#materialists 2025

[ormundshightower]

MATERIALISTS (2025) — dir. Celine Song

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with the nights most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke,” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a moment ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream of grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[pedroscurls]

vol. I: then came you

series summary: after lucy, harry believed he was destined to be alone. he had given up on his dream to be a father and husband. that is, until he met you who gave him hope for a future he thought was lost. 

pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader series content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), eventual romance/relationship + smut, slow burn, slight age gap (harry's in late 40s, reader is in early 30s), reader is single mom, two different backgrounds, harry's insanely rich, elements of angst, jealousy, insecurity, happy ending! (don't worry), no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings! a/n: so i know i said i'd take a hiatus from writing, but here i am... with another wip for harry castillo bc i'm still not over this man (and the 20-somethin' mins he was on screen for 💀) anyway, i hope y'all enjoy this. gonna try uploading a new chapter every friday, so stay tuned! <3

status: complete.

(read vol. 2: now comes us)

SCHEDULE: Every Friday

Chapter 1. (posted on 10/02/25)

Chapter 2. (posted on 10/10/25)

Chapter 3. (posted on 10/14/25)

Chapter 4. (posted on 10/17/25)

Chapter 5. (posted on 10/24/25)

Chapter 6. (posted on 10/31/25)

Chaper 7. (posted on 11/07/25)

Chapter 8. (posted on 11/15/25)

Chapter 9. (posted on 11/22/25)

Chapter 10. (posted on 11/26/25)

Chapter 11. (posted on 12/02/25)

Chapter 12. (posted on 12/05/25)

Chapter 13. (posted on 12/12/25)

Chapter 14. (posted on 12/19/25)

Chapter 15. (posted on 12/26/25)

Chapter 16. (posted on 01/03/26)

Chapter 17. (posted on 01/09/26)

Chapter 18. (posted on 01/16/26)

Chapter 19. (posted on 01/23/26)

Chapter 20. (posted on 01/31/26)

Chapter 21. (posted on 02/06/26)

Chapter 22. (posted on 02/13/26)

Chapter 23. (posted on 02/20/26

Chapter 24. (posted on 02/27/26)

Chapter 25. (posted on 03/06/26)

Chapter 26. (posted on 03/16/26)

Chapter 27. (posted on 04/17/26)

Chapter 28. (posted on 04/25/26)

Chapter 29. (posted on (05/04/26)

Epilogue. (posted on 05/08/26)

DRABBLES

isn't she lovely - (posted on 12/10/25)

every time i close my eyes - (posted on 12/22/25)

how does it feel - (posted on 12/28/25)

happy birthday, harry - (posted on 01/14/26)

nice & slow - (posted on 01/26)

dance for you - (posted on 02/25)

one in a million - (posted on 05/02)

[gothcsz]

❀ ⠀ ⠀ ── ⠀ ⠀ SUMMER AFFAIR ⠀ ⌇ ⠀ nothing lasts forever...

PAIRING: Harry Castillo x F!Reader

SUMMARY: You meet Harry Castillo whilst on the vacation of your dreams and spend the entire summer intertwined in a romance with an expiration date. Come season’s end, you’ll have to decide if you want to return to your old life or pursuit a new one with Harry.

RATING: E.

GENERAL TAGS: No use of y/n (reader has the nickname Sol that is used sparingly), reader is described as being plus-size/curvy/thick, reader is written to be a woman of color (latina) though everyone is encouraged to read, summer romance, love at first sight, he fell first and he fell harder, sugar daddy vibes a little bit, cliché romcom shenanigans, strangers to lovers, the one that got away trope, lying, infidelity (reader is married), angst, implied age gap (harry is fifty and reader is in her mid thirties), smut, alternating povs. More specific tags will be listed per chapter.

P.S. For the sake of keeping the whimsical, summer vibes afloat… we’re going to suspend our disbelief (the conscious choice to ignore plot holes or unrealistic elements simply to enjoy a fictional story) when it comes to travel laws and all that boring stuff, kay?

⊱ ⠀ ⠀ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧.

part one: monte-carlo, monaco

part two: lagos, portugal

part three: ibiza, spain

part four: sicily, italy

part five: mykonos, greece

part six: new york city, new york

⊱ ⠀ ⠀ 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗘𝗢𝗨𝗦.

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playlist

#summer affair

moodboard

main graphic credit @/devociones

divider credit @/bronzewasp

I am starting a whole new taglist for this series! If you want to be tagged, feel free to DM me or reply to this post to be added! ☀️

[missadangel]

The Ex Education

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

series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter

Lesson 2

Summary: He said he doesn’t want you around. So naturally… You applied to work at his company. Now he’s furious, you look fabulous, and this war? You fully intend to win. Warnings and WC: 10K, argument, flashbacks, secrets, FEELINGS, Reader is rich (30s), Harry is a CEO (42), probably richer than the movie version, denial of feelings, rom-com, comedy, idiots in love, lying, grumpy, cold Harry Castillo (because reader broke his heart), Reader is kinda selfish, little bitchy and bratty, Everyone and Harry calls reader as Queen, her majesty, princess, wealth, divorce, modern au, rich people problems, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, tension, slow burn romance, manhattan aesthetic, Each chapter will include its own warnings. authors note: Lucy and John both work in high-level positions at Harry’s company. Flashbacks will keep appearing throughout the story — scattered like pieces of a puzzle. Some big, some small. Some soft, some devastating. And when every piece finally clicks into place… you’ll know exactly what happened between them. OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister)

!!!Babies, I’ve been trying for hours and Tumblr has completely worn me out! I kept running into that “1000 words per block” error, and I’m pretty sure it’s just a random glitch at this point. So, for the sake of my sanity, I added some parts toward the end as images.

I’m so sorry about that — I was genuinely about to lose my mind after three hours of trying!

Thank you for being patient, and I hope you still enjoy the chapter! 💗✨

Don't Underestimate an Ex With a Plan

The car pulled away, leaving you in front of the glass-and-steel tower tucked into a quiet corner of Tribeca — understated, elegant, expensive in that devastatingly refined Harry Castillo way. Not flashy. Not loud. Just lethal in its restraint.

You checked the address he’d texted — cold, impersonal — then looked up again.

So this was his new home.

Not the palace you once lived in together. Not the marble floors. Not the chandelier that could blind gods. Not the private elevator that always smelled faintly of roses.

This place was smaller. Darker. Quieter. Less you. More him.

You pulled your trench coat tighter. Underneath, you’d thrown on a simple black slip dress over your lingerie, because your gala gown — the one you spent two hours perfecting — had been murdered by Mikey’s zombie-dirt.

You reached back and felt your hair.

Your fingers snagged on… something.

A roller.

Still stuck in your curls.

Perfect.

You looked like a runaway debutante having a nervous breakdown.

The doorman buzzed you up instantly — of course he did. And of course Harry had a private elevator, silent and sleek and judgmental as hell.

It carried you straight to PH.

Your heart hammered the whole ascent.

As the elevator glided upward, your heart sat in your chest like a tight, unwelcome knot. A familiar squeeze. A feeling you didn’t want. Déjà vu. Gold light. The soft hum of the old penthouse elevator — the one lined with mirrors and ridiculous luxury.

And Harry… was carrying you in his arms. Your wedding gown was spilling over his forearms like silk water. You were laughing, breathless, glowing.

His eyes were locked on you with that newlywed hunger that once felt like the safest place on earth. “I’ve been waiting all night to get you alone, Mrs. Castillo. To take this off of you.”

You giggled, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

“What, you don’t like my dress? It’s Dior.” “It’s breathtaking…” His lips almost touched yours. “…but it’ll look even better on the floor.”

Heat flickered through you. He set you down on your feet but didn’t let go — his hands stayed firmly on your waist.

Your fingers lifted to his jacket, the sharp, tailored black tux he looked sinful in.You slid it off his shoulders slowly, letting the fabric glide down his arms before catching it at the elbows and tugging it free — peeling him out of it with deliberate softness.

He watched you do it like he could barely breathe.

A mirrored wall caught your reflection:two people impossibly in love.A perfect, shining beginning.

“I’m trying to be patient, you know.” A beat. “You’re making it impossible.” “We just got married. At least pretend to be civilized.” “Not a chance.”

His mouth brushed your jaw— your fingers curled into his hair— and then—

Ding. Cold, white LED light flooded the elevator.

No marble. No mirrors. No wedding gown.

Just you, your trench coat, and a man waiting behind the penthouse door who no longer looked at you the way he did that night.

You inhaled sharply and stepped into his world — the life he built after you.

Dark oak. Concrete. Coffee-table art books. Sculptures in muted tones. An understated luxury that wasn't for show — it was for him.

And then he appeared from the dim hallway.

Not barefoot. Not rumpled.

Just… painfully effortless.

A black cashmere tee that fit too well. Soft, clean, understated. Draping over his chest like it had been crafted for him alone. Dark tailored lounge trousers that sat low on his hips — relaxed but impossibly refined. Hair slightly mussed. Jaw shadowed in evening stubble, as if he’d been working for hours and forgot how devastating he looked.

You told yourself you wouldn’t react. You told yourself you were immune now.

You liar.

His eyes swept over you — the hair, the coat, the frazzled expression, the lone roller gripping your curls — and he let out a quiet, amused exhale.

“There’s something in your hair.”

You ripped it out so violently your scalp protested.

“Well, excuse me,” you snapped. “My brother ruined my gown and my night and my life. So this is the best version you’re getting.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow.

“That tracks. It’s Mikey.”

He stepped aside — not warmly, not rudely. Just efficient.

“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” he said, already walking toward the marble island where his laptop glowed. “If you came to talk, talk. Let’s get this done.”

You followed, irritation snapping under your skin like static.

“Fine. I also had a gala to attend — well, had. Now I need a new gown, so believe me, I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”

He didn’t look up. “I said what I said. Get to the point.”

You clenched your jaw and stepped farther into the open-plan living room.

It hit you like a memory with teeth.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. A curated wall of rare books and vinyl. Clean architectural lines. A sculptural fireplace flickering with a controlled flame. Minimalist modern art — bold, restrained, intentional.

A perfect bachelor penthouse.

It wasn’t modest. It wasn’t excessive.

It was curated. It was Harry.

And the painful part?

His taste had gotten better without you.

He poured himself a whiskey.

You didn’t wait.

“Why did you give him the money?”

His shoulders stiffened. He turned, jaw tightening. “I’m sorry?”

“Mikey,” you hissed. “Why did you give him the check I refused? Why would you do that behind my back?”

He laughed once — cold, sharp, biting.

“You came to my office. Tore up the contract. Put on your show. Told me exactly what you think of me.” He lifted his glass. “Then you sent your brother to pick up the settlement you claimed you didn’t want. So I gave it to him. Congratulations, Your Majesty. You got everything without signing a thing.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I didn’t send him! I didn’t even know he went!”

“Since when do you lie?” His tone was calm, razor-sharp.

Your voice wavered. “I don’t lie. You know I don’t lie.”

He tilted his head mockingly. “Is that new?”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “Either way,” you snapped, “it’s happened. The money’s gone. Mikey gave it to the wrong people. Russian mob.”

Harry blinked. “A what?”

“Yes,” you said. “My brother has been stupid since birth.”

Harry looked down, then back up. “…Fair.”

“But I’ll pay you back.”

He let out a dry, incredulous huff.

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Queen. In your family’s current condition? You can’t.”

The humiliation stung deep.

“I’m well aware of my father’s disaster,” you said tightly. “But I’ll pay you back. That’s the only reason I came.”

Harry slammed the glass down too hard. “There’s no need. I don’t want anything from you.”

You swallowed the hurt.

“Maybe so, but I’m going to pay my debt.”

He exhaled sharply.

“Alright. You’ve said it.”

“Good. Then we don’t have to see each other again.”

He nodded once. “Yes. That’s enough.”

“Great.”

You turned — ready to flee — but his voice caught you mid-step.

“Why did you quit your father’s company?”

You froze.

His gaze pinned you in place — sharp, demanding.

"You graduated from Columbia. You had every opportunity to build something real. But the moment we divorced, you just… vanished. Like none of it ever mattered to you. You walked out of your father’s company, you quit the fashion editor job you used to dream about — and then nothing. No work. No career. No trace. What were you doing all those years? Why did you disappear like that?"

Your throat closed. Your stomach twisted.

“That’s none of your business.”

You turned again.

Almost reached the foyer.

Then—

You turned back. It was your turn.

“When I was at your office… I saw the plaque. Castillo Capital was founded the same month we divorced.”

You stepped closer.

“But you started it before that. We both know it.”

Silence. Long, heavy.

Then Harry breathed out slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “But nothing worked until after you left.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

“What?”

“The day after the divorce,” he said, voice stripped raw, “I met my biggest investor. Everything skyrocketed from there. Everything.”

You blinked, stunned.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“And say what? Why would I call you?”

“Because I was there,” you whispered. “Because I supported you when you were struggling—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, voice rising. “Don’t rewrite history.”

Ice crawled over your skin.

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t remember support,” he said flatly. “But I remember the calls you ignored. The nights you vanished. The days you couldn’t even look at me.”

“That’s not—”

“And the divorce?” His voice cracked. “Do you remember what you said?”

You froze in place.

Harry walked toward you — slow, deliberate — until he was close enough that his breath brushed your lips.

“You said,” he whispered,"I don’t want to stay married to a man I don’t love.’"

Your pulse stopped.

He leaned even closer, voice dropping to a dangerous hush.

“You said:"‘Please, Harry. Stop dragging this out. Let me go. Get out of my life.’”

You swallowed hard, your eyes drifting down to his lips.

He straightened — cold, distant.

“Well,” he said. “Now I want the same.”

He pointed to the door.

“Get out of my house, please. You know the way.”

And just like that, he walked away.

Left you standing there with your heart caving in.

You didn’t realize you were crying until a tear hit the slate floor.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.

You wiped your face, lifted your chin.

“Fine,” you whispered. “Watch me, Harry. You’ll regret this. I swear you will.”

You marched out, fury and heartbreak clashing in your chest.

“Bastard,” you muttered as you hailed a cab. “You think you know what I went through? You have no idea.”

High above you, behind the penthouse window—

Harry stood braced against the glass, breath ragged.

Your voice still echoing in his chest. Every word. Every tremor.

And the memory hit him like a punch...

He unlocked the door expecting warmth.

The soft scent of your perfume. The faint music you always left playing in the background. Your laugh echoing somewhere down the hall.

But when Harry stepped into the penthouse, the silence hit him like a blunt force.

Your silence.

He shrugged off his coat, exhaustion from the London flight settling into his bones. The deal had gone badly. He needed you.

More than he’d ever admit. “Baby? I’m home.”

