#the materialist

[missadangel]

The Ex Education

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

Lesson 1

Chapter Summary: You leave New York to “heal,” come back to financial ruin, family drama, blowing up on social media, and an ex who got hotter and richer without your permission. Survival level: Upper East Side. Chapter Warnings & W.C: 12K (I had to introduce characters properly so..) Reader is rich (30s), Harry is a CEO (42), probably richer than the movie version, denial of feelings, first reunion in years, feelings, zen temple, meditation goes wrong, rom-com, comedy, 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: Welcome to my new Harry Castillo fanfic, I'm sooo excited! hope you all like it! ----I wasn’t planning to include Lucