smell like her.”

Harry groaned softly but couldn’t stop the grin.

“After last night, it’s nice to see you like this,” she added gently. “She steadies you.”

Harry picked up his now-cold espresso and took a sip, immediately grimacing. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She does. Everything that makes me smile somehow leads back to her.”

Vivienne nodded. “Listen to me,” she said softly. “Whatever happens, do not let your father’s mess come between you. Do you hear me?”

Harry leaned against the counter.

“I won’t,” he said firmly. “I’m not losing her again.”

Vivienne squeezed his shoulder.

“Good. Now take another shower, get some sleep. Tomorrow we deal with court filings. I want everything ready before Christmas.”

“We will handle it.” Harry kissed the top of her head. "Just trust me, Mom.”

As she headed toward the door, she paused, smirking.

“And yes. I absolutely smell like her now.”

Harry laughed.

Once she left, he shut the door and glanced down at his robe, bringing the collar to his nose.

He closed his eyes briefly. “Heaven,” he sighed. “I fucking miss her already.”

The week disappeared in a blur of Christmas preparations and legal briefings. Vivienne and Harry were buried in meetings — attorneys, filings, strategy sessions. The word paternity floated through conference calls like something sterile and dangerous. Clinical. Calculated. Heavy.

You could hear it in Harry’s voice at night when he called you. Tired. You didn’t see him in person once that week. Only through screens. Late-night FaceTimes. Muted laughter. Exhausted smiles.

“You look exhausted,” you would say every time his face appeared on your screen.

He would lean back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw, giving you that crooked half-smile. “It’ll be over soon, baby,” he’d promise. “I’ve got it.”

You believed him.

And you knew — absolutely knew — he hadn’t forgotten your birthday. You could see it in his eyes. That subtle spark. That secret he was holding. Maybe Christmas Day. Maybe something bigger. You didn’t know. You just knew Harry didn’t forget things that mattered. And you mattered.

By Sunday, you needed air. You called Dana and invited her to join you, Emily, and Chloe for holiday shopping. You had missed her more than you realized. Castillo Capital was no longer somewhere you could casually walk into; everyone there now knew exactly who you were.

Dana nearly squealed when she saw you.

“You have no idea,” she said breathlessly, grabbing your hands. “The office is insufferably boring without you. And Ron keeps pretending he doesn’t miss you, but he absolutely does.”

Later, when she shyly admitted she and Ron had started seeing each other, you almost screamed in the middle of Madison Avenue. You had already told Harry to give them both a generous raise — Dana had no idea. Seeing her glow like that made it worth it.

You dragged her into Chloe’s mother’s boutique.

“You’re choosing something,” you said firmly. “My Christmas gift to you.”

Dana protested for exactly twelve seconds before vanishing into a fitting room. The afternoon turned into a fashion show. Dresses. Structured coats. Ridiculous boots. You and Chloe swapped handbags dramatically like socialites in a sitcom. Emily sat on a velvet chair offering dry commentary like a fashion editor unimpressed by humanity.

For a few hours, you were just girls. Laughing. Trying things on. Taking mirror selfies. The bodyguards trailed a discreet distance behind you the entire time. This time, at least, they were useful — carrying shopping bags until their arms were full, blending into the background while you pretended, just for a few hours, that life was uncomplicated.

It felt… normal.

That night, back home, you changed into something soft and warm, tucked your legs beneath you, and opened the stack of letters waiting neatly on your desk. Letters from the children of The Harbor House Foundation.

The Harbor House was a privately funded residential home for children in the foster system. Some had lost parents. Some had been removed from homes that were never truly homes. Some had been moved so many times they had stopped unpacking their bags altogether. A few were children who had arrived in New York from countries torn apart by war — quiet, watchful, learning English in careful fragments, clutching donated backpacks like anchors.

They weren’t “orphans” in a fairytale sense. They were children waiting for stability. For warmth. For someone to choose them — not out of obligation, but love.