His voice carried into the living room — the one you decorated.

Cream-toned sofas, the flowers you insisted on having, the framed photo from your first gala together…

But the air felt wrong. Still. Empty.

He frowned.

Maybe you were changing? Napping? Reading in the study?

He loosened his tie and walked deeper inside. “Baby?”

A hint of worry entered his voice. He checked the kitchen — empty. Study — untouched. Bathroom — silent.

His chest tightened.

By the time he reached the bedroom door, he was nearly running.

He opened it—

And froze.

The walk-in closet door stood wide open. Lights on. Shelves exposed.

And everything that belonged to you… was gone.

The rows of shoes — empty. Your dresses — vanished. The jewelry tray — missing. Even your perfume bottles — gone.

A hollow, aching cold spread through Harry’s ribs.

He stepped inside the closet like a man walking into a grave.

He touched an empty hanger where your wedding dress cover used to hang. His throat closed. “No. No, no, no…”

He pulled out his phone, dialing you instantly.

One ring. Two. Three.

Voicemail.

He tried again. And again. And again.

Finally — someone answered.

But it wasn’t you. “Harry.”

Ice stabbed his spine. “Scarlet? Where is she? Put her on the phone.”

Scarlet sighed — the kind of sigh that told him everything and nothing. “She’s… not ready to talk to you.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, breath shaking. “Scarlet, please. Just let me speak to my wife—” “Harry. I’m asking you — don’t contact her right now. She needs time... Space.”

He felt something crumble inside him. “Just tell me she’s alright. Please.”

A pause.

Scarlet’s voice softened, but only barely: “She’s breathing. That’s all you need to know.”

His knees nearly gave out. “What happened? Scarlet? Just tell me—”

But she cut him off. “She’s not here. She won’t be back tonight. Or tomorrow.” A beat. “And don’t come looking for her.”

Before he could inhale to argue—

Click.

The line went dead.

Harry stared at the screen, your name still glowing, mocking him.

He dialed again. Blocked.

He sank onto the edge of the bed — your side of the bed — gripping the sheets as if they’d disappear too.

Your scent was fading already.

And for the first time in years—

He didn’t know if he wanted you gone.

Or wanted you close enough to destroy him all over again.

Because the truth was brutal:

The words he threw at you to hurt you… had cut him deeper than they ever cut you.

And he hated that. Hated that after everything— you could still make him feel.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of your building. You pulled your trench coat tighter around yourself and stepped out gracefully — or as gracefully as someone holding in rage, heartbreak, and humiliation possibly could.

And then—

“HEY! SIS! MY FAVORITE SISTER! MY QUEEN!”

Oh no. Not now. Not tonight.

Slowly — painfully slowly — you turned your head.

There he was.

Mikey. Standing on the sidewalk like a rejected Dickens orphan. Covered in dried dirt, looking exhausted, pathetic, rumpled, and… shamelessly hopeful.

Your eye twitched.

“HELLO? Your only brother? Your flesh and blood?!”

You turned back toward the entrance.

He scrambled after you.

“Wait—WAIT—don’t pretend you don’t see me! Listen—can you let me in? Just for tonight? Mom’s still in murder mode and—”

You kept walking. Unbothered. Cold.

Mikey hovered beside you like a lost puppy.

“Okay, look—I know you’re mad, but I’ve learned my lesson! Gambling? NEVER again. Please, my beautiful, gorgeous, generous sister—”

You stopped in front of the doorman, Rob.

Composed. Elegant. Ice queen mode: activated.

You tilted your head.

“Rob,” you said sweetly, “do you hear that?”

Rob blinked. “Hear… what, Ms Queen?”

“That strange noise. Like… whining? And desperation? And poor decision-making?”

Behind you, Mikey slapped his chest like hello?!

“It’s ME! I’m the noise! I’m literally right here!”

You didn’t turn.

“Oh. Huh.” You shrugged. “Must be the wind.”

“THE WIND?!” Mikey squeaked. “Are you fucking serious?!”

He ran in front of you.

“Okay, very funny. Hilarious. But seriously, it’s getting COLD. It is OCTOBER. The temperature DROPS at night. I didn’t bring a coat, because SOME PEOPLE kicked me out, and all my cards are frozen, and I may have lost every remaining cent to the Russian mafia—but who’s keeping track—”

“Not me,” you said sweetly, still ignoring him. “I don’t track insignificant numbers.”

Mikey slapped a hand to his chest. “INSIGNIFICANT?! I’m literally SHIVERING. Feel free to take pity on me anytime now.”

You smiled sweetly.

“Mikey, darling… remember when you accepted a check from my ex-husband? The check meant for me? The moment you didn’t think at all before doing the stupidest thing you’ve done since birth?”

He nodded miserably. “…Yes.”

“Well.” You patted his cheek. “You should’ve thought then.”

You stepped past him.

“But—BUT—where do I sleep?!”

“Hotels exist.”

“With what money?!”

You pointed at his wrist.

“Sell your watch. It’s worth a few thousand. At least try to use your brain.”

He clutched his wrist protectively.

“My watch?! This is vintage!”

“And so is your stupidity,” you snapped.

Mikey’s jaw dropped.

You sighed dramatically. “Anyway, I’m tired, I’m cold, and I can’t wait to crawl into my warm bed with those silk sheets waiting for me. Goodnight.”

You walked toward the elevator..

Behind you:

“HAVE A HEART! I’M FREEZING! I CAN’T FEEL MY KNEES!”

The elevator chimed.

You stepped inside just as Mikey yelled:

“ARE YOU KIDDING?!”

The doors slid shut on your brother’s final plea, and you ignored it without hesitation.

Mikey groaned dramatically, then turned to Rob — just as he was closing the entrance doors.

“Sorry, Mr. Queen,” Rob said, polite but firm. “Mrs. and Ms Queen were very clear. I cannot let you inside.”

“Rob, bro—come on, man. Don’t you doorman people have hearts? Or couches? Where do you even live? Do you sleep in the lobby?!”

Rob cleared his throat.

“No, sir. I live in Queens.”

“Queens?! How ironic,” Mikey muttered.

You didn’t even remember how you made it to the gala.

One minute you were storming out of Harry’s penthouse, mascara barely surviving your rage, the next you were in the back of a cab wrestling yourself into last season’s gown — because of course Mikey had destroyed your new one.

The gown was still couture.

Still stunning.

Still dramatic enough to silence a room.

But last season is last season.

In Manhattan?

Practically vintage.

You arrived at the Montgomery Gala with your chin high and your heart still bleeding, but that wasn’t anyone’s business, was it?

Not here.

Not in this glittering battlefield where weakness is carnage.

The chandeliers sparkled like diamond guillotines.

Music swirled.

Laughter floated like champagne bubbles.

And then—

“Honey!”

“Heey babe!”

“There she is!”

The Fifth Ave Dolls descended on you like well-dressed vultures.

Hailey was the first to gasp dramatically.

“Is that—wait—is that last year’s Versace?”

Chloe leaned in, whispering with faux concern, “What happened to the new gown you were bragging about?”

Kim added with a pout, “Did you spill something? Or did someone else spill something? Because your brother has… a reputation.”

You smiled sweetly — weaponized sweetness.

“Mikey tripped and spilled red wine on it,” you lied smoothly. “Silly goose. I forgave him immediately.”

You would never forgive him.

Your mother, Scarlet, floated over, cocktail in hand, jewels shimmering. She still had that Upper East Side poise — the kind that makes even humiliation look chic.

And yet—

From somewhere behind you, a woman’s laugh sliced clean through the hum of conversation.

Vivienne Castillo.

Harry’s mother.

Elegant. Composed. A woman carved from old-money grace and unshakeable poise.

She approached with the kind of smile society women perfected — polite on the surface, sharp underneath, but never cruel without purpose.

“Darling,” Vivienne greeted, her gaze sweeping over your gown with a softness that wasn’t warmth, but wasn’t disdain either.

“I see you’ve returned from your… extended vacation.”

Translation: the city knows you disappeared after the divorce.

“Rest is important,” she continued smoothly, “though I can’t say it looks like it did you much good.”

Not venom.

Just truth wrapped in silk.

“And I hear your home is… quieter these days. No staff left at all?”

Scarlet stiffened beside you — nails digging into her clutch.

“We gave them all a well-deserved holiday,” Scarlet replied, lying with seasoned elegance.

“We adore treating our staff.”

"Of course, you do." Vivienne nodded politely, but her eyes stayed on you.

“I do hope everything is settling down. Transitions can be… difficult.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking — only edged with something like disappointment.

Not in who you were.

In what had happened.

Her gaze gentled for the briefest second.

“You always managed yourself beautifully, dear. I hope you still are.”

Translation: I know you’re struggling… You'd hurt my son, and I can’t stand you for it. So you kind of deserve this.

Still... She hadn’t told anyone about your family drama.

Not yet.

And something told you she wouldn’t — not out of malice, but out of pride.

She never hated you.

Harry claimed she liked you, once — and maybe she had.

But now?

Now she looked at you the way a mother looks at the woman who walked away from her son’s heart.

A wound that still sat between you, dressed in diamonds and etiquette.

Your girls, the Dolls, leaned in again after Vivienne drifted away.

Hailey whispered, “Honestly? I haven’t seen Harry at a single event in months. Everyone’s saying he’s still not over you.”

Vanessa nodded eagerly, “Right? Why else avoid the social scene if not heartbreak? He must be suffering.”

You smiled.

Slow.

Dangerous.

Delicious.

“Is that so?” you purred, raising a brow. “Well… forgetting me was never easy.”

The girls squealed, and you basked in it — because if you didn’t radiate confidence, someone else would happily chew you alive tonight.

By the time you made it home, exhaustion draped itself over your bones.

You peeled off the gown, collapsed into bed, and buried your face in a pillow that still smelled faintly of peach polish and lost dignity.

But sleep didn’t come until your anger simmered into something sharper.

Something dangerous.

Something like:

War.

Sunlight slipped through your curtains, warm and unwanted.

You groaned, rolled onto your back, and pushed your hair out of your face.

Your silk robe lay draped over the chair.

Your skincare neatly arranged.

Your life… not so much.

You padded to the vanity, tying the robe around your waist, and began your ritual:

Toner.

Serum.

Eye cream.

Moisturizer.

Brush hair.

Fix your face.

Fix your mood.

Then, coffee in hand, you opened your laptop.

Your homepage loaded automatically — Manhattan business news, social pages, and—

Castillo Capital.

Harry’s company.

And right there on the main page, next to the company’s mission statement and press highlights, was a photo of him.

Sharp suit. Cold eyes. That stupid jawline.

You stared at it for a long, simmering moment.

Then whispered:

“You’ll eat those words, Harry. Every last one.”

You scrolled.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for.

Maybe a crack in his armor.

Maybe something to weaponize.

Maybe… anything.

Then you saw it.

A banner.

Your brow lifted.

“Interesting…”

You were a Columbia economics graduate.

Top of your class.

Born into finance.

And Castillo Capital had just opened its doors to the unwashed masses?

“Oh, of course,” you murmured. “Why not?”

Emily returned to the table with two steaming cups of genmaicha with sakura blossoms, the soft, nutty aroma filling the cozy corner of the restaurant.

She set your cup down gently, worry etched across her face.

“…So… that’s it? The end? You’re done with him now?” she asked softly as she sat across from you.

You lifted your chin, eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

“No,” you said. “Not even close. Now it starts.”

Emily blinked, her mouth hanging open. “Starts? What starts?”

Your lips curled slowly, wickedly.

“My revenge,” you said sweetly. “He will fall in love with me again. He will apologize. He will choke on every word he threw at me. I’m going to ruin him emotionally, mentally, romantically — all of it.”

Emily choked on her sakura tea.

“Are you insane? Baby, he literally tried to make you sign a contract! He hates you right now. He doesn’t even want to look at you.”

You smirked.

“He will. Every day.”

You slid your phone toward her.

Emily glanced at the screen.

CASTILLO CAPITAL — Competitive, Interview-Based Hiring for Internship & Associate Positions

Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “No. No, absolutely not. How? How are you even—”

“I’m going to work at his company,” you declared, like a queen announcing war on a rival kingdom. “He’s going to see me every morning. Every afternoon. Every goddamn second.”

Emily’s jaw dropped. “Baby, you’re out of your mind. Those roles are competitive. People applying there have terrifying résumés — years of experience, certifications, finance backgrounds.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Please. I’m a Columbia Economics graduate. And more importantly, I have natural-born talent, irresistible charm, and an aura that makes people hire me immediately.”

Emily placed a hand over her heart. “I adore your enthusiasm. Truly. Put that on your CV — it might help.”

You rolled your eyes and flipped open your laptop right on the counter.

“Watch and learn,” you said. “I’ll make a résumé so good they’ll think I’m overqualified.”

Emily leaned in with a sigh. “Sweetheart, this is finance. Numbers. Markets. Actual work.”

Your fingers flew aggressively across the keys anyway.

“One thing about me,” you said, voice low with determination, “if I want something, I get it.”

Emily groaned and grabbed your wrist gently. “I know. Of course you do. But... Baby… listen. I know you’re furious. I know Harry hurt you. But this—” she gestured at your phone, “this isn’t the only way. Maybe if you told him what actually happened back then… I mean… doesn’t he deserve to know? He looked heartbroken when-”

“Em,” you asked, “whose side are you on?”

“Yours!” she yelped. “Always! Obviously! I just—God, babe—you want him to swallow every horrible thing he said, I get it. But maybe if you actually told him—”

“No.” Your voice cut like glass. “He doesn’t deserve to know anything. He wasn’t there for me when it mattered. He was too busy chasing a company to notice what I went through.” You leaned closer. “Now let’s see what he does when the thing he values most — that precious company — has me working inside it.”

Emily dropped her forehead to the table with a groan. “Oh my God. Girl, I swear… I’m so scared you’re the one who’s going to end up hurt in all of this.”

“No,” you said calmly. “He will. You'll see. If a person wants something badly enough, they can do anything.”

Emily exhaled dramatically, muttering under her breath, “You’re crazy… absolutely crazy… God help Harry’s soul.”

The next morning.

You dressed like a woman raised on marble floors.

You always had.

Silk. Shape. Precision.

Elegance sharpened into armor.

And today’s battlefield wasn’t the Met Gala staircase or a Fifth Avenue charity luncheon—

but Castillo Capital, one of Wall Street’s most notoriously selective towers.

A building powered by ambition, money, and men who thought they invented capitalism.

You stood before your closet, fingers drifting across rows of gowns, cocktail dresses, and couture—

your natural habitat.

But today called for a different kind of beauty.

You finally chose:

a fitted silk-satin blouse with a delicate bow at the collar,

a high-waisted pencil skirt tailored to perfection,

silky sheer tights in black,

and your favorite stilettos — the ones that made you walk like Manhattan belonged to you.

You rarely wore pants — unless the day held no elite event and no one worth impressing.

You brushed your hair into soft, glossy waves, pinning one side back with a pearl clip.

Then you misted on a perfume Vivienne once claimed was “too bold for daytime.”

Exactly why you wore it.

One last look in the mirror:

polished, poised, frighteningly beautiful.

A woman built for victory.

You slipped your structured leather bag over your arm and stepped into the hallway.

Lara glanced up first.

“Jesus,” she breathed, eyes scanning your outfit. She put the coffee pot down.

Scarlet looked up from her tea, eyes widening.

You were—dressy. Very dressy.

But not in your usual ‘I’ve been styled by three designers before breakfast’ way.

You paused, arching a brow.

“How do I look?”

It wasn’t their approval you needed.

You just wanted to see if they noticed the shift in your aura — the quiet, razor-sharp purpose.

Lara grinned. “You look like you're about to fire a CFO.”

Scarlet’s gaze softened.

“You look stunning. Breathtaking, actually. But where on earth are you going?”

You gave her a single, cool, devastating smile.

“To start a war I fully intend to win.”

Then you turned, heels clicking toward the door, the soft rhythm echoing like a countdown to someone else’s disaster.

You paused only long enough to slide your sunglasses out of your bag —

sleek, dark lenses, the kind that said I don’t chase power; power follows me.

You put them on with a smooth, practiced motion, chin lifting half an inch.

Scarlet and Lara watched you like you’d just stepped out of a Vogue spread titled Revenge Season.

You didn’t smile.

You simply adjusted the frames, let the silence hang for dramatic effect, and walked out —

a storm wrapped in silk,

a ghost from Harry Castillo’s past,

and the woman who was about to turn his entire skyscraper upside down.

The moment you stepped into Castillo Capital, the atmosphere shifted—but this time, it wasn’t just about your appearance.

Last time you were here, you were in a fancy dress, furious, glowing, chaotic —

and the entire lobby had turned to stare.

Today?

You blended just enough to be strategic.

People glanced at you—

once,

twice—

admiring the elegance, the Upper East Side polish you could never hide…

…but they didn’t gawk.

Good.

You didn’t need an audience.

You needed entry.

You walked to the reception desk, where a sleek brunette typed rapidly behind a sculptural monitor.

Her badge read: Tara – Front Desk Ops

“Hi,” you said, with polite confidence. “I’m here for the interview with Lucy Mason.”

She clicked through her computer—and lifted her gaze with a practiced smile.

“Of course, Ms. Queen. You can wait right over there.”

You thanked her, turned— and... surprised.

Because someone was waving at you.

Aggressively.

Like he’d spotted Beyoncé in the wild.

“Oh God…” you muttered.

That guy.

The man who spilled coffee all over your pricey dress that day rushed over, almost tripping on the marble in his excitement.

“HEY!” he beamed. “You’re—wow—hi. Again!”

You stared at him.

“…John, right?”

He straightened proudly.

“John Pitts. But yeah—John is fine. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, eyes scanning you in open admiration. “You’re interviewing?”

“Yes,” you said, smoothing your skirt.

“That’s great. I’m sitting in on some of the final rounds today.”

You raised a brow.

“Oh? CFO already? Impressive.”

John turned bright red.

“Uh, no way. I just—umm—came over from the London office. I’m in Strategic Investments & Portfolio Development. So now I’m here. Middle-ish. Ish.”

Cute.

He shifted awkwardly, then added, “My dad—you might’ve heard of him—Arthur Pitts? He’s one of the principal investors.”

Ah.

That explained everything and nothing.

“So technically,” John continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “I could’ve stayed in London or, like… lived on a yacht forever, I guess? But Dad said if I’m gonna work here, I need to earn my place. ‘Start low.’” He made air quotes.

That awkward blend of nepotism baby and earnest overachiever.

Rare.

He blinked, suddenly remembering his manners.

“Oh—sorry, I didn’t even ask your name. What should I call you? Miss…?”

You replied with your name and added, “Queen.”

His eyes widened. “Nice. Very… regal.”

“Well,” you smiled politely, smoothing your skirt, “thanks John.”

He looked at you like a golden retriever staring at a filet mignon.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “You seemed… upset that day. Like—really upset.”

Your jaw tightened.

Understatement of the century.

“It was just a bad day,” you said. “I’m fine now.”

He opened his mouth—probably to spill a waterfall of earnest sympathy—

When a crisp voice sliced through the air:

“Ms. Queen?”

You turned.

And there she was.

HR Director.

The woman who controlled hiring like a god with immaculate taste.

Her charcoal sheath dress was tailored like architecture.

Her dark bob gleamed under the LEDs.

Her posture radiated: I fire people before breakfast.

She looked at you up and down.

Slow.

Precise.

Noticing everything:

The perfect blowout.

The pedigree of your blouse.

The posture of someone who belonged to an elite that didn’t mingle with finance mortals.

Was that… envy?

Maybe.

Or caution.

“Lucy Mason,” she introduced herself, voice clipped but cordial. “John,” she added with a nod—barely acknowledging him.

He straightened too fast, like a schoolboy caught talking in class.

“Lucy,” he said. “Good morning.”

But Lucy’s eyes flicked back to you.

“Miss Queen, the HR interviews are on 27. Follow me.”

She turned toward the elevators, expecting obedience.

You followed.

Behind you, John shot you an enthusiastic thumbs-up—

so earnest you had to fight a smile.

Ron was pale.

Dana was paler.

Both practically speed-walked down the hallway toward Harry’s office, clutching the thick folder like it was a bomb ready to detonate.

“Ron, what are we gonna do?” Dana whispered.

“This is—this is insane—this is—”

“Don’t panic,” Ron hissed.

“I’m already panicking enough for the both of us.”

They reached the office.

Ron took one shaky breath—

—and knocked.

“Come in,” Harry called, clipped and focused.

Ron entered first, Dana hovering behind him like she expected to be struck by lightning.

“Sir,” Ron began, voice cracking, “um… this folder. The finalists. For today.”

Harry didn’t even look up.

“Since when am I reviewing hires?” he muttered at his laptop.

Ron exchanged a terrified glance with Dana.

“Sir,” he said again, firmer this time, pushing the folder forward,

“you… really need to see this one.”

Harry finally sighed, closed his laptop with visible irritation, and reached for the folder.

He flipped open the first résumé.

Glanced.

Turned the page.

Another candidate.

Turned.

Then—

He stopped.

His fingers tightened on the paper.

His shoulders locked.

The room felt suddenly thin, like the oxygen evaporated.

MISS QUEEN

Columbia University — Economics

Relevant coursework…

Experience…

References…

And then —

your photo.

Your elegant smile.

The tilt of your chin Harry once kissed every morning—

His nostrils flared.

Something sharp and hungry flickered behind his eyes, just for a second.

An involuntary pull.

And then...

The explosion.

Harry snapped the folder shut so violently that Dana yelped.

He shot to his feet.

“What the hell is this?”

Ron took one terrified step back.

Dana looked ready to faint.

“I—I told him,” Dana squeaked at Ron. “I said we should burn it—”

Ron glared at her.

“I said we should tell him—”

“You did not—”

“ENOUGH.”

Harry’s voice cracked like a whip.

Both froze.

Ron swallowed hard.

“Sir… she applied yesterday. And she’s already here. For the final round.”

Dana nodded frantically.

“Miss Mason chose her based on qualifications only! She doesn’t know—she doesn’t know anything—oh God—”

Harry clenched his jaw.

A muscle ticked in his cheek.

His voice came out low.

Cold.

Controlled — the dangerous kind.

“Neither of you saw this.”

Dana nodded like her life depended on it.

“Absolutely, Mr. Castillo. I already forgot her name.”

Ron raised a shaky hand.

“Should I—should I remove her from the list? I can tell Lucy she—”

“No.”

The word cut the air clean in half.

Harry stepped around his desk, straightening the sleeve of his cashmere shirt.

Adjusting the expensive watch on his wrist.

Drawing in one slow breath that didn’t calm him at all.

“Where,” he asked tightly,

“is the interview?”

Ron blinked.

“Conference Room B. HR floor.”

Harry walked toward the door with the energy of a man heading to war.

“I’ll be attending.”

Ron’s eyes nearly popped out.

“Sir— but CEOs don’t usually—”

Harry turned his head just enough to pin Ron with a look so lethal the poor man’s soul fled his body.

“I said. I’ll be there.”

Ron immediately shut his mouth and scrambled after him like a panicked duck.

Dana watched them leave, hands pressed to her temples.

“Oh no,” she whispered to herself.

“God help whoever’s in that room.”

They seated you in a glass-walled conference room with two other applicants.

Both were children.

Or at least they looked like it.

You crossed your legs elegantly and asked, sweet as poison:

“So… how old are you two?”

The girl brightened.

“Twenty-two.”

The young man added proudly,

“Twenty-three. Just graduated.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Babies.”

They laughed awkwardly.

You smiled like a duchess meeting peasants.

Then muttered under your breath:

“Well… you’re not that tragic, girl,” you told yourself silently. “A little older, a lot prettier.”

The door opened.

Lucy walked in with a bright, composed smile, a thick folder tucked neatly against her arm.“Good afternoon,” she said warmly. “Thank you for waiting. You three are the final candidates selected for the last stage of today’s interviews.”

A brief pause — giving the moment weight.

“Now we’ll be focusing on team dynamics, pressure management, and individual initiative—”

But she didn’t finish.

Because the door opened again.

And the temperature in the room plummeted.

Harry Castillo stepped inside.

Every atom in your spine stiffened.

He looked... really pissed off and intense.

Good.

Sharp suit, colder eyes, presence like a storm wearing cologne.

Lucy sprang to her feet, setting off a chain reaction as everyone else quickly got up as well — except for you.

“Har-Mr. Castillo.” Lucy said, stunned. “We weren’t expecting—”

Harry didn’t look at her.

He was staring at you.

Soft.

Stunned.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe for half a second.

He murmured your name — barely audible, instinct more than intention.

Lucy’s eyes flicked between you and him sharply.

“…You two know each other?” she asked, surprised.

You smirked. "I-"

Harry snapped out of it.

“No,” he said quickly, voice clipped. “I... recognized her name from the résumé. I decided to sit in on the final round.”

Lucy blinked at him — CEOs NEVER joined interviews —

But she nodded anyway.

“Of course.”

She gestured at the chairs.

Everyone sat.

You lifted your chin.

“Funny,” you said lightly, “I wasn’t informed the CEO would be attending.”

The whole room stiffened.

Harry slid into the chair Ron had pulled beside Lucy — graceful, lethal, entirely in control — and turned his head toward you.

His eyes glinted.

“Is that a problem, Ms. Queen?”

He paused.

“Or are you worried you can’t handle real evaluation?”

You smiled sweetly.

“Oh, I can handle plenty, Mr. Castillo.”

The two candidates looked like they wanted to evaporate.

Lucy cleared her throat, trying to drag the interview back to Earth.

“Let’s begin. Mr. Alden, we’ll start with you.”

Questions.

Answers.

Corporate nonsense.

Then—

“Ms. Queen,” Lucy said, turning toward you with her tablet poised.

“Let’s start with your background. Could you tell us about your experience at… Queen Financial?”

She paused — brow arching just slightly.

“The name matches your own. A coincidence, I assume?”

A soft ripple of amusement passed through the room.

You let out a polished, effortless laugh — the kind you’d learned at age six from charity luncheons and etiquette tutors.

“Oh, not a coincidence. It’s my father’s firm.”

The other candidates chuckled again — louder this time.One even muttered, “Good one,” under their breath.

Ron outright snorted before he could stop himself.

Harry shot him a lethal look — Ron’s smile died instantly; he pretended to cough into his fist.

Lucy let out a light, professional laugh of her own, tapping her tablet.

“You have a delightful sense of humor,” she said.

Then her expression sharpened back into corporate neutrality.

“Alright then — your experience. Walk us through your responsibilities at Queen Financial.”

You kept your posture perfect.

Shoulders back. Chin steady. Smile flawless.

“Of course,” you continued smoothly, “working there gave me a strong foundation — particularly in client relations, asset coordination, and market behavior. It was a valuable experience.”

Translation: My family empire is collapsing, and none of you can ever know.

But no one in the room saw the truth.

All they saw was poise.

Confidence.

A woman carved from prestige.

Everyone but Harry, who is across from you, gripping the corner of your résumé just a little too tightly.

“Let’s see,” he murmured, flipping it open.

He skimmed your bullet points.

You saw the exact second he recognized your embellishments.

His jaw twitched.

Then—

He struck.

“In your CV,” he said smoothly, “you mention running projections for interest-rate volatility in emerging markets.”

Lucy raised her brows, impressed.

The other candidates looked lost.

Harry leaned back, crossing his arms — relaxed predator mode.

“Tell me, Ms. Queen,” he said casually, “What model did you use?”

You smiled.

Because he thought this would break you.

Adorable.

“Which quarter?” you asked, meeting his eyes. “Because domestic Q4 projections require a modified VAR approach, but emerging markets—”

He frowned.

Slightly.

You continued, sweet and sharp:

“—well, Mr. Castillo, you know exactly why a basic VAR collapses there.”

A flicker of annoyance.

Good.

Lucy leaned forward, interested.

Harry’s voice was lower now.

“Explain it to the room, Ms. Queen.”

“Gladly,” you said.

You gave a concise explanation — enough detail to show you weren’t clueless, but vague enough to cover the fact that your experience was… creative.

Lucy nodded.

The other candidates blinked like you were speaking ancient Greek.

Harry stared.

Not angry.

Not impressed.

Something more complicated.

Something hotter.

And more dangerous.

When you finished, Lucy smiled.

“Thank you, Ms. Queen. Very thorough.”

You tilted your head toward Harry.

“Satisfied, Mr. Castillo?”

His jaw flexed. "You also worked in the credit analysis division at Queen Financial. Impressive.”

You nodded politely.

Harry tilted his head, feigning casual interest.

“Then you must have handled some significant clients.”

Crap.

You totally made that up, and he probably figured it out.

“Why don’t you list a few for us? Your most high-profile accounts.”

You kept your face composed.

“No.”

The other two candidates jerked their heads toward you.

Lucy raised an eyebrow.

Harry’s eyes narrowed with delighted malice.

“No?” he echoed. “Is that your answer, Ms. Queen?”

“It’s confidential. Client privacy comes before everything.”

A beat.

“Surely you agree, Mr. Castillo?”

Lucy actually smiled.

The HR woman beside her put a neat little check mark by your name.

Harry spotted it and swore under his breath.

Strike one for him.

He flipped your résumé back open.

