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Jun 20

⋆。ﾟ Engagement Parties, Elusive Laughs ⋆。ﾟ

ㅤㅤㅤgoing back to harry's state isn't easy, but what awaits is worse.ㅤㅤㅤ╱ 4k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, foes to hoes, (one sided) enemies to lovers, angst, rich ppl, slowburn, reader may be a bit of a cunt, dbf!harry. additional for this ch.: misogyny

note. happy materialists month for those who celebrate!

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When you wake up, Harry's not there. Truth to be told, you can't remember if he was there at all.

It doesn't matter.

Not when you've woken up on his house. Now, that is something to think about.

You get dressed in silence, thoughts and hearts alike racing.

What if he was on the other side, waiting? If he had cooked breakfast, with a smile and what could you like on mind? Ever the observant, perhaps Harry had seen what you've eaten at brunch that day after the first, despite his broken ego, and had done something similar, or bought it out.

Maybe he just wants to talk.

But when you open the door, there is no one waiting on the other side.

And when your bare feet pad to the living room, it's clear there are no traces of Harry in the house.

He's gone. Didn't even say goodbye.

A strange pain settles on your chest: barely a sting, but impossible to ignore. Annoying if anything.

Your eyes wander until you spot it: in the kitchen table lays a piece of paper, waiting.

Trembling hands pick it up, a scoff falling past your lips.

Is this all you were worth? A post-it note?

«I was on a rush and didn't want to wake you up. If you feel hungry, you can grab something. Fridge is all yours.»

No acknowledgement of yesterday―of you staying for the first time. After months of insisting, you think he'd at least be there to say good morning. Even if it wasn't your actual intention to stay, why was he acting this way? So cold, detached.

Why was Harry pretending nothing had changed?

Whatever.

Fine.

This omission works for you.

Because the truth is, nothing had actually changed.

Why would it, anyway?

Just because you felt so alone, you came to his door for a talk?

Because you were so drunk, you couldn't go back home?

Because you slept on a bed you refused for months?

You feel shame as you leave his place with hands tightly clutched around your purse, wearing the same clothes from the night before. It's funny, because you promised yourself you'd never feel something at all.

What was meant to be a step forward felt like three steps back.

You finally stayed, and he, after months of begging, had not.

It was hard to close the door behind and force himself to put distance when all he wanted was to wrap you in his arms. That did not, however, compare to the pain he felt.

You were never going to change, were you?

Had he really deluded himself into thinking he could help you somehow? That he could shape you into a softer, better version of yourself?

He thought you were his butterfly, the one he'd care for the rest of his life, but it seems the only thing you both have in common with is how you withered away.

Nobody stays.

He should've known that a long time ago, when no amount of set-up dates or fleeting late night guests made his heart go fast. It all was momentary―his bed filled, his heart still.

What made you any special? Because you entertained him briefly during another one of his friends' endless boring weddings?

No, he knows better than to lie, even to himself.

It was because you felt real. Among the flurry of guests, with your sharp character and windows for eyes. You pretended, like him and everyone else, but it was in that small moment you let your defenses down and said how much you hated to be there, that he knew you were different.

They all faked. Except where their eyes had nothing behind, yours carried a pain so raw, he felt it right through him.

Even your desperation, the need to use his body. That had been real, too. The way you had clung to him as if he was your compass, because everything around you was falling apart. How your kisses tasted bitter from your lies and the salt of your tears. How you never hid your true intentions, as confusing as they may be.

He knew you wore a mask; in New York, you had to do that to survive.

But there was more to you.

And then, yesterday happened. All it took was a simple answer to undo everything.

I'd do it. Marriage for business.

He thought you'd understand. That there had been a bridge built the night you got that call.

So you had lied. Not to him, never to him, but there was always a first, it seemed.

An illusion his desperate heart wanted to believe in.

Maybe it was all in his head and he made more out of what you were.

He tried to give some deeper meaning to qualities everyone in your world shared, as if you were special: that there was a reason, some ulterior motive behind. Your mother, your father―life.