Every December, they wrote letters to Santa. But you answered them instead. You read each one slowly, smiling at crooked handwriting and glitter glue fingerprints pressed into the margins.

A bike. A sketch set “the big one, not the small one please.” A pink winter coat with “real fur but fake is okay.” A dinosaur book. A science kit “with the real volcano kind.”

Some letters were short and practical. Some were shy. One simply said: I don’t need anything big. Just something that’s mine.

That one made you pause longer than the others.

Reading them was your favorite part. The quiet joy of it. The innocence. The trust. It grounded you in a way nothing else did. You never missed a single name. After four years, it had become more than tradition — it felt sacred.

By Monday evening, your bedroom floor was covered in wrapping paper, satin ribbons, gift boxes sorted into careful piles. The air smelled faintly like pine from the tree downstairs and sugar from the hot chocolate Lara had insisted you drink.

Mikey sat cross-legged across from you, holding up a stuffed shark with intense evaluation.

“This one is definitely for Tom,” he declared. “He looks like a shark kid.”

You laughed. “Tom wanted the science kit. The shark is for Leo.”

“Ah.” Mikey nodded gravely. “Very important distinction.”

You held up a small velvet box containing glittery ballet gloves. “This is for Sally.”

“The ballet girl?”

“Yes.”

Mikey’s expression softened. “You’re going to make her cry.”

“The happy kind,” you said quietly.

Wrapping lasted until Tuesday night. Labels handwritten. Names double-checked. Each ribbon tied carefully — because presentation mattered, even for little hands.

When you finally leaned back against your bed, surrounded by color and paper and possibility, you felt something settle inside you. A small, warm kind of calm.

You closed your eyes for a second, already picturing their faces when they opened them. The smiles. The gasps. The way they’d run toward you.

You couldn’t wait to see it.

That was the part you loved most.

Wednesday morning — Christmas Eve — the cars were brought around to the front entrance, already packed by staff with neatly labeled boxes stacked with care. You supervised, double-checking names one last time before the doors were shut. Harry insisted on coming. You didn’t argue.

The Harbor House was already glowing when you arrived — warm yellow lights strung along the entrance, paper snowflakes taped unevenly to the windows. The children were pressed against the glass the moment they saw you. And then chaos. Good chaos.

“Queen!” “You came!” “I missed you!”

Tiny arms wrapped around your legs. A little boy with crooked bangs immediately latched onto Harry’s coat.

“Are you her prince?” the little boy asked, narrowing his eyes with serious suspicion.

Harry blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then glanced at you like he was checking for the correct answer.

“I’m… hoping I qualify,” he said carefully. “I mean, I’m trying. Do I get a trial period?”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

The boy crossed his arms, considering this deeply. “Do you have a horse?”

Harry hesitated. “No.” “A sword?” “…No.”

The boy looked at you. “He’s not very prepared.”

You laughed, covering your mouth. “He’s more of a modern prince.”

Sally — seven, solemn, wide-eyed — opened her ballet kit and burst into tears before throwing herself at you so hard you nearly lost balance.

“You remembered,” she whispered against your dress.

“Of course I did.”

Tom shouted across the room when he tore into his science set. “This is the one I circled! The volcano one!”

“I saw,” you said, winking.

You turned — and caught Harry kneeling on the floor beside a group assembling plastic dinosaurs. Within minutes he was covered in glitter from someone’s craft bag, patiently helping a little boy snap together a T-Rex tail that refused to cooperate. He was smiling. Not polite. Not diplomatic. Not controlled. Free.

You watched him laugh — head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling in that unguarded way he rarely allowed in public. Boyish. And something inside your chest tightened. He would be such a good dad, you thought suddenly. The idea didn’t stab anymore. It didn’t terrify you. It felt… possible.

At one point he looked up and caught your gaze across the room. The noise, the lights, the children racing past with new toys — and still everything between you went quiet. The children’s joy was unfiltered. Just pure happiness. Real. Messy. Loud.

When you finally stepped outside into the cold evening air, your hands were numb and your heart felt too full for your body. Snow had started falling — soft, steady. Harry slipped his hand into yours.

“They’re so happy,” he said softly, almost in awe. “I feel… I don’t know. I feel happy too.”

You smiled faintly.

“You can’t buy that,” you said. “You could spend every dollar in the world and you still couldn’t purchase what’s in their faces right now.”

He looked back toward the building, where children were still waving through the windows.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “You can’t.” Then he looked at you.“But you gave it to them.”

For a moment, you just watched your breath cloud in the cold.

“I stayed away from children for a long time,” you admitted quietly. “It hurt too much.” Your voice didn’t shake, but it softened. “But I thought… maybe if I leaned into it instead of running from it, maybe it would help me heal.”

“You’re braver than you think,” he said softly. “Come here.” He brushed his thumb across your cheek, warm despite the cold, and leaned in to kiss you softly. You pulled back just slightly, your foreheads still touching. For a second, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other. A gust of cold air made you shiver.

“Come on,” he murmured gently.

Before getting into the car, you both turned once more toward the building. Tiny hands were still waving from the window. One of the boys pressed his nose dramatically to the glass just to make you laugh. You lifted your hand and waved back. Then Harry opened the door for you. And as you slid into the warmth of the car, snow still falling softly around you, the children’s voices faded behind you — lingering like a song you didn’t want to end.

Harry’s car slowed to a stop near your building.

You turned to him, trying to sound casual. “So… you’re busy tonight?”

He looked at you fully then, one hand still resting on the steering wheel.

“You know I’ll be at the company reception tonight. Board members, investors… it would look strange if I wasn’t there.” A small pause. Softer. “I wish you could come.”

But you couldn’t. Not when the press was still simmering like a boiling pot with Eduardo, Castillo, and your name tangled together in every headline. Financial blogs speculating. Gossip accounts dissecting your every move. If you appeared at the Castillo Capital reception on his arm tonight? Damage control romance. Strategic reconciliation. Board manipulation through intimacy. The narrative would write itself.

He leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“We’ll be at Eloise’s tomorrow, like we planned. I’ll come get you in the morning.”

“Right,” you said, lifting your brows just slightly — waiting.

He just smiled. “Goodnight, baby.”

"Goodnight."

You stepped out into the snow. The car pulled away, red taillights disappearing into Manhattan traffic. You stood there longer than necessary. He used to celebrate your birthday at midnight on Christmas Eve. But... Not tonight. Obviously.

You swallowed the disappointment and walked inside.

When you stepped inside, Scarlet and Lara were already in full preparation mode. Garment bags unzipped. Jewelry cases open. Perfume hanging in the air like strategy. Scarlet looked up the second she saw you.

“Finally,” she said crisply. “We’re running late.”

Right. Chloe’s parents’ private Christmas gathering.

If Harry had been spending the night with you, you wouldn’t have gone. But he wasn’t. The company reception was more important tonight than you. You swallowed that thought before it could turn into something sharper. And sitting alone on Christmas Eve, spiraling in your room, felt far more pathetic than walking into the lion’s den with your head high.

Because that house tonight? Wouldn’t really be a party. It would likely turn into a battlefield. You could already see it in your mind. Polite smiles stretched a little too tight. Questions wrapped in concern but sharpened underneath. Champagne flutes raised while alliances quietly recalculated.

For weeks, you’d avoided it. Your family’s financial instability. Eduardo’s return. The resurfaced Castillo name. The revelation that you’d been working at Castillo Capital for months. It wouldn’t just be Christmas music and crystal ornaments. It would be a feeding ground.

Upper East Side socialites didn’t confront. They would circle. They would smile. They would dissect. A wolf table dressed in silk and diamonds. And tonight, you would walk straight into it — fully aware of what waited.

Chloe’s parents’ house was exactly what an Upper East Side Christmas party should be. A towering tree in the foyer dripping in crystal and gold. Champagne flutes catching chandelier light. A live pianist in the corner. Soft laughter. Calculated warmth.

But beneath it - tension. You felt it the moment you stepped in. The 5th Avenue Dolls circled quickly.

"Queen, darling, you look divine." Translation: You look too composed for someone whose family name is trending for the wrong reasons. Impressive.

"So the Castillo Capital internship rumor was real?" Translation: You actually went back to your ex-husband’s company? How desperate are we?

"Strategic positioning?" Translation: Did you beg Harry for leverage... or is this damage control romance?

"Oh, we just adore a strong woman reinventing herself." Translation: We’re all waiting to see if you crack.

"Whitmore and Queen Financial would be... interesting." Translation: Are you being traded or choosing your buyer?

"And how is Harry handling all this?" Translation: Did he forgive you, or are you clinging?

"So brave of you to show up tonight." Translation: Most girls would’ve hidden.

One of them tilted her head slightly. "Must be exhausting... managing so many headlines."

Translation: Managing so many men?

A soft sip of champagne. A slow blink. Polished cruelty wrapped in couture.

Chloe slid beside you, linking her arm through yours.

"Ladies. Relax." Her tone was light. But her eyes said: Careful. She bites back.

Then Lucas appeared. That smirk. "You look beautiful tonight," he said, tone syrupy.

One of the girls leaned in, completely ignoring Lucas. "So... are you single now, or...?" one of them asked lightly, swirling her champagne. The pause was deliberate. Calculated.

Another leaned in, eyes glittering. "Because there were rumors..." she added sweetly. "You and Harry meeting in secret? That can’t possibly be true."

A soft laugh. Too soft. "Oh, I heard something different," another girl chimed in. "That he turned you down."

Brows lifted. "In public, no less."

"That must have been... awkward."

Another sip of champagne. "I mean, men like Harry don’t usually go backwards, do they?"

You were about to answer when - The room didn’t go silent - but it quieted. A familiar arm wrapped around your waist from behind. Warm. Solid. Certain.

Harry.

He pulled you gently into his side, that infamous composed smile already in place. "Actually," he said smoothly, "my girl and I are back together."

Every head turned.

"I got tired of wondering how I managed to let a beautiful woman like this slip through my fingers," he continued lightly. "So I corrected the mistake." His hand tightened at your waist, looking at you directly. Your eyes widened. "She was gracious enough to give me another chance."

The silence was delicious. Chloe folded her arms, smug, grinning like crazy. Lucas stiffened.

Harry calmly took the glass from your hand and placed it onto a passing tray. "And if you’ll excuse us," he added, voice steady and controlled, "I have a birthday to make unforgettable." He extended his arm.

You slipped yours through it. "Ladies," you said sweetly, "follow-up questions can be directed to my mom's assistant. Response time may vary."

A few gasps. One nervous laugh. Shock rippled through the room. While everyone stared at you like you’d just detonated a social bomb, you leaned toward Harry.

"What are you doing?" you murmured, though the corner of your mouth twitched like you were barely holding back a smile.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing near your ear. "I’m kidnapping you," he murmured smoothly.

"Hey!" Lucas snapped, stepping forward. "What exactly do you think you’re doing?"

You rolled your eyes and sighed.

Harry stopped - then turned slowly. Lucas reached for your arm. "You don’t just disappear in the middle of the event - especially not with him. That would be humiliating. Get back here."

Harry moved before Lucas could touch you. Calm. Controlled. He drew you gently but firmly behind him, his body shielding yours. His palm came up, pressing flat against Lucas’s chest - not shoving, just stopping him with effortless authority. "Careful," Harry said quietly.

Almost conversational. "You might hurt yourself." The softness in his tone made it worse.

Lucas’s jaw tightened. "You don’t get to humiliate me in my own circle."

Harry didn’t raise his voice. "You’re mistaking noise for power." His gaze flicked down briefly to Lucas’s hand, still half-lifted. “Touch her again… And we’ll see who ends up humiliated.”

Lucas’s jaw flexed. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Neither of you answered. You turned toward the door.

His hand shot forward. “You’re not going anywhere, you—” Lucas stepped after you.