“You also worked… here,” he said, pointing to a boutique company.

“For one year.”

He didn’t hide the contempt.

“And what exactly does editorial strategy assistant have to do with finance?”

You smiled, calm and razor-sharp.

“Oh, that was fashion media. I worked there before joining the finance world.”

A shrug.

“I’ve always been versatile.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying you.

“So you change your mind quickly?”

His tone was soft—dangerously soft.

“Commitment issues, Ms. Queen?”

You froze.

Lucy blinked in surprise.

The other candidates stared at the table.

Harry wasn’t done.

“We value loyalty here.”

He glanced at Lucy and the other HR woman.

“We’re not interested in candidates who abandon their team after a year or two.”

A direct hit.

Personal.

Petty.

Classic Harry.

You inhaled slowly.

Then smiled — the kind of smile that made the air sharpen.

“I also value loyalty, Mr. Castillo. Deeply. But loyalty is a two-way effort. One side can’t carry it alone.”

Harry’s eyes darkened. “Oh? One side? That’s your interpretation?”

You didn’t flinch. “I think it’s a fact.”

The entire room sat in stunned silence.

Ron, standing at the door, audibly swallowed.

Harry forced a tight smile.

“Well,” he said lightly, “any respectable company supports their employees. We give them every tool to succeed.”

You tilted your head. “But giving an employee responsibilities they never agreed to — that’s not support.” Your voice was soft, sweet, and unmistakably pointed. “It’s unfair.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed so sharply it could’ve cut glass.

Lucy cleared her throat loudly, desperate to drag the interview back from the edge of emotional warfare.

“Okay,” she said brightly — too brightly.

“Let’s not take more time from the other candidates.”

You smiled.

“Of course.”

Harry leaned back, jaw tight, fury simmering.

Lucy continued, refocused:

“Ms. Queen, one last question.”

You turned to her politely.

“Compared to the other candidates, your experience is less traditional. So tell me—why should we hire you? What makes you the right fit for Castillo Capital?”

The room went silent again.

Even Harry looked at you — still angry, but curious despite himself.

You straightened, lifted your chin, and said with perfect poise:

“Because I don’t break under pressure — I sharpen.”

You continued, voice calm, confident, devastating:

“I’ve worked with demanding people, impossible expectations, and high-stakes environments my whole life. And I’ve learned something —most people crumble.”

Your eyes flicked to Harry for barely one second.

“But I don’t.”

A breath.

A perfect smile.

“I become better.”

Silence.

Lucy finally exhaled.

“Thank you, Ms. Queen.”

Harry looked away, jaw clenched — because for the first time in years… you’d impressed him.

And he hated it.

You left the conference room with a controlled smile, spine straight, heart pounding so hard it felt like a percussion section. John spotted you immediately.

He jogged over — because of course he did — nearly colliding with a passing analyst.

“Hey!” he beamed. “How did it go? You looked amazing in there.”

You exhaled. “Thank you. I think it went… fine?”

“Fine?” John laughed. “Come on. You handled Mason like a pro. Honestly, can I buy you a coffee downstairs? We have a good café—”

“Sure,” you said. You needed something warm, and his sincerity was… disarming.

You walked toward the glass elevator.

John asked, “They mentioned the CEO joined the interview. Is that true?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, he did.”

“That’s odd. Harry never does that.”

“You know him?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Harry’s a good guy — intense, but fair. I’ve known him for a few years.”

Your smile tightened. “I see.”

Your phone buzzed.

1 New Message — Ex-Harry-bit C

HARRY: Come to the service elevators. Now. Don’t make me come find you.

You blinked.

“Everything okay?” John asked.

“Oh— I just need to… run to the restroom,” you lied.

“Want me to wait?”

“No. Rain check.”

He nodded sweetly. “Anytime.”

You walked away, heels sharp on marble, slipping toward the discreet corridor.

As you turned the corner— A hand grabbed your wrist. Hard.

Harry pulled you toward the service elevator, jaw clenched.

“Harry— what the hell—”

“Quiet,” he snapped.

Ron slipped in behind you as the doors shut.

“Let go of me!”

Harry’s fingers tightened before releasing you—but he stayed close. Too close.

The elevator dinged. Executive floor.

He grabbed your wrist again.

“Move,” he bit out.

He practically dragged you down the private hallway — past his office — toward the locked terrace door.

Ron rushed ahead, peeking outside. “Clear.”

Harry pulled you onto the terrace. Wind hit your face.

You yanked your arm free. “Let go of me, Harry!”

“Gladly,” he snapped. “Now start talking. What the hell are you doing here?”

“You tell me! You dragged me up here like a psychopath!”

“You applied for a job at my company. You sat in my conference room.”

“I needed a job!”

“You could pick any other firm in this city!”

“Oh, so you’re allowed to work wherever you want, but I’m not?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

“You padded that résumé,” he shot back. “You barely worked at your father’s company.”

“Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little. But I have more right to work there than anyone!”

“Why’s that, princess?”

“Because the company was my idea.”

Harry stilled.

“I told you to break away from your father. I encouraged you. I helped you build that dream—”

“And then you left me,” he exploded. “When I needed you. You were gone.”

His voice cracked, then hardened.

“It’s over. You’re not joining this company.”

He turned away.

“Harry! Don’t be cruel. This isn’t you!”

He stopped. “This is exactly me.”

“Oh, come on. What do you want me to do? Beg? Apologize? Do you want me to get on my knees?”

He froze.

Very slowly, he looked down at your legs… then back up at your face.

A smirk — cruel, devastating — curved his lips.

“…Not a bad idea.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Get on your knees,” he said softly. “Beg.”

You stared at him — this man you once loved, once married — and for one horrifying moment… you considered it.

You bent your knees a tiny inch—

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Come on, Queen. It’s not that hard.”

Heat shot up your spine.

You straightened. “These knees weren’t made to bend. They were made to stand.”

Harry’s expression shifted.

“You kneel,” you snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest.

Then you turned and marched toward the door.

“You’re a cruel man. An absolute menace. I hope you trip on your perfect loafers.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you go.

Ron stepped forward. “...Boss? Should I… do anything?”

“She called me cruel. Am I cruel, Ron?”

Ron froze. “Wh—no! No, sir. Of course not.”

Harry scoffed, pacing once, running a hand through his hair.

Ron hesitated. “Maybe she really does need the job?”

“She can go to any other company in Manhattan. Not here.”

He gestured angrily at the door.

“And apparently, the company was her idea. Did you hear that?”

Ron lifted his hands. “Maybe she contributed something? You two were— uh— together—”

“There was no such thing,” Harry said coldly.

They stepped back inside. The hallway was quiet. Harry was not.

He was still muttering under his breath when an intern hurried over and handed Ron a thin file.

“Final selections for the associate track,” the intern said, then hurried away.

Ron blinked. “Selections? Already? Oh....God."

Harry snatched it.

Inside, circled in blue ink:

MS. QUEEN — SELECTED

Harry’s jaw flexed.

“Well… looks like not everyone agrees with you, boss,” Ron murmured.

Harry marched into his office, Ron trailing behind.

He ripped your résumé from the file, crumpled it, and threw it.

It bounced off the trash can and landed on the floor.

He didn’t pick it up.

“The final decision,” he said through his teeth, “is mine.”

Your bedroom lights were dimmed to that soft, flattering golden tone you always used for getting ready. You lay sprawled across your duvet, heels kicked off, phone hovering above your face in a video call with Emily. Your hair was clipped back with sectioning pins. Half your makeup was done. You looked gorgeous — irritated, but gorgeous. “He used to never tell me no,” you muttered, rolling onto your stomach. “Harry Castillo saying no to me. He’s changed. He’s changed so much.” Emily sipped her tea dramatically on the screen. “Sweetheart, of course he changed. Men always lose brain cells after heartbreak. Are you curling your own hair right now?” You lifted your curling wand in defeated shame. “Do you see any makeup artists around here? No? Exactly.” Emily winced sympathetically. “So Scarlet’s dragging you to another fancy event tonight?” You sighed and reached for your blush. “Yes. An art gallery opening. Manhattan elite. Champagne, whispers, fake compliments… the usual paradise. I can’t skip it. If anyone even suspects my family is near bankruptcy—” Emily cut in, “They’ll start circling like Prada-wearing vultures.” “Exactly.” At that precise moment— Your bedroom door swung open with dramatic flair. Mikey. Holding two jackets. Both too expensive for him. Both stolen from your father’s old closet. “Sis!” he announced. “Which jacket do I wear? My stylist quit. Something about unpaid invoices. Whatever. Black or navy?” You didn’t even look up. “Black.” Emily blinked on the screen. “…Is that Mikey? I thought you kicked him out.” Mikey leaned into the camera like a gremlin. “Hiii Emily. Did you dye your hair? Looks great. Are you single yet or—” You threw a pillow at him. “GET. OUT.” He dodged it. Barely. “Whoa! Domestic violence! I’m telling Mom!” “GO.” He slipped out dramatically, muttering something about being “the unloved Queen sibling.” Emily watched, stunned. “Jesus. He’s like a golden retriever raised by raccoons.” You applied lip liner in the camera reflection. “Don’t ask,” you groaned. “Mom let him back in because she didn’t want paparazzi catching him sleeping on a bench like a feral raccoon.” Then you raised your voice deliberately so Mikey could hear from the hallway: “LIKE A STRAY DOG!” Mikey’s offended gasp echoed faintly. Emily laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “Oh my god. Your house is chaos.” “It’s a circus and I’m the unwilling ringmaster.” As you blended your blush, Emily leaned closer to the camera. “Okay, serious question. What if Harry’s pushing back because he’s… threatened?” You froze mid-swipe. “…Threatened.” Emily nodded. “Yeah. Emotionally. Sweetheart, the man was in love with you. Deeply. Pathetically. Obsessively. Those feelings don’t evaporate. Maybe seeing you again messed him up. Maybe he’s scared he’ll fall for you all over again.” You lowered the brush slowly, raising one perfectly groomed brow. “…You think he’s scared of me.” “Obviously.” You shifted, sitting taller, a slow smirk forming. “Mm. Yes. That actually makes a lot of sense.” “Of course it does,” Emily said, flipping her hair. “If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t try this hard to keep you away. Men don’t avoid what they don’t feel.” You smiled— the dangerous kind. “He doesn’t want me in his company because he’s afraid he’ll be obsessed again.” Emily nodded knowingly. “Exactly.” You sat back, confidence igniting like fireworks. “Well then…” You grabbed your mascara, gaze sharp with mischief. “…I know exactly what my next move is.” Emily gasped. “Oh no. Oh yes. Oh god.” You winked at the camera. “Harry Castillo wants me gone? Too bad.” You uncapped your lipstick with a click. “I’m getting that job.”

The gallery glowed like a jewel box on Madison Avenue — glass walls, soft jazz, diamonds catching the light on every wrist. Scarlet looped her arm through yours the second you stepped inside. “Smile,” she whispered. “We need them to think everything is perfect.” You smiled. Perfectly. Mikey trailed behind in a wrinkled designer jacket he absolutely did not iron. “Mom, I swear they’re all staring at me,” he muttered. “Good,” Scarlet hissed. “Behave like someone worth staring at." You rolled your eyes and drifted toward the crowd — governors’ wives, collectors, bored billionaire sons pretending to appreciate art. The air smelled like champagne and ambition. Then—

A hush. Like the whole room was one giant pair of gossiping lungs. Because entering the gallery… Vivienne. You exhaled under your breath, barely moving your lips. “Ugh. Not this again.” Emerald silk. Heavy diamonds. Hair sculpted like old-money armor. And next to her— Harry. In his black suit cut sharp enough to slice through the silence. A presence that made the gallery lights feel hotter. And on his other side… A young woman. Warm chestnut hair in soft waves. Hazel eyes. Delicate, doll-like features. Mikey nearly choked on his canapé. “Holy—who is THAT? She looks like an angel dipped in… angel.” You didn’t even look up from your champagne. “Harry’s sister, you idiot,” you said dryly. “Sienna.” Mikey gawked harder. “No way. She was a kid when—whatever. She grew up into—wow.” You shot him a glare. “Pick your jaw up. You look pathetic.” He shut his mouth instantly. Scarlet muttered, “Don’t encourage him. I’m not burying another child of mine in the Castillo mess.” Across the room, Harry’s eyes drifted over the crowd— Then locked onto you.

A flicker. A flash of something sharp and unreadable. Heat? Anger? Regret? You looked away first. He wasn’t getting that victory. A hush rippled through the gallery — the kind made of diamonds, gossip, and women who smiled while committing social murder. Then came the whispers. Sharp. Silky. Cruel.

“Oh my god… is that Queen and Castillo in the same room?” “Ex–power couple sighting. Someone alert Page Six.” “I haven’t seen them together since the divorce settlement fiasco—” “Shh! Don’t say that out loud, she’ll hear you.” “Well, they look… stunning. Separately, of course.” “Honestly? I’m shocked they’re even breathing the same air.” “Do you think there’ll be drama?” Oh, there would be. You pretended to study a painting — a bleeding swirl of red and gold. Scarlet stepped beside you. “This piece is stunning. I could hang it in the study.” A smooth voice floated from behind you: “Oh, I agree. It would look perfect in my study.” Scarlet’s smile froze. She turned slowly. Vivienne stood there, lips curved in the thinnest smirk. “Scarlet,” she purred. “You’re looking… well.” “And you’re looking… older,” Scarlet replied sweetly. You nearly choked. Vivienne ignored you, eyes sliding to the painting. “This is the gallery’s star piece. Quite difficult to acquire.” Scarlet lifted her chin. “I suppose that makes two difficult things you and I have in common.”

Vivienne’s smile sharpened. “Oh no, dear. I’m extremely easy to acquire. Success follows me. And money follows that.” Scarlet stiffened. You touched her wrist gently. “Mom… breathe.” Too late. The curator rushed over. “Ladies, we’re doing a silent bid. Highest offer wins.” Scarlet and Vivienne moved at the same time. Like dueling panthers.

Cards. Pencils. Violent scratching. Vivienne wrote like a queen signing a treaty. Scarlet wrote like she was stabbing the paper. They slammed their bids face-down. The curator fled. You muttered, “They’re going to set this place on fire.” Behind you— Harry’s voice, icy: “Control your mother.” You turned slowly.

“I beg your pardon?” He stepped closer, just enough for your perfume to hit him. “She’s making a scene.” “Oh?” you scoffed. “And your mother isn’t? I heard her say ‘money follows me.’ Is she auditioning for Real Housewives of Gotham?” His jaw flexed. “Tell Scarlet to stop before she digs your family even deeper. You know how these people gossip. One wrong move and they’ll talk for years. Especially about an actress like your mother.” You lifted an eyebrow. He was right, and it totally bugged you. The curator returned with a nervous smile. “We, uh… have the results.” Scarlet straightened. Vivienne tightened her grip on her clutch. “The painting goes to…” The gallery inhaled. “MRS. SCARLET QUEEN!” Vivienne’s smile cracked. Barely. Scarlet beamed like a victorious empress.

You clapped politely. Mikey whooped. Sienna giggled. Vivienne blinked once — aristocratic devastation. Scarlet leaned in. “Better luck next time, Vivienne.” Vivienne replied softly, “Oh, I don’t need luck, darling. Just patience.” Her eyes flicked to you. Your stomach pulled tight. When she walked away, you whispered: “Mom… question.” Scarlet flipped her hair proudly. “Yes?” “How exactly are you paying for the painting?” Scarlet froze. “…LARA!” She grabbed her phone. “Call her! Tell her to transfer the last bit of my gallery fund immediately!” Mikey leaned in. “The LAST bit?” “Shut up,” Scarlet snapped. You sighed. Just another Queen family crisis. Then— The curator rushed back to your group. “Mrs. Queen,” he said warmly. “The piece has already been paid for.” Scarlet blinked. “What?” You turned— Harry was across the room. Lifting his champagne glass to you. Not Scarlet. You. A slow, smug, infuriating smile tugged at his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Your jaw clenched. You handed your glass to Mikey. “I’ll be right back.” Mikey, distracted by Sienna: “Wait—Sienna, is that really you? Wow—” You ignored him completely. You looked at Harry. Gave him a small, sharp, deliberate gesture. Outside. Now. Harry’s brows rose. He finished his champagne in one slow swallow. And followed you toward the private terrace. Like he’d been waiting for the invitation all night.

Harry slid into the backseat, slamming the door a little too hard. Ron slipped into the front passenger side, stiff as a soldier reporting for duty.

Harry muttered immediately, voice sharp:

“‘You still have feelings for me.’ ‘You’re scared to hire me because you think you might fall in love with me again.’ Can you believe that, Ron?”

Ron froze, hands hovering over his clipboard.

Harry glared at the silence.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Ron cleared his throat carefully.

“Well… you get upset whenever you talk about her, boss I’m just… trying not to die.”

Harry scoffed. “I’m asking you to speak, not write your will. Go on.”

Ron exhaled slowly.

“Okay. If you want my opinion… Ms. Queen might be right.”

Harry whipped around in his seat.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Ron stammered, “why are you blocking the hiring? She was selected. Objectively she’s a strong candidate.”

“She lied on her résumé,” Harry snapped. “She exaggerated everything.”

“Yes, that part is… problematic,” Ron admitted. “But honestly? She’s not a bad hire. In fact, she’s—”

Harry cut in.

“She’s what, Ron?”

Ron stared out the windshield for courage.

“…She’s right. You’ll see her every day. It’ll bring back memories. It’s natural to… to be affected. Anyone would be. So I guess—”

He swallowed hard.

“—you are scared.”

Harry stared at him. Silent. Offended. Personally attacked on a molecular level.

“I look scared to you?” he said quietly. Too quietly.

“…Are you not?”

“No,” Harry said, looking out the window as the city rushed by. “No. That’s over. Completely. Done.”

But then—

Your voice cut through his skull:

Prove it. Hire me. Prove it.

Harry’s jaw flexed.

He leaned forward.

“Ron.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want Ms. Queen’s file on my desk first thing in the morning.”

Ron blinked. “You’re… going to sign it?”

Harry nodded once.

“Yes. I’m hiring her.”

Ron let out a stunned noise — half gasp, half wheeze.

Harry kept his gaze fixed outside at the blur of lights.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his mouth.

“Let her come,” he murmured. “We’ll see who gets destroyed this time.”

He closed his eyes briefly, cold confidence settling in his chest.

“Be afraid, princess,” he whispered. “You asked for it.”

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[wiitchesterr]

ʜɪꜱ ᴛʏᴘᴇ, ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏɴᴛ

harry castillo x book editor!fem!reader

imagining fem!reader in her thirties & harry is 45-50 but you can make up whatever you’d like :)

giving harry the rom com romance he deserves

masterlist | 9.4k words | i listened to this playlist while writing 📖 MINOR Materialists spoilers | the pics don’t depict what reader looks like | reader has hair long enough for a bun | I gave reader a last name & y/n is NOT used | used this "—" in a human way not an ai way | harry in a henley (yes that’s a real warning), multiple rounds of sex, oral (both receiving), aftercare:)

You came to Iceland alone, not because you were running from anything, but because you finally could.

The freelance contracts were stable. The email backlog was manageable. Your rent was paid through next month. It had been a year since you last went looking for someone who wasn’t looking for you. A nice milestone if you will. 

So you booked a flight. Reykjavík, Iceland. Last-minute, no itinerary and no agenda. Just a carry-on, a reading list, and the jacket you’d meant to return twice.

The first few days were all adjustments. The light of day that never really left, the water tasted like minerals, and the quiet that slowly creeps in and rests inside you. No sirens and no upstairs neighbor dropping weights at 2am. Just you, your doc martens, your thermos, and enough space in your brain to hear yourself think again.

You hiked trails with names you couldn’t pronounce, you bathed in sulfuric water that stung your skin in the best way, you had lamb stew in a restaurant carved into the side of a hill, and when the server brought you a second slice of rye bread with butter so soft it melted before it hit your tongue, you almost cried. You didn’t. But you almost did.

You reread Giovanni’s Room in a crater. Hunger Games on a black sand beach. And Persuasion in the lobby of your hotel, sipping coffee that tastes like smoke and people watching like you’re being paid to do so.

You didn’t speak to anyone really. You wanted that.

You missed New York in the way a body misses caffeine, shaky and fond but knowing you’re better off without it, at least for a little while.

And now, it’s your last morning.

You get to the airport early. Not for the reasons most people do. You weren’t stressed at all. You just enjoy the stillness that happens between gate calls, when everyone’s pretending they’re not judging and one-upping each other. You like airport coffee, even when it’s terrible. Especially when it’s terrible.

You find a café with wide windows and a view of the grey sky swallowing the tarmac. There’s a table near the corner. Two seats. You take one and drop your bag in the other, claiming space you don’t need but don’t feel guilty about.

You order a black coffee and pull out a paperback from your coat pocket, something used and marked up, with a name that isn’t yours on the inside cover.

You’re half a page in when a man asks,

“You think this book is any good?”

You don’t look up right away. You clock the voice first: American and crisp. Manhattan maybe, old money, maybe, or the kind of boarding school vowels that only break when they’re drunk or heartbroken.

Then you glance over.

He’s tall, dark-haired and looks like he shaved two days ago but hasn’t cared since. There’s a jacket slung over one arm and a bruise-like tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him ugly. It just makes him real.

You nod toward his hands before you speak.

“Depends. Are you reading it or just holding it like an accessory?”

He blinks. A pause. Then the ghost of a smirk.

“Reading it.”

You glance down at the cover he’s holding, you recognize it immediately.

“Funny. I edited that one.”

His eyes lift, sharp with interest now. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You sip your coffee. “Didn’t expect to see it outside Park Slope or a first date.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Which one do you think this is?”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t answer yet.

You let the silence hang, sip your coffee, and let him look at you.

Not stare exactly. More like observing, as if he’s trying to pin you down and failing, and finding that a little thrilling.

“So you’re from New York?” he asks.

You glance at him over your cup. “What gave it away?”

“I can hear a little accent,” he says, smiling. “And you mentioned Park Slope. Not just anyone knows that.”

You chuckle under your breath. “True. Most tourists don’t go there.”

You pause just long enough to make him wonder if you’ll return the question. Then:

“What part are you from?”

He shifts, leans forward slightly like he’s letting you in on something personal but not too precious.

“Tribeca.”

Your eyes widen, just barely. A flicker. Most people wouldn’t notice. He does.

You school your expression, take another sip of coffee, and say,

“Hm. Then I’ll have to keep you extra close.”

He smirks. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m okay with you being really close.”

You tilt your head at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “Is that okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You look down at your book, the one he interrupted. Your thumb slides against the pages. You pretend to read a line, but your eyes aren’t moving. Then you close it.

“Sure,” you say. “It’s okay.”

You both settle back into your seats like you’ve earned something. Not exactly comfort. But permission.

He lifts the book he was reading again and says,

“So, you do this full-time?”

“Yeah. I used to work in-house. Left a while ago. Too many men in Patagonia vests who think they’re publishing gods.” You shrug. “Now I freelance.”

“Sounds like the right move.”

You nod once. “You?”

He hesitates. You can see him weighing what to say, how to say it. There’s something performative about rich men when they don’t want to seem like rich men.

“Private equity.”

You let out a dry breath. “Ah. So you’re the one who keeps buying up independent bookstores and turning them into juice bars.”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Guilty by association, maybe.”

“What kind of stuff?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Used to be startups. Tech, mostly. Now it’s... portfolios, scaling, strategy. The kind of things people pretend to care about on LinkedIn.”

You smile. “Sexy.”

“It’s not. But I’m good at it.”

There’s no brag in his tone. Just a quiet resignation. A man who knows his lane but isn’t in love with it.

“So,” you ask, folding your hands around the cup, “what brought you here? Iceland, I mean.”

He exhales, eyes tracking the window for a second.

“I was supposed to come here with someone. Lucy. We broke up about a week before the flight.”

You nod slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. She booked everything. I figured, might as well go. I already paid for the room.”

You hum in understanding. “Did you stay in it alone?”

“Yeah. Her perfume lingered on some of my clothes for the first couple nights.”

That hits something in your chest soft, familiar. You don’t ask more.

He shifts again. “What about you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I wasn’t dumped, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean—what brought you out here?”

You lean back in your chair, watching steam curl off what’s left of your coffee.

“I promised myself I’d take one solo trip a year. This was the first time I actually followed through with it. No laptop, no phone calls, just me and a stack of books I’ve read already.” 

He smiles.

“And no heartbreaks?”

You smirk faintly. “I mean… not recent. Nothing fresh. But yeah. There was someone. Awhile back. He never really showed up for me. Not in the ways that matter.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “I learned a lot about myself.”

“Like what?”

You look at him then, hold his gaze just a second longer than you should.

“I’m not giving my time to guys who only want me when it’s convenient.”

That knocks the smirk right off his face. But not in a bad way. More like he’s been seen. It hits him somewhere behind the chest, in that place where the echo of Lucy still lives.

“Noted,” he says quietly.

The conversation drifts.

Not in that small-talk, filler way but back and forth. You both tread water comfortably.

You talk about how Reykjavík air tastes like snow and metal. He tells you he ordered something called fermented shark at a bar near the harbor and immediately regretted it.

You talk about the subway and the best place in Queens to get a late-night pastry.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, eyes flicking up as if he could see the city from here.

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I don’t want to miss it all the time. I wanted to miss myself first.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“That’s a good answer.”

You glance at the clock. The boarding call is coming. You can feel it. The shift in the café’s atmosphere. People are rising and putting jackets on. The brief return of gravity.

You both stand.

“Flying coach?” he asks, not in a judgmental way. Just… cataloging.

“Always,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not that classy yet.”

“I am,” he says, smirking. “First class.”

You grin. “Figures.”

At the gate, he hesitates before walking into the priority lane.

“I could have them upgrade you,” he offers. “There’s room.”

You shake your head, a little amused, a little flattered. “Nah. Coach builds character.”

He grins, but there's something underneath it, something quieter. “At least let me send a car. I’ve got one waiting at JFK. It’d be easy.”

You meet his eyes, soften your tone just a little.

“I appreciate it. But I like the way the city feels when I come back in a taxi. Grime on the window, everything ugly and alive again. I like that moment.”

He watches you for a long breath. He doesn’t press.

Instead, you pull a card from your wallet, just a simple one. Name. Email. Phone number. A line that says freelance editor in cursive and nothing else. You hand it to him like it’s a folded note in school. Casually.

“In case you want a better book next time,” you say.

He takes it, carefully. Like it might smudge if he touches it wrong.

“I’ll read in the margins,” he says. “Swear it.”

You nod once. “Safe flight, Harry.”

“You too,” he replies, and then tucks the card into the inside pocket of his blazer—pressed flat, precise, like he’s not letting it out of his sight.

You board a few minutes later. You're in a middle seat in the back half of the plane, next to someone who keeps snoring through takeoff. But it doesn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a long time, you’re not dreading what’s waiting for you back home.

A Week Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The sun is already dipping behind the skyline by the time you close your laptop. It’s been a long day. Quiet, manageable edits for a debut memoir that won’t get half the press it deserves. You liked the voice, though. Witty. Tired in the way only New Yorkers romanticize about the rot and decay around them. 

You stretch your arms above your head, spine popping as you glance out of your apartment window. A kid is biking the wrong way down the block and someone is burning incense out on their fire escape again. It smells like patchouli and sage.

You finish your tea, let your eyes drift to your phone.

Three texts from a client, one from your cousin, and a missed call from an unknown number.

Weird.

You barely finish blinking before it rings again. It's the same number.

You hesitate, thumb hovering, then swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then a voice you absolutely recognize says:

“Hi. I- It’s Harry. Castillo. From uh well Iceland. The airport café.”

You don’t answer right away. Just smile into the silence like he can see it.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. You don’t seem like the kind of guy people forget.”

He laughs, and it sounds a little boyish. 

“I’ve been meaning to call. The whole week’s been insane. I flew straight into a mess at work, deals falling through, someone quitting without notice, my inbox looks like an emergency room. But I’ve been thinking about you. I swear I have.”

You lean back in your chair, let the words settle in.

“I figured you were busy,” you say, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “You’re important. Tribeca-important.”

He groans. “God. Please don’t say that.”

You laugh. “Fine. I won’t.”

“But seriously,” he says, “I’ve been… wanting to talk to you again. In, like, a non-airport setting.”

You raise an eyebrow, voice teasing. “Are you asking me out, Harry Castillo?”

He hesitates, and you can almost hear the way he runs his hand through his hair. You picture him in a glass-walled office, tie undone, coat slung over a chair, pacing.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I mean. If that’s okay. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve security lines or boarding passes.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm.

Then

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He sounds almost surprised.

“Yeah. Just don’t try to send a car for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab it to Queens.”

“Damn right you will.”

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The night air is warm and heavy with city sounds, muffled music from an open window, someone dragging a trash can across concrete, a group of friends laughing on the sidewalk with half-finished drinks in hand.

You’re early, but just barely. The restaurant you picked is familiar. You've come here with friends, exes, and even alone with a book. It has no Instagram presence and still uses paper menus. That’s the charm. It’s a test.