You couldn't be as vapid as the rest.

And yet, you said you would settle. To the same life your father and his mother had before. The road Peter and Charlotte were taking.

The one everyone did.

Your ambitions, that creed you held yourself against: crumbled in a matter of seconds over a stupid question that seemed more defining than it was.

The girl who said she'd never marry, who made it clear by her crude jokes and her job, selling the very antithesis of it: Settling?

If anything, it unsettled himself.

For a moment, Harry thought he was special.

For a moment, he thought you were in the same page.

He had been clear since the first day, trying to get you to see there was more, hell, even a second chance. The same one you denied yourself over and over again, be it pride or self-preservation.

That people like you could love, be loved. That your past didn't have to be you, that there was much more to live for.

Harry just wanted for you to see yourself through his eyes.

And in the process, he let himself be used, like a fool. He told himself it was part of the process, to get to you, but maybe he was only being selfish and in love, taking what you gave so he could get a piece of you, so he could draw closer to your flame.

Fuck. And how did that go?

His wings had only burnt away.

The invitation arrived on Wednesday.

It was easy to spot it, sticking out like a sore thumb among the flurry of work emails.

Engagement party.

The last time you went to one of these, was because a friend from college decided one week to Bali was worth the announcement. They didn't even get married.

And then the name: Charlotte.

It's not like you've been back to his house since the last time, so why she invited you is beyond yourself. A part of you wants to ask Harry, but after his morning dissappear act, the other side of you doesn't want to speak to him at all. You wonder why you're acting like a toddler throwing a fit over an act as banal as it; only a kid would take this seriously.

You end up phoning someone else.

"Missed me much?"

You hide a smile, even thought she can't see it. "You greet every person like that?"

"Just the special kind." Rachel replies. "Hello to you. For what do I owe the pleasure of your busy time?"

You ask straight away.

"I need help"

"And here I thought you called out of the goodness in your heart," she jabs, "what is it?"

"What happens, say, when someone you're seeing is pestering you about staying the night, like, every time," you pause, pride on the floor, swallowing the knot that's always made difficult to talk what's going on inside your head, "and then when you finally do, he just... leaves?"

You hold her breath. When she doesn't reply back in an instant, fear creeps up.

"Forget it. This conversation-"

She interrupts before your brashness cuts the call.

"Is this Coney Island guy?"

You may have told her a bit about Harry without giving away too much, including who he actually was. When you feel color flow into your cheeks, you regret it.

"Yeah"

"You're sleeping with him"

You hate how it's more of a statement than a question.

You reply tersely after a couple of seconds.

"Yeah"

"Can I ask why does it bother you?"

You feel anger start to pour in.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Rachel chuckles lowly. "No offense, but you're not exactly the type of person to stay"

The way she says it, so certain, makes your stomach plummet.

"Don't get me wrong," she adds after your heavy silence, "it's just I know you. You're a practical person who only seeks casualty, and him constantly asking you to stay must have bothered you. I won't ask why you did this time, but I can assume it was beyond your control. Speaking of which, you love having it. Maybe that's why you're put off"

You take the direction she's going for in a beat.

"Probably"

"I just don't picture you as sentimental." she reasons. "Why would you care when you do the same?"

The worst part is, she's right.

Keeping things casual kept your heart from being involved, a thing you did not want to be more broken than it already was. A thing that couldn't feel even if it tried.

Why did it feel like it almost broke when there was no sight of Harry Castillo this morning?

Pride. That's what you tell yourself. It's wounded at his rejection.

"Yeah. Maybe the switch up threw me off"

"Men," she snarks, "can't expect much of them"

You take the chance to do a very needed change of topic.

"Do you happen to know Charlotte Wells?"

She scoffs like the question personally offends her.

"I do," she then corrects herself, "but just because we have friends in common and her family is fucking huge. Every place I go, there's at least one Wells, I swear. Besides, we go to the same hair salon. All she does is whine about her sister and gloat about her boyfriend. She talks too much of herself, like we care. Maybe the stylist in turn she overly tips does, or pretends to. But I don't. I came to relax, not-"

You cut her flurry of complaints you have little patience for.

"Fiancé"

She pauses, "Come again?"

"Fiancé" you repeat. "They're engaged"

"I'm sorry. You ask me if I know her, and then throw this?" she sounds annoyed, like you have somehow revoked her title of unofficial gossip girl with this information. "How do you know this? How do you know her?"

"She invited me to her engagement party"

You hear Rachel sigh on the other end.

"I have more questions than answers." It's her reply, laced with both irritation and confusion.

"I'm as confused as you are. We've met a couple of times only"

"How? You don't even run in the same circles"

"Manhattan is small," you offer. "It's her fiancé who I was really supposed to meet, anyway. She just happened to be there."

Her mood shifts in a matter of seconds. "Wait, with who?"

"Huh?"

"Who is Charlotte Wells engaged to?"

"Peter Castillo"

She whistles with surprise, "Manhattan is indeed small"

You can guess the new questions coming and regret ever calling her at all.

"Wait," you hold your breath, "Isn't that Harry Castillo's younger brother?" Rachel gawks, "shouldn't the eldest marry first?"

You don't know why, but you feel the desire to defend Harry burning on the tip of your tongue. Before you say anything you can't take back, the redhead speaks again.

"How does all of this relate? Who were you even meeting in the first place?"

You're glad she can't see your face because you feel yourself blushing.

"Harry"

"Harry?" she parrots. "Okay, you lost me"

"Business," you lie. "He suggested we met at his parent's state"

"Feels oddly personal for business," she snorts, mocking the last word.

"His parents were hosting a dinner. I got invited last minute," you continue the lie.

"Well, and what kind of business, then?" she presses, making you squirm in your comfy leather chair, suddenly not comfortable at all. "No offense, babe, but you're a divorce lawyer, and last I heard, Harry Castillo isn't even in the dating pool, which is a damn shame"

"It's complicated"

She sighs, defeated. "Everything with you is"

You'll blame how boring this day is on why you're suddenly curious. Or maybe you just want to divert the topic because of her last remark. Whatever it is, there's no harm in asking your gossip encyclopedia of a friend for a story.

"What was that last thing supposed to mean?"

"Do you live under a rock? Harry Castillo is one of Manhattan's, if not the most, seeked out bachelor. Look, he's not my taste at all, but he's loaded and has a good background. Besides, the man knows business, and we all need a smart guy to settle down"

"Just get to the point, Rach"

You can imagine the roll of her eyes.

"Gossip is always so boring with you. Just get to the point, Rach," she mimicks, "I'm trying! Details are important to the context. Anyway, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted, despite all that package, he's not interested in dating, it seems. Maybe he's picky or secretly gay. Streets say his mother used to set him up all the time with daughters of the big shot families, them being new money and all. I guess she gave up because he got old"

"He's not even fifty yet"

"Don't try so hard to defend your business partner," she teases. "What I'm trying to say is his options reduced. You'd be surprised how less trendy the age gap's gotten in our society during modern dating unlike before where it seemed it was a competition on who married the oldest corpse"

It comes our automatic, defensive.

"Harry is not a corpse"

Rachel lets out that little laugh she does every time she's containing herself.

"I never said he was. He's still in the age to be someone's fantasy of mature"

"Each to their own," you add, unsure what else to say before your mouth betrays you. Why were you hellbent on defending him after he walked out on you?

"Yeah." Rachel retakes the topic. "I know he did casual hookups for a while. I mean, he's a man with needs after all. Some friends, others acquaintances, but a bit of people in my circle managed to end on his bed. They thought they could make tie the knot, you know? I think he's the type of man you'd revel in getting to settle down, or the one that would make you want to. And then he stopped."

You swallow spit that tastes like acid.

"That was, what? About five years ago?" she pauses, "yeah. No more sleeping around for Harry, like he entered some strict diet or a cult where celibacy was a must"

Five years is a lot, especially for a man with wealth and sexual needs. Hell, its the same amount of time your dad and Annabelle had as a marriage.

"Maybe he's busy"

"Maybe he gave up on love," Rachel chimes. "He always gave me that vibe, you know? A romantic"

Your heart does a weird summersault at that.

"Anyway," you break out of your trance, "these aren't the types of things to talk on the phone. We should see each other," she pauses, hopeful, "unless your butt is glued to your office's chair"

"It's not"

"Then meet me up sometime. Next week?"

You sigh, relentlessly smiling. "Works for me"

When you think she'll hang up, she speaks again, voice smaller.

"I know I may be a bitch sometimes, but I am your friend too," she exhales sharply. "You can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

You want to say it's Harry, that he's right at the center of this interwoven mess you've tangled yourself into.

That you have, for the first time in your life, feelings you can't understand.

Instead, all you manage is an Of course nobody is fooled by.

The house looked the same as the last time you were here, except now it was drapped in linen and white. You preferred ivory over any darker or colorful shade everyday, but what had happened to parties, anyway? It seemed like a bleak choice for an engagement party.

Charlotte is at the door, all smiles and almost obscene display of her ring to everyone that walks through the door. She accepts your gift with a barely concealed disdain in her eyes as she reads the name on the bag.

"It's Mikimoto."

She chuckles but it comes out icy.

"I prefer my pearls from Tiffany's. You know me, I'm a classic girl."

No, you wanted to answer, I've known you for less than a week.

You force out an easy smile, "I'll make sure to remember for your wedding."

Charlotte laughs, pleased. "Oh, the wedding!"

She goes on a spiel of the splurge: the venue, the bridesmaids' dresses, the bouquet, who's coming, who's already talking about it. Never once does she mention Peter.

You listen mindlessly, eyes searching through the sea of faces.

It doesn't take you long to find him.

It's not a surprise: he always spotted out. Be it his imposing presence, strong cologne or the way people inevitably turned their heads when he passed, it wasn't hard to see him among the crowd.

You excuse yourself out of the conversation, well, more like monologue, and if she seems bothered at first because your interruption, it's quick to dissolve as another guest shows up to greet her―Charlotte's new victim. Now, she's moved on to talking about her dress.

He rests against a wall, looking as exquisite as the cedar behind. There is something... mature to him, beyond his age. His beauty is earned, with the silver and lines. His wealth too, even if a part belonged to hia parents.

His musk soon invades your nostrils. Wooden and deep, with hints of smoke laced within his cologne.

"Someone took a drag before."

It's not of you to jest, so maybe that catches his attention. He looks at you briefly before his eyes go back to his drink. Trying to find common ground for a desperate unknown reason, perhaps his lack of answer, you add:

"I hate big parties."

Harry sips from his drink with practiced nonchalance, although you now notice he looks tense. His prolonged silence and rigid posture set your nerves off.

"Funny," he finally speaks, sounding tight, "it's where we seem to run into each other the most."

You're not a person who charms others, but you try to go for that tone that saunters in between cunning and flirty you usually win the jury with.

"I thought that was your bed."

Harry looks like he's about to throw up.

He fixes you with a look that makes your face burn. If the earth could swallow you, it would do you a big favor.

"Sorry. But I was serious before. I hate them. They make me anxious."

Harry was contributing to that feeling, but you weren't going to tell him.

"You simply can't come," he says matter of factly, like he's speaking to a stupid toddler.

Something in your stomach recoils.

You scoff, "It's not like I have an option."

"You can always say no. Be honest with everyone and yourself for once."

There's an unmistakable cutting tone hidden under his words that rubs you wrong.

"Alright. If you wanted to be alone, you could've just said so."

You walk away from him, not knowing why the desire to turn around and see his face is as big at the disappointment in your chest.

Harry's still looking at you, obviously―the burning feeling behind your back isn't coming from some random guest.