Harry didn’t look back. He reached for the heavy glass door and pulled it open sharply — not enough to look reckless, but enough.

Lucas, mid-stride and too blinded by his own anger to register the movement, walked straight into it. The edge of the door caught him square in the face. A sharp crack echoed through the foyer.

"Aaagghhh." Lucas stumbled backward, clutching his nose.

Harry blinked once. "Oh," he said mildly. “You should watch where you’re going,”

Blood trickled between Lucas’s fingers. Harry glanced at a nearby waiter. "Could we get him something for that? He seems to be... bleeding. I warned you, didn't I?"

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing.

Lucas looked murderous. "You son of a-ow...fuck..."

Harry looked bored. Then he turned to you, offering his arm like this had been nothing more than a minor social inconvenience. "Shall we?"

You smiled. "Let’s."

In the car, you turned toward him slowly, eyes narrowing in playful accusation. “So you did have a surprise,” you murmured. “Crashing the party and stealing me away? That was very sexy, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry’s mouth curved lazily. “Oh, baby,” he said.

The driver’s arm extended discreetly from the front seat, handing a small elegant box back to Harry. He passed it to you.

“We’re not even close to done.”

You froze the moment you recognized it. The deep navy box. The gold embossed script. “Harry—” You already knew.

Canelés de Bordeaux.

The ones he had flown in every birthday. Every celebration. Every time your period hit and you claimed the world was ending. The tiny caramelized French cakes with the dark lacquered crust and soft custard center. The ones he used to say tasted like Paris at midnight.

You looked at him. “You didn’t.”

“In fact,” he said smoothly, switching to French, “je les ai fait venir de Bordeaux ce matin. Juste pour toi.” I had them brought in from Bordeaux this morning. Just for you.

Your eyes softened. “Merci, monsieur,” you replied in French, leaning in to kiss him. You opened the box immediately, the scent of vanilla and rum filling the car. You took one, bit into it without ceremony, eyes closing in pure indulgence. Then you held one up to his mouth. He leaned forward obediently, taking a bite from your fingers.

You both laughed.

God, you loved this man.

You swallowed and tilted your head. “So,” you said sweetly, “no flowers? No fancy gift? I expected at least mild theatrics.”

He chuckled. “Oh, there’s an entire room full.”

Your brows lifted.

“Guess where.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Where?”

Harry didn’t answer. He looked out the window. “Come on, beautiful.”

The car door opened. You stepped out together. And then you saw it.

The Plaza. Lit like a winter palace. Your breath caught.

The hotel where you got married. The place where you danced barefoot after everyone left. Where you first woke up as husband and wife.

“Harry…” you whispered.

He glanced at his watch. One arm slipped around your waist. Midnight.

12:00 a.m.

“Look,” he murmured.

You didn’t know where to look.

And then—

The Plaza lights went out. All of them.

Gasps echoed from pedestrians across the street. A couple people paused, confused. “Technical issue?” someone muttered.

The entire building was dark.

Except one floor. One suite. Its windows lit up in warm golden light against the black façade.

Your mouth parted. “That’s…”

Harry leaned close to your ear. “Our honeymoon suite.” “Just for tonight,” he added softly. “Entirely ours.” He placed a key into your palm. You stared up at the illuminated windows, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

For one full minute, the Plaza remained dark. Just that suite glowing in the winter night. You turned to him slowly.

Snow falling. The city hushed. The world reduced to the two of you.

He bent down and kissed you gently. “Happy birthday, my queen,” he whispered against your lips. “The world would be unbearable without you in it. I’m grateful you were born into mine.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked away tears and nodded.

“Let’s go to our suite?” he asked softly.

You kissed him. “Yes.” Another kiss. “Let’s go, baby”

Hand in hand, you crossed toward the Plaza, snow gathering on your shoulders, your heart racing with anticipation. Above you, the lights slowly returned to the building. People shrugged, murmured and kept walking.

They had no idea. But you did. Tonight was yours.

And whatever waited behind that suite door—

Was just beginning.

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