You're in a soft black slip dress that falls just below your knees, layered with a light denim jacket and scuffed up white sneakers. The kind of outfit that says, I'm effortless, even though you tried on three different jackets before settling. Hair down, your favorite small silver hoops, a touch of mascara and lip tint. You didn’t overthink it. Not really. Just enough.

He rounds the corner like he’s been here a hundred times before, though you know he hasn’t. There’s that same easy walk, confident but never cocky, and he spots you before you see him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “Right on time.”

He’s dressed in dark denim jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that fits just right. No watch tonight. No flash. Just a quiet show of expense. A beige coat is folded over one arm. His hair’s a little neater than it was in Iceland, but not too neat. He looks rested and sharp. But you still remember the version of him leaning back in that plastic airport chair, talking like the world had finally gone quiet for once.

“This place is great,” he says, glancing up at the worn awning and exposed brick. “Very you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me.”

He smirks. “No. But I’m trying.”

You’re seated at a table near the front window, the kind of table made for long talks and longer looks. There’s no tablecloth, just a flickering plastic candle in a chipped glass holder.

The server brought you wine, he asked what you liked, and when you said white but not too sweet, he remembered.

“So,” he says after the first sip, leaning forward, “how many manuscripts have you torn to shreds since we spoke?”

You grin. “Two. But gently. I only tear with care.”

“That sounds like it should be on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll make merch.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “God, I missed this.”

You look at him. “You say that like we’ve known each other longer than the airport and a phone call.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t take long to know when someone’s different.”

You feel the words settle under your ribs. Warm. Unrushed. He doesn’t follow it with a compliment. Doesn’t pivot to flirting right away. He just lets it sit there, honest, unornamented.

Later, between bites of pasta and bread dipped in olive oil, you ask him what his week was really like. He tells you about a last-minute investor call that nearly tanked a merger, and you try not to fall asleep. He teases you about zoning out, and you tease him right back for trying to impress you with balance sheets.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you say with a smirk.

“Oh?” he leans back, hand cradling his wine glass. “You think I’m hot?”

You deadpan. “I think you’re decent looking. In dim lighting.”

He grins, eyes twinkling. “I’ll take it.”

By the time you leave, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The walk back to your apartment is short, only a few blocks, and he doesn’t ask to come up. You don’t offer. Not this time.

But when you stop outside your building, he lingers.

“This was…” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “God, this was exactly what I needed.”

You smile softly. “Me too.”

He hesitates, then, “can I see you again?”

You reach for the door. “Sure,” you say over your shoulder. “I’ll pick a place with better chairs.”

He grins. “Deal.”

Before you step inside, you turn and add, “and I’m still not letting you send a car.”

“Even if I ask really nicely?”

You arch a brow. “Especially if you ask nicely.”

He watches you go like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. And that’s what makes it better.

You step out of the café where you just finished catching up with one of your longtime authors, a smart, sweet nonfiction guy who’s somehow always three years late with a manuscript. It’s warm out, not hot, and you’ve decided to walk the long way back just for the hell of it. Phone in hand, sunglasses on. You’re halfway through typing a text when your phone starts ringing.

Unknown Number.

Except you know who it is by now. You really need to put his name in your phone. 

You answer with a smirk already in your voice. “You again.”

“Guilty,” Harry says. His voice is all low charm, like a secret he’s letting you in on. “I’m on lunch. Want to join me?”

You snort. “I’m a little far from Tribeca, and I walked, so—”

“Where are you?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

You tell him. There's a pause on the other end.

“Okay… don’t get mad at me, but I sent a car.”

You stop walking.

“…You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You’re about to launch into a scolding monologue when a sleek black vehicle rolls to a stop in front of you. Windows tinted. Polished to perfection.

You press a hand to your face and burst out laughing. “You are insufferable.”

“Get in the car,” he says, grinning audibly. “You can reprimand me over oysters.”

The place he’s picked is one of those restaurants. Small, tucked behind a street of gallery spaces, with a menu that changes every week and never bothers to explain itself. The table’s already set when you arrive. He stands to greet you, jacket off, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a watch that probably costs more than your rent.

“You look very summery,” he says, holding your chair out.

You sit. “You look like you paid someone to make you look like you’re not a billionaire..”

He grins. “I did. Her name is my assistant.”

The restaurant is cool and quiet inside, with sunlight spilling across the marble bar. The server brings you fresh bread, olive oil with shaved fennel, and menus printed on textured paper.

You let Harry order, he insists, so you end up sharing:

Burrata with charred peaches, basil oil, and crushed pistachios Hand-cut pasta in a lemony brown butter sauce with crispy sage A chilled rosé that tastes like it was bottled by gods with good taste in music

You’re halfway through your second bite when he says:

“Okay. Important question. Childhood crush.”

You blink. “That’s your big lunch question?”

“It reveals a lot about someone.”

You pause, then say, “Captain America.”

He stares. “The super hero?”

You nod. “When I was younger it was the crappy cartoon version. This new guy though, Chris Evans? I love his accent and the presence he gives as Captain America. It’s called taste.”

He laughs, nearly choking. “Okay. Wow. I was not prepared for that.”

You raise a brow. “Yours better be good.”

“Liv Tyler. Armageddon. I was convinced she was waiting for me, specifically.”

You tilt your head. “That’s very classy of you.”

“I was an emotionally repressed child with a lot of money and no real outlet.”

He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the faint weight under his voice.

You lean back in your chair, taking a sip of wine. “So what were your parents like?”

“Oh,” he says, “we’re going there.”

“Briefly,” you say, “and only because I told you about my super serum kink.”

He laughs again, a warm one, and then shrugs.

"My mom’s a powerhouse, super passionate about social issues, but always with reasons behind it. My dad was more business-minded. Tougher. We haven’t talked since my brother’s wedding. Things were complicated between us, but I think, in the end, we kind of understood each other."

You nod, letting the moment rest.

“What about you?” he asks.

“My parents are still in New York now in Long Island,” you say. “Still together. They always hoped I’d go corporate. Something stable. I said ‘no thanks’ and started making barely enough to live off books.”

“And now you make slightly more than barely enough?”

You smile. “Something like that.”

By the end of the meal, your plates are cleared, you’re still smiling, and Harry is sitting just a little closer than he was when you started. Not touching. Not pushing. Just near. Warm. Present.

“Thank you,” you say as you stand.

“For the car?”

“For lunch and the laughs..”

“Anytime,” he says, eyes not leaving yours. “But next time, I’m picking you up on foot. Like a man of the people.”

You’ve just turned off the lamp.

The apartment is quiet. You can hear someone’s music faintly through the wall, and a car alarm hiccuping somewhere blocks away before slowly stopping. You’re in bed, finally. Bare-faced, sleep shirt on, book half-open next to you. Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

You don’t expect it to ring.

But it does, just as you’re sliding deeper into sleep. A soft vibration, and a light across your cheek.

Harry Castillo.

You blink at the name; it's still strange to see it there, tucked between texts from spam and a random DoorDash update. 

You hesitate, then answer.

“Hello?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket under your chin. “Not really. I was pretending to sleep but mostly just realizing how cold my feet are right now.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You can hear a drawer opening. Something soft shuffling.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm. Financial guilt?”

“God. That’s terrifyingly accurate.”

You smile into the dark. “So what happened?”

"Work went off the rails after lunch, endless calls, two people threatening to quit, and I somehow offended a potential partner by describing his margins as ‘borderline invisible.’”

You snort. “That does sound like you.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause while he moves again—maybe into another room. His voice shifts slightly as if he’s brushing his teeth or pulling off a shirt.

“I didn’t want to be alone in my head tonight. That okay?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

You hear the sound of a faucet. A clink of glass on marble.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly.

“Night routine. Trying to forget about my job. You?”

You glance around the room.

“Lying here. Wearing a shirt that says ‘I love books more than people.’ Left sock halfway off.”

“Hot.”

You grin. “I tried.”

“I wish I could see you.”

You freeze for half a second and recover quickly. 

“I look like a raccoon that's reading Murakami.”

“I think that’s exactly my type.”

You talk.

Not about anything important, not really. Just… things.

Favorite words. “I like ‘luminous,’” you say. “I like ‘ruin,’” he replies. You talk about what you’d re-name each dog breed, about how weird it is to feel exhausted and overstimulated at the same time and about how sometimes the city feels like it’s chewing on you, but in a good way.

He tells you he’s in bed now. That he’s staring up at the ceiling. That there’s a crack in the plaster shaped like an ampersand (&). 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he says.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something to come or that I should become a book editor too.”

An hour passes.

Then another.

Your voice gets lower. You laugh less but not because he’s not funny. Just because you’re sinking into something heavier. Softer.

There’s a pause where neither of you speak. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then he murmurs,

“This feels intimate.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. Just… It’s been awhile.”

You exhale slowly. “Same.”

You roll onto your back, phone resting against your ear. Staring at your own ceiling. No cracks shaped like ampersands, just a water stain and the faint shadow of an old dream.

“Feels dangerously domestic,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “God forbid.”

“I mean, we’ve passed ‘what’s your favorite pasta shape.’”

“I’ll try not to get too earnest, then.”

“Too late.”

He’s quiet. Then, “you’re not hanging up, though.”

“Neither are you.”

Eventually, your voices start trailing off. He gets quieter. You feel the words before they form:

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Don’t forget me by morning.”

You don’t answer. Just smile into the dark and let the silence stretch between you like a thread that won’t break.

The late-night phone call is still swimming around in your head when you wake up.

You slept better than you expected, despite your brain playing his voice on repeat like a lullaby.

You have an interview this morning. One of your more polished authors. Midlist, legacy type. He wears cufflinks and uses the word “zeitgeist” unironically.

So, in a rare move, you reach for your version of a professional editor outfit, something you haven’t done in years.

Chestnut colored low-waisted trousers that fit like they were made for you. Crisp cream blouse, just slightly undone at the collar. A slim leather belt. A dark red lip that says I will criticize your work out loud, and you’ll enjoy it. Hair pinned back in a clean low bun, a few soft pieces left out. Kitten heels and your favorite silver hoops.

You look like the version of yourself that used to walk into publishing houses and command rooms full of men who thought they were smarter than you.

You haven’t worked in an office in years, but this version still lives somewhere in you. And today? She came to play.

As you’re passing through your building’s small, scuffed lobby, coffee in hand, tote bag over your shoulder. Then the building manager flags you down.

“Hey, uh… someone left this for you.”

He gestures to a sleek black envelope with your name printed in elegant script, leaning against a tall white box on the mail desk.

You frown, glancing at it. You’re not expecting anything. Not from a client. Not from anyone.

You open the box.

Inside: flowers.

But not just any flowers. Something rare. Something lush, strange, and stunning. Delicate cream and rust-colored juliet garden roses, pale orchids folded like paper secrets, and spidery accents of chocolate cosmos the kind that smell faintly like vanilla and firewood.

You blink.

You've never seen a bouquet like this.

Tucked between the stems is a small card, handwritten in blocky, careful print.

You reminded me of summer yesterday. So I thought I would bring summer to you. – H

You’re still staring when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Harry Castillo calling.

You answer. “Okay, you’re actually a menace.”

“So you got them.”

His voice is warm, smug, but just a little uncertain beneath it. Like he’s waiting to see if he went too far.

“You didn’t think they were too much?”

You glance back at the bouquet, still cradled in your arms.

“Harry, I didn’t even know flowers like this existed.”

“That’s why I picked them. They reminded me of you. Unusual,  gorgeous and slightly intimidating in the best way.”

You snort, flustered and weirdly breathless. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s not the goal. I just… wanted you to know last night meant something.”

Your fingers tighten on the phone.

“Me too.”

You're halfway out the door again when you stop, pivot on your heel, and mutter, “Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Harry’s voice comes through your phone, still tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“The flowers,” you say, rushing back inside.

You head straight for the kitchen, set your bag down, and rummage through the cabinet above the fridge. Your “vase” selection consists of a chipped pitcher, a pasta jar, and something you once used to make sangria. You choose the pitcher, it’s wide enough, and besides, the cream glaze makes the florals pop.

You set the bouquet down gently on the island, like you’re afraid it’ll bruise.

“Are you arranging them?” he asks, his voice low and amused. You can picture him: still in bed, hair a little messy, coffee half-drunk on his nightstand.

“Of course I’m arranging them. These are insane. I should charge for admission.”

“Send me a picture.”

You pluck a dead leaf from a petal and sigh. “You really know how to mess with someone’s head, you know that?”

“Just yours. And only in the nicest way.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just bite your lip and step back, checking the vase’s angle from across the kitchen. It’s perfect. They’re perfect. It’s all too much, and yet… not enough.

“I have to go,” you say eventually. “Client time.”

“Kill it.”

“I always do.”

“I’ll call you later?”

You hesitate just a second before saying, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You hang up, grab your bag, and try not to look back at the flowers. You fail.

You're still somehow early.

Either your client is late, or you’ve inherited your father’s compulsive punctuality. You’re sitting in the second-floor lounge of a midtown publishing house, a place that smells like over-air-conditioned paper and expensive hand soap. A wall of glass gives you a view of the city. Cranes in the distance, clouds bruising the sky, and the taxis below like yellow fish in a steel aquarium.

You’ve got your phone out, pretending to scroll through notes.

But really?

You’re thinking about Harry.

You’re thinking about the sound of his voice last night, the slight rasp like he was stretched too thin but letting himself unravel just for you. You’re thinking about the way he said “they reminded me of you” and how you didn’t flinch at it, how you wanted to believe it.

“Ms. Elliot?”

You look up.

Your client is here. Finally.

The interview starts slow, he talks a lot. He’s proud of his book. You nod, you smile, you ask the right questions. You’re good at this. Still, some part of your brain keeps echoing Harry’s laugh, the flowers on your counter, the heat in your face when he said I wish I could see you.

But you redirect. You’re a pro.

You circle back to theme, structure, tone.

“Do you think your work is more political or personal?”

“Both,” the author says, “but I’d argue that good writing always is.”

That gets a real smile from you. The kind you’d usually savor.

But even now, even now, you wish you could tell Harry about that line. You wish he could see you in this moment, sharp and engaged and glowing with capability.

You finish the interview on schedule, exchange a handshake and a thank-you, and step out onto the street again, wind in your hair, sun hitting your skin like a reward.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry Castillo:

Tell me how it went. And tell me what you’re doing tonight.

You type back slowly, thumbs and cheeks suddenly warm.

You:

Went well. Crushed it. And tonight… why? Are you planning something?

Three dots. Then:

Harry Castillo:

Maybe. You ever had mediocre ramen on your rooftop?

Your heart kicks once.

And suddenly, the rest of your day has a direction.

You wait a beat before replying to Harry’s text.

You don’t want to look eager, even though you’ve already mentally rearranged your whole evening at the idea of him. You reread his message and smirk.

Then you type back:

You:

I’ve got ramen in the back of my pantry and a rooftop of my own. But I’m warning you, it’s Queens, not Kyoto.

He replies a minute later.

Harry Castillo:

I’ll risk it. What time?

You glance at the sun dragging its way toward the horizon.

you:

Seven. Bring your own chopsticks.

He shows up right on time.

Not that you were waiting at the window or anything.

You buzz him in and open your apartment door barefoot, your hair is still in a messy knot. The air smells like toasted sesame and garlic, and you cheated and added an egg along with a handful of scallions to the instant ramen to make it look slightly more presentable.

“Hey,” Harry says when you open the door. “Wow. You really went all out.”

He’s in loose black jeans and a slate-colored henley, sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t look like he works for Wall-Street tonight and more like the boy-next-door who happens to have a portfolio. His hair’s a little damp like he showered before coming over, and you hate that you notice. You really hate it.

You step aside, letting him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

He glances around your apartment, books stacked in messy piles, a print of a Matisse sketch by the record player, a candle that smells like amber, old paper and vanilla.

“Feels very you.” He lifts a brow. “It’s warm and a little intimidating.”

You grin. “Again, just like me.”

You move toward the kitchen to grab the bowls, one slightly chipped, one a gift from an ex fling you barely remember and gesture with your elbow.

“Rooftop’s this way. Don’t get lost.”

He follows without question. You lead him out your front door, up the narrow stairwell that always smells like warm brick and weed. You push open the old metal door with your elbow and your hip, and just like that, you’re above the city.

It’s not glamorous. The rooftop has a warped picnic table, a few plastic chairs stolen from someone’s backyard, and an ancient milk crate you use as a step stool when the neighbors don’t return theirs. But the view?

The view makes up for everything.

Queens spread wide below you, glittering and unpretentious. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline cuts sharp against the violet sky, scattered windows still glowing like someone left the light on just for you.

Harry exhales behind you.

“God. This is…” he trails off.

You set the bowls down on the blanket you laid out earlier and glance over your shoulder. “Still willing to risk it?”

“Absolutely.”

He sits beside you, knees bent, arms draped over them in a way that makes him look accidentally posed. You pass him a bowl, then settle cross-legged beside him, your foot barely brushing his.

You both eat for a few minutes in a comfortable quiet. It’s easy. It’s not nothing.

He slurps a noodle and winces. “Okay, that’s criminally good. What did you do?”

You shrug. “Doctoring ramen is a sacred art. I could teach you, but I’d have to ask for your soul.”

“Your soul already owns most of mine, so... What’s one more piece?”

You snort. “You’re really laying it on tonight.”

“Only ‘cause I mean it,” he says while shrugging.

You side-eye him, spoon pausing near your mouth. “You always seem to mean it. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

He grins, but doesn’t argue.

The wind picks up just a little, and you hug your knees for warmth. A second later, without comment, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.

You let it happen. Don’t say a word.

“So,” he says after a beat. “Still not a date?”

You smirk. “No.”

“Right. Got it.”

A pause.

“If it was, though, I’d be blowing it. I didn’t even bring wine.”

You lean back on your hands, glancing sideways. “You showed up, you’re eating my ramen, and you sent me flowers. That’s enough.”

“And you’re wearing my jacket.”

You look down at it like you just noticed.

“I guess I am.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just thick. Heavy with everything you’re not saying. Your arms brush. His knee shifts a little closer.

You clear your throat. “So. When’s your next big deal or billion-dollar merger or whatever?”

He chuckles. “I actually pushed everything back for the rest of the night. This is it.”

You blink. “This?”

“You.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You just sit there with the city stretched out around you, a bowl of ramen cooling in your lap, and Harry beside you, warm, still, and impossibly present.

You shift slightly, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air between you. The city noises below, the distant hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, fade into the background, like they belong to another world. Up here, it’s just the two of you.

You meet his eyes, searching for a sign. Instead, he offers a small, almost shy smile. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m trying, but I don’t want to rush this.

You fold your arms loosely around your knees, pretending to study the skyline but secretly memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his brown eyes catch the last light.

“You’re full of surprises, Harry Castillo,” you say, voice low.

He leans back on his hands, gaze drifting over the rooftops. “I could say the same about you.”

A comfortable silence stretches. Neither of you wants to break it, but neither wants to disappear either.

“I like this,” he finally says. “No pretenses. No pressure.”

You nod, your heart beating a little faster than it should. “Yeah. Me too.”

He glances at his watch. “I should probably get going soon. I have an early day tomorrow.”

You rise, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “Me too.”

He stands as well, hesitating for a moment as if weighing something unspoken.

“Can I walk you down?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. It feels like the right thing to do, even if you’re not sure why.

“Sure,” you say.

The metal stairs creak under your steps as you descend together, closer now than before. In the hallway, he stops just outside your door, fingers lightly touching the frame.

“Tonight was… nice,” he says, voice soft.

You smile, heart fluttering. “It really was.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then adds, “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He finally steps back, the distance between you settling like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Night, Harry.”

You close the door, leaning against it with a smile that lingers long after he’s gone.

You wake up slowly, blinking into the late morning light that slips past the curtains. There’s a moment, maybe two, where the dream still lingers.

It was him.

Of course it was.

Not a sexy dream, not exactly. Just one of those oddly tender ones. His hand brushing your lower back in a crowd. His laugh echoing in your apartment like it belonged there. You two reading in silence, feet tangled, breathing in sync. Comfortable. Easy.

You turn onto your side, eyes half-lidded, trying to hold onto it.

It’s been a long time since a man’s made it into your dreams without breaking something first.

Harry was dreaming too. Only he’s not really sleeping anymore, just lying still in bed, sheets tangled around his waist, laptop abandoned on the far corner. He’s staring at the ceiling and thinking about you.

Not the rooftop or the ramen, specifically, but the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t push or pull. Just let him be.

He’s thinking about how different that is from what he had with Lucy.

Lucy had been... fine. Beautiful. Sharp. But every conversation felt like a contract, every touch like a negotiation. He used to think that was normal.

But then there was you, barefoot, sarcastic, eating cheap noodles on a Queens rooftop, and suddenly, everything felt different.

He exhales hard, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Question.

Do you like beautiful old bookstores that smell like ink and with secrets?

You sit up, already grinning.

You:

I’m not a monster. Why?

Harry 💼:

Because there’s one in SoHo I used to walk past and think, “one day I’ll have a reason to go in there.”

And I think you might be my reason.

You stare at the message, heart thudding in your chest.

This man.

You type back:

You:

Okay. I’m intrigued. Time?

Harry 💼:

1 p.m. I’ll meet you there. Casual as hell, I promise.

The bookstore is tucked between two designer boutiques, a tall narrow building with sun-bleached windows and a brass bell that jingles when the door opens.

You get there early. Not on purpose, just… eager, despite yourself. You keep it casual, black t-shirt tucked into jeans, boots, your tote slung over your shoulder. You wander through the first floor while you wait. It smells like old paper, cedar, something faintly floral.

You’re halfway through flipping through a dog-eared collection of letters between two 20th-century poets when you hear the bell above the door.

You don’t even need to turn.

“I was hoping you’d beat me here,” he says behind you.

You look over your shoulder. He’s in dark jeans, a white tee under a navy jacket, sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Effortless. But it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s been thinking about this all morning, that sends something skittering beneath your ribs.

You smirk. “You remembered this place just for me?”

“Technically, I remembered it for myself. But it only became important once you existed in my life.”

You raise a brow. “Careful. You’re gonna make me blush in public.”

“That’s the goal.”

You spend the next hour wandering.

You pull a collection of translated poetry off the shelf. He skims the back cover of a book on finance and laughs. You sit together on a creaky leather couch on the mezzanine, flipping through coffee table books and making snide commentary about overly abstract art.

But something in the air has shifted.

It’s quieter now. Closer.

You catch him watching you a few times, when you tuck your hair behind your ear, when you underline a line of prose with your finger, and when you laugh with your whole mouth open.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you.

And you don’t hide the way it shakes you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, a book open in his lap, eyes still on you.

You glance over. “That sounds like a compliment and a threat.”

“It’s just the truth. You make everything feel a little different now. Better.”

You look away quickly. Pulse thumping in your ears. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

“Good. You should.”

You close your book, suddenly unable to focus. “Lets check out.”

At the register, you both buy something. He picks a first edition he insists on getting for you despite your protest and when he hands the clerk his card, you catch him glancing sideways at you. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to hold it in.

Outside the bookstore, sunlight spills over the sidewalk in soft white-gold. The street buzzes faintly with city noise, horns, bike bells, someone on a Bluetooth call arguing in Italian.

You both linger near the corner, the edge of something unspoken tightening around your ankles like ribbon.

“You hungry?” he asks, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, leaning a little closer.

You nod. “Starving.”

“Let me call a car. There’s a spot I’ve been meaning to try. It’s close.”

You open your mouth, already halfway to saying no, I’ll walk—but then you pause. He’s looking at you like he’s not just suggesting lunch. Like he’s asking you to let him care for you in his quiet, expensive way.

And for once, you let him.

“Okay,” you say. “But just this once.”

“Deal.”

The car is sleek, dark, and unreasonably quiet inside. He opens the door for you without saying anything, just a glance that makes your pulse jump. You slide in, legs crossed, arms folded loosely across your stomach like you’re trying not to look like you care.

A few minutes into the ride, his phone buzzes.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head. “Go ahead.”

He taps to accept. “Yeah, this is Harry.”

And then he’s off, voice low and measured, all clipped sentences and layered confidence. You sit beside him, pretending to look out the window.

But you’re not really listening to the call.

You’re watching him.

The way his jaw flexes ever so slightly when he listens. The little lines that appear at the corners of his mouth when something doesn’t go the way he wants. The way he gestures with two fingers, like he’s conducting the air. The way he leans forward when he says something decisive.

You shouldn’t find this hot.

You definitely do.

And when he says “I’ll review the deck by seven, but loop me in on the legal first” like he’s wrapping a bow around someone else’s fire drill, you feel it low in your stomach. That quiet ache of watching a man who’s not just smart but capable.

He ends the call with a quick “I’ve gotta go,” drops his phone in his lap, and glances over.

“Sorry. Work.”

You raise an eyebrow, carefully neutral. “That was... extremely corporate of you.”

“Don’t lie, you were into it.”

You snort. “I plead the fifth.”

He takes you to a small corner place with wide windows and zero branding. One of those ungoogleable restaurants that only exists by word of mouth. Inside, the vibe is stripped-down: pale wood tables, worn-in leather seats, white wine chilling in ceramic buckets, and a chalkboard menu that changes weekly.

It’s nothing like ramen on a rooftop late at night.

It’s quieter. Slower. Cozier.

The hostess knows Harry by name. “It’s been a while,” she says with a wink.

“Trying to change that,” he replies, glancing at you.

You’re seated in a back corner by the window. The table’s small. You could stretch your foot out and touch his ankle. You don’t. But you think about it.

“They do this roasted fish with pickled something-or-other,” he says, handing you the menu. “It sounds weird. It isn’t.”

You scan it. “I trust you. Mostly.”

“I’ll take that.”

You both order. He gets the fish. You get something with farro and beets and citrus vinaigrette. He orders two glasses of wine before you can stop him.

“Wine? At lunch?” you ask, lifting a brow.

“What else are you supposed to do on a fake date in the middle of a workday?”

You grin. “So it’s a date now?”

“I didn’t say a real date.”

“Right. Casual. Just two friends getting tipsy on a Tuesday.”

“Exactly. Two friends who almost held hands in a bookstore.”

You kick him under the table.

He kicks you back, gentler.

The wine comes. The food follows. And somewhere between laughing over a bite of his fish and him dabbing a drip of vinaigrette off the corner of your lip with his thumb like it means nothing, you realize you’re in trouble.

You like him. Too much.

And he’s looking at you like maybe, just maybe, he does too.

The table is quieter now.

Your plates have been cleared, wine glasses half-full, the sun shifting low through the window and casting shadows across the tabletop. Outside, the city keeps moving, horns, heels, soft static from a passing bus, but here it’s all muted.

You swirl the stem of your glass between your fingers, lazily.

Harry’s been quiet for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just... hesitant.

He leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, eyes steady on yours.

“So—” he starts, and then pauses.

You look up. “So?”

His voice drops. A little rough. 

“There’s a gala Friday night. Work-adjacent. Black tie, too many speeches, probably bad shrimp.”

You nod, amused. “Sounds exciting.”

“Every year my assistant sets me up with some woman I’ve never met to make me look... normal. Taken.”

“You really love living the fantasy, huh?”

“I declined this year.”

You tilt your head. “Oh?”

“Because I was hoping you’d come with me instead.”

You blink. It’s not that you didn’t think this could happen, it’s that hearing him say it like that, so plainly, knocks something loose inside your chest.

He watches you carefully and quietly, like he’s trying not to chase your answer out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he adds. “You really don’t. It’s just... I’d rather go with you than sit next to someone who calls Tribeca ‘Truh-beekah’ all night.”

You press your lips together, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That’s fair.”

“So?” he says, trying to sound casual, but you can tell, you can tell, he’s not.

You lean back in your chair, eyes scanning him like you’re solving a riddle. Because part of you wants to say yes right now. And the other part, the smaller and sharper part wants to savor it. To make him wait just a little.

You lift your wine, take a sip, set it down gently.

“You’ll send a car?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“And you’ll make sure the shrimp’s not actually bad?”

“I’ll pull strings.”

You tap your finger on the rim of your glass once. Twice.

“Okay,” you say finally. Soft. But solid.

“I’ll go with you.”

His shoulders relax like you just gave him oxygen.

“Yeah?” he says, his smile tugging. “Really?”

You nod. “But I swear to God, if I end up next to someone talking about NFTs or their yacht for three hours, I’m leaving with a waiter.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “But only if I get visitation rights.”

You laugh too. It’s easy again. Warm.

Then, after a pause, he adds, more cautious now, but still hopeful:

“One more thing.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Here we go.”

“I want to send you something. A dress.”

You blink. “Harry…”

“No pressure to wear it,” he says quickly. “But I saw one and thought of you. I already have it saved. My assistant owes me a favor. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something elegant and sharp.”

“You’re describing a Bond girl.”

“No,” he says, his gaze soft. “I’m describing you.”

Your stomach flips.

You reach for your wine again, just to do something with your hands. “You know I can dress myself, right?”

“Of course you can. But I also know how it feels to want to look a certain way when you walk into a room like that. And I want you to have exactly that feeling.”

You go quiet. You weren’t expecting that answer. You weren’t expecting how much it would hit.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. “But only if it’s actually my size. And nothing overly sparkly.”

“Promise. No sparkles. Just something you’ll look delicious in.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts.

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

2:14 p.m.

You’re half-editing a paragraph and half-re-reading the same sentence for the third time when your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Hey

Don’t yell at me

I need your measurements

You blink. Pause. Then type back.

You:

…for what exactly?

Harry 💼:

The dress

I told you I wanted to send you one

I mean unless you want me to guess. But then I can’t be held responsible for the fit

You roll your eyes, already smirking.

You:

So what are we talking ballpark sizing? Height? Waist? How scandalous is this thing?

Harry 💼:

Depends Do you consider “strapless” scandalous?

Your mouth drops open. You swallow a smile.

You:

Oh we’re playing like that ? Strapless, huh?

Harry 💼:

I figured if I’m going to show up with the most captivating woman in the room, she shouldn’t have to tug on sleeves

Or think about shoulder seams. Just her confidence

You stare at that one a little too long.

You:

You talk like that to all your dates?

Harry 💼:

I don’t have dates Not lately Just you

Your heart makes a very unprofessional move in your chest.

You:

You realize you’re making it very hard for me to concentrate on work right now

Harry 💼:

Good. Send me your numbers

Let me do the rest

You hesitate for all of one second before sending him your measurements. And once you do, he doesn’t respond right away.

Two minutes later:

Harry 💼:

Perfect

Thank you

I’ll have it sent directly to you. No peeking until tomorrow.

You:

You’re not the boss of me

Harry 💼:

Not yet.

You nearly drop your phone.

The Next Morning 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You don’t expect to see him. You’re halfway to your mailbox, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the door buzzes.

“Package for you,” says the manager behind the desk. “Real fancy.”

You raise an eyebrow just as the glass doors slide open.

Harry Castillo steps through them holding a black garment bag.

You stop walking.

He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Good morning,” he says. “I had something to drop off.”

“Most billionaires use couriers,” you reply, crossing your arms, trying not to grin. “Is this what they call a personal touch?”

“Something like that.” He eyes your outfit with amusement. “Should I have brought coffee too?”

“I would’ve liked a croissant.”

“Noted.”

He steps closer, handing the garment bag over like it’s a sacred artifact.

“No pressure to wear it,” he says, lowering his voice. “But as I said,I saw it, and I thought of you.”

From the desk, the manager clears his throat loudly, but with restraint.

You glance sideways at him, then back at Harry. “You always this charming?”

Asking as if you don’t already know the answer. 

“Only in Queens.”

You try not to blush. You fail.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he adds, voice dropping half an octave as his eyes flick over your face.

You nod. “Yeah. You will.”

He’s gone two seconds later, out the door like he didn’t just drop a bomb and walk away.

Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You unzip the garment bag slowly, like it might whisper if you move too fast.

Inside is the dress.

A vintage charcoal grey gown, smooth and liquid in your hands. It’s strapless, with a refined, statuesque shape that skims the length of your body. The fabric catches the light in a quiet, expensive way. Nothing too flashy.

There’s embroidery stitched delicately along the bodice and fine silver-threaded detail that curves like vines framing your collarbones. Elegant. Minimal. Dangerous.

You slip it on with care.

No tugging, no adjusting. It fits perfectly. The way it hugs your waist, the slight flare of the hem, the way the bodice presses close without suffocating it feels like it was made for you. Like he really looked.

You twist to check your reflection in the mirror.

You don’t look like the woman who edits manuscripts on her couch in a hoodie and glasses. You look like the woman who walks into a room and makes people turn. The kind of woman who deserves to be watched.

You pin your hair into a soft, low updo, leaving a few pieces loose at the nape of your neck. Subtle makeup, your favorite brick-red lipstick, a little liner, highlighter so faint it only shows when you turn your head.

Then the finishing touch: your baby blue heels.

They shouldn’t work with the dress. But somehow, they do.

They spark against the grey. A wink of color. 

You glance at the clock. 6:57.

And then—your buzzer goes off.

You check your appearance one last time in the mirror by the door, fingers smoothing the fabric at your hips. The heels are just high enough. The updo stays pinned. You breathe in once, twice, and grab your clutch.

Then you head downstairs.

The moment you step into the lobby, the room hushes. The manager behind the desk nearly drops his clipboard. The elevator chimes shut behind you. But you don’t see any of them.

Because at the far end of the lobby, waiting by the glass doors in a crisp, black tux and a perfectly tied bow tie, is Harry.

He turns when he hears your heels click against the tile.

And for a full, suspended moment, he forgets how to breathe.

His eyes sweep over you from head to toe, slowly, reverent, and utterly still.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Your smile curves, shy and wicked all at once. “Nice tux.”

“I don’t— Jesus.” He closes the space between you, eyes still wide. “You look... devastatingly beautiful.”

Your hand is already in his before you even realize you reached for him.

“Ready?” he asks, like his voice just came back online.

You nod, fingers tightening slightly around his. “Let’s go.”

The car is sleek and low-lit as usual, the partition already raised for privacy. You sit beside him, knees angled together, clutch held tight in your lap.

But your other hand?

Still tangled with his.

You don’t speak much. Don’t need to.

His thumb traces your knuckle slowly, and you feel it everywhere. The soft city blur outside the window fades beneath the weight of his attention.

“The gala’s at The Frick,” he murmurs, gazing at your profile. “They rent it out once a year for this foundation thing. Mostly donors, trustees, people who pretend to read art journals.”

You smirk. “Sounds awful.”

“It will be. But you’ll be there soooo—”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too tight, too warm

The car glides to a stop outside the stately mansion-turned-museum on the Upper East Side. Lights wash the limestone facade in a golden glow. A crowd is gathered beneath the archway, camera flashes starting up like clockwork.

You grip your clutch tighter as the door opens.

But then he’s there offering his hand, not just to help you out, but to anchor you.

You take it.

The moment your heels touch the cobblestone, voices ripple.

“Who is that?” “She’s stunning—look at that dress.” “Is that Harry Castillo’s date?” “God, the two of them—”

You don’t hear all of it. But you hear enough.

Still, your eyes only find one pair.

Harry’s.

And the way he looks at you?

Like he likes the attention. Because they see you the way he already does.

part two —>

divider by @kodaswrld other one by me:) 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @inbred-eater @millersdoll @grayandthyme @saturnyo @littlejoels @millersgirl44 @mybvalentine @mysticalgalaxysalad @wayward-dreamer @starstriker027 @untitledgoat @erinlovesyou @katssecretdiary @strangeangelflapsuitcase @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @perfectpoetrybluebird @inept-the-magnificent @throttlepascal @readingiskeepingmegoing @noteriii @needz1nk @foggymoonbanana @belleofthewickedteaparty @axshadows

[thatcorporategirlie]

30,000 Feet (harry castillo x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

harry castillo x f!reader Word Count: 1.7K? Rating: E

Summary: You meet a handsome stranger on a flight.

Warning: witty banter, alcohol use, mutual pining, flirting, implied age gap, sugar baby mention (blink and you'll miss it), sexual tension, slightly self-conscious reader (moreso in her head about why Mr. Castillo is talking to her), smutty thoughts

A/N: I got good news today and so I cracked and wrote a quick something. Originally this had been written for another character, and I played around with this. Your girl is loving all the new Harry Castillo tags she's seeing and following.

The flight from LA to NYC was a grueling affair. You’d think that after months on this project, you’d be used to the weekly trek of 2,818 miles—or five hours and twenty minutes in the air—but it was starting to wear you down.

As you settled into the terminal, the gate agent announced that your flight was boarding. You couldn’t help but notice that you’d scored an upgrade to first class, a sweet perk of being a frequent flyer. With a tired sigh, you gathered your things and boarded the plane, stowing your suitcase in the overhead compartment and shedding your blazer. You tucked your laptop bag under the seat, recognizing that work was likely on the agenda for the flight, and you took a deep breath as you claimed your window seat.

"What would you like to drink before we take off?" one of the flight attendants asked with a perfect smile that could light up the cabin. Her perfect hair framed her face, and her piercing eyes sparkled as she looked at you, making you wonder if she had needed braces as a child.

"Hmm… can I just get a glass of white wine, please? Thank you."

With a smile, she noted your request and glided away. You leaned back in your seat, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the exhaustion wash over you. Just then, you noticed some shuffling next to you—your seatmate had arrived. Turning to your left, your heart skipped a beat when you saw him. He was strikingly handsome, effortlessly charming as he hoisted his suitcase above him. When he looked down and caught your gaze, he flashed a warm smile that made your cheeks burn.

You felt a wave of self-consciousness. The LA heat had left you sweaty—definitely not your best look. You turned back to the window, swallowing hard, your mouth suddenly dry. He was the picture of perfection.

And you looked like complete and utter shit.

You were trying to keep your composure, but this guy just had the kindest eyes, and the way his dimple deepened with every smile sent your heart racing. When the flight attendant approached him, it felt as though she was practically giving him a lap dance to take his order.

"I’ll just have a glass of Krug," he said, running a hand through his luscious hair.

As she leaned in, her breasts were practically in his face as she jotted down his order. With a sexy grin, she responded, "I’ll be right back with your order," and gave him a wink.

You bit your lip, suppressing a giggle and rolling your eyes at her obvious flirting. You took a sip from your water bottle, trying to steady yourself.

"Are you going home or just visiting New York City?" your seatmate asked, pulling you from your thoughts. At first, you didn’t realize he was speaking to you. Your eyes turned and you realized up close, everything about him screamed comfort. Strong jaw, full lips, and bright brown eyes. Curly brown hair, tan skin, sexy as hell, and dressed in a suit jacket that hugged his shoulders perfectly.

"Uhm, actually, I’m going home. What about you?" you replied, slightly nervously.

"Home. Was out on business here."

You sighed, a smile breaking across your face. "I know all about traveling for work. It can really wear you out." His smile mirrored yours, and you found yourself feeling intoxicated.

Just as he was about to respond, the flight attendant returned, delivering his drink with a sultry tone. "Here’s your drink, Sir. Let me know if you need anything else. I’m here for you," she purred.

His lips twitched with amusement, grabbing the drink with his large fucking hand. "Thank you so much." As she walked away, you realized she hadn’t brought your wine. But honestly, you didn’t blame her. He was distracting.

"She’s friendly…" you said, attempting to mask your discomfort with your signature smirk.

He raised an eyebrow and laughed. You couldn’t help but laugh back, staring at him, and quickly realizing that you were in danger of getting lost in his brown eyes.

You couldn't help but notice that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. However, you did spot the Rolex on his wrist. You recognized it because your boss had the same watch and loved to brag about it. It was clear that this guy was definitely out of your league.

"It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry. Harry Castillo," he introduced himself, extending his hand towards you. You noticed the curve of his bottom lip, slightly fuller than the top.

You shook his hand, clearing your throat as you introduced yourself in return.

As the plane began to taxi down the runway, the roar of the engine filled the cabin, and you could feel the vibrations under your seat, a familiar sensation that made your heart race. As the plane picked up speed, you stole a glance at Harry, who seemed completely at ease, his confident demeanor contrasting sharply with your anxious fidgeting.

"Are you okay?" he asked, tilting his head slightly as he observed you.

"Yeah, just… you know, the usual takeoff jitters,” you admitted, forcing a smile. "It’s a long flight, and I think the anticipation gets to me. I just really wish I had that glass of white wine right about now."

As the plane surged forward, your fingers instinctively grasped the edge of the armrest. You were trying to breathe through the apprehensive tension that always accompanied takeoff.

Harry's gaze remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly, and he shifted slightly in his seat, leaning in just a bit closer.

"Hey," he began, his voice low and soothing, "when’s your next vacation?"

"Why, do I seem a little wound up?" you shot him a playful glare.

"Humor me," he said scratching his scruff, wearing a panty-dropping smirk.

You took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension in your shoulders. "Well, one of my friends is getting married in Marbella later this year,"

"Have you ever been?"

You shook your head. "No, I haven’t. I’ve heard it’s stunning, though."

"You’ll love it," he assured you. "I sometimes go there for work. The beaches are beautiful, and the food is incredible. The bars are unmatched. It’s the perfect place to unwind."

"Sounds like exactly what I need," you said, feeling a little lighter at the thought of an upcoming escape.

"Make sure to have a cocktail at Gauguin," he recommended, his eyes roaming your face.

"I'll add that to my list. What about you? Any vacations planned?" A guy who looked like him probably had someone waiting for him at home, the model type, or maybe even a sugar baby. You lived in New York, and it was a more common occurrence than people realized. "With your… girlfriend?"

Harry chuckled softly, his eyes roaming your face. "Not at the moment, but I could definitely use one." He paused. "And, I don't have a girlfriend,"

"Oh?" you stated, trying to sound nonchalant.

"So, is your boyfriend going to Marbella with you?" he asked in a way that sounded like he hoped he was wrong to assume you have one.

"Yeah...probably," you bit your lip. “If I had one,” you said, hoping he didn’t notice that you were shamelessly eye-fucking him.

His eyebrows lifted and he gave you this look that clearly said he was surprised. You could have sworn he was staring at your lips, but maybe you were just imagining it. He wasn't so much older than you that it would be out of the question for him to find you attractive, but enough that you knew he might think you were too young for him.

You turned your gaze back to the window, the landscape of Los Angeles fading into a patchwork of greens and browns below. The plane climbed higher, the city shrinking and suddenly you had a serene view of cotton candy clouds, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.

"I see what you did there, trying to distract me," you said, your heart fluttering as you realized the plane was now in the air, the ground far below.

"Did it work?" he asked, his voice thick and his eyes tender.

Just as you were about to thank him for easing your nerves, the flight attendant appeared again. "Can I get you anything else, Sir?"

"Actually, I think she could use that glass of white wine she ordered earlier," he said, gesturing toward you with his lips pulling into a lovely, bone-softening grin.

Her smile faltered for a brief moment before she recovered, her eyes darting between the two of you. "Of course! I’ll be right back with that for you,"

You kept sneaking glances at his arms, his broad shoulders, his chest, and his mouth. You realized you were squirming in your seat, and it was really not the time to be imagining what it would feel like if he were to touch you with those large hands of his.

You licked your lips and twisted your fingers together. "Thank you,"

"Sure thing," he replied, trying hide a sudden contagious smirk, a lock of his curly hair flopping over his forehead.

Your heart raced at the thought of sharing 2,818 miles—or five hours and twenty minutes—on this flight with this charming stranger. Or… perhaps your new friend Harry?

graphics by @saradika-graphics

[atimefordragons]

RIP to Lucy, but I would've folded right here. I am marrying this man. That's a husband! Love is on the table babe, he's leaning on it super cute and sexy! PEDRO PASCAL AS HARRY CASTILLO IN MATERIALISTS