Why was he acting so weird all of a sudden? First leaving, now being rude to you for no reason.

You find yourself missing the sweet Harry and hating yourself because of that.

It doesn't take you long to find the girls and Charlotte. From the corner of your eye, you catch Harry doing the same with Peter and his friends.

"There you are! Where have you been?" she pulls you to her group. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." Before you answer thought, she clicks her fingers to a nearby waiter, "let's get you a drink."

Once the champagne flute lands in your fingers, you down half of it.

"That's the spirit!" Charlotte beams with a giddy giggle. She clearly is in her element. "Now, you came just in time. I was telling the girls about Peter and mine's first date."

She introduces them quickly before the story continues. Mia, Vivian, Yue, Imani, Blaire, Jada, Hannah, and Felicity: a group of late twenty something girls that look as drunk or even more than the host.

"It was at this very expensive restaurant. I forget which; doesn't matter. The thing is, he didn't orden from the menu, but rented the whole place out and made the chef come up with a special menu for us. I wouldn't have ever thought about that"

"Nice of Peter to plan it," you add just to say something. Although, it does sound nice. It's not romantic but impressive, regardless. To a woman with money like her, thought, it must be only half impressive.

"Oh no, Peter's too lazy to do that. It wasn't his idea."

The way she says it, not fondly nor teasing, but with contempt, leaves you puzzled.

"Then whose was it?" You ask cautiously, as if you're afraid of the answer.

How would he not be the one behind his own date?

Was this a joke you're missing, by the way the drunk crowd of girls stares at you?

"Ador," it's her reply.

"Ador?" You blink, "is that some kind of artificial intelligence?"

Charlotte laughs loudly.

"Not at all! It's a matchmaking service," she pauses. "Oh, right. You didn't know. Peter and I were matched"

Your curiosity grows alongside your confusion. "Matched?"

"Yeah. They set up the date after comparing our profiles and what we look for in a partner. Tall, money, good looks, big family. Hell, I'm sure you can ask for dick size too."

Her friends laugh loudly, but nobody cares too much to look back at their drunk guffaw.

"That's-"

"Effective," she completes.

"I was going to say unauthentic."

"Despite everything, you're so traditional. It's cute," the bride to be mocks. "Look, it's all about making the whole thing easier. They find someone compatible and facilitate the process. You get what you wish for."

You meditate her words in silence.

"Besides, dating is another thing we do," she sighs airily, "it's overrated."

Finally, you can agree with her.

"It is."

She's about to turn again to her friends when you stop her, something gnawing at you.

"But wouldn't that be... Settling?"

You barely remember Harry's words that last time you were at his house. The question he made.

Marriage was business. You agreed with that. So, what was all this restlessness about?

Charlotte chuckles, "Do you think marrying billionaire Peter Castillo is settling?"

The joke writes itself. You feel heat coat your cheeks at your misguided question―impulse and intrusive thoughts winning over façade, so you backtrack.

"No, I didn't mean it like that. What I'm trying to say is, isn't it a big scam? The service is overly expensive when there isn't even much upside to it compared to, say, apps. Also, the dating pool is smaller. Not everyone is willing to pay that much for analog swiping," you attempt to joke amid your argument. "Thus, you not only get fewer options but financial imbalance."

Even if that is not what you were originally implying, your feelings are true: you do hate matchmaking.

She blinks, slowly, before composing herself with a cutting smile.

"Well, good thing we're rich," she chides, icy. "I can't be bothered by any of that."

The heat on your face spreads to the lower of your back.

"No, of course," you reply, "I suppose we're our own exclusive pool of nepo babies."

If she takes insult over your words, her face doesn't move an inch. Well, except the small curve of her lip, corner up in a sly manner.

"And what about you?"

The ground below shakes. You subtly throw a glance across the room, but he's facing the opposite side.

"What about me?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Isn't your whole gist being anti-romantic or something? I don't understand why you're so bothered by it."

Some of her friends are now listening. You close your fist tightly until the nails dig into the tender skin.

"I'm not. I just hate scams, like love."

"I'm afraid to tell you that being single isn't a personality trait, but you sure as hell love to use it."

It lands right where she intended. A few of the girls now whisper at your sides. Even if it's far, you think you smell blood.

You panic.

You can't be tonight's joke. You won't allow yourself to be their entertainment now.

Even if the lie comes out effortlessly, it burns your tongue as it slides out.

"I'm with Harry."

The answer spits back right at your face.

"Really? Then why did he tell Peter he was single a couple of days ago? Peter asked for his date to the wedding, and he said he was going alone," she says with a certain edge. "But I suppose that's how it goes: you're Harry's shiny new toy, the perfect distraction until the next one comes. Someone to get his parents off of him. Don't tell me you didn't know."

You're speechless, for the first time, blood running cold at it.

Sure, you were just sleeping together, and coming to his house was a favor. You drew your own lines, and for a moment, as it comes out of your mouth, you forget about it: the dangerous implications of admitting you were seeing Harry Castillo. Of a divorce lawyer dating. A Beaumont.

None of it matters.

For a moment, all you wish for is that it was simpler. True.

She suppresses a laugh while her eyes show pity, "Seems you didn't have clear what the nature of your relationship was at all."

The redhead turns around, gawking about how big her ring is to the present friends. They're pretty bad at faking the gossip was far more interesting.

You aren't good at that either. Pretending.

At least not anymore. The whole 'Not feeling anything' thing isn't working, because your walls hardened by the years seem to tumble with each blow, words that hadn't affected you before.

First, Harry. Now, Charlotte's comment. What was wrong with you?

"Charlotte-"

She appears to be done with you, like a child bored of her toy.

You're Harry's shiny new toy. You shiver at the voice inside your head.

"You know what? You should try it. Ador. I'm sure they'll find someone for you."

That feels more insulting than anything.

Vivian laughs under her breath. Felicity leans to whisper at Yue's ear and Imani joins in.

"You know, it may be time. How old are you?"

Before you can answer, Mia butts in:

"You sure need to find someone. Anyone. Can't get picky if you wait too much time."

"Yeah, somebody with good connections and money enough to tolerate you."

"That's not a problem, is it?" Charlotte jabs, "you're a Beaumont. You have plenty of your own."

The mention of the last name reminds you who you are. When wounded, you bite back, venom bubbling up like the bubbles inside the flute of champagne.

"So, like you and Peter?"

Her smiles vanishes. So does the murmuring around.

She doesn't back down either.

"You know what makes us different? I accept things for what they are. Love isn't like the movies. Marriage is value. Business. I don't think I'm special like you."

Her friends leave. You feel your eyes sting in rage and shame.

Not once had you lost a case. How did you let a woman who barely knows you win?

"See you at the wedding. Don't make me regret inviting you," she seethes.

Like you always do, you run away. Carefully, not to seem you're running away. But you are. From them, from life. From things you swore not to wish for.

From Harry.

But he's beat you to it, already at the garden. The same bench where you were told your father died.

"It gets loud in there, doesn't it?"

He nods, absent.

You want to ask him why he was forward with Peter, why didn't he tell you. If more people knew, about the lie or the truth.

Why he's got you feeling so blue.

In the end, words die. You only manage to sit down next to him, in silence.

"Harry," you call.

He avoids your gaze. Something tightens in your chest.

"I'm fine."

"I wasn't asking that."

The wind brushes by. The coldness you feel isn't because of that.

"Harry," you try again, sounding almost desperate. Like pleading.

He looks at you this time.

There's something in his eyes. Detached; pulling away.

"I think we should-"

A strange anguish propels your recklessness.

"Can I kiss you?"

For a moment, you don't care about the noise inside or the turmoil of your heart.

"You're going to regret this," Harry whispers, voice hoarse; choked up. With emotions or lust, you don't know.

You also don't know if he was talking to you or himself.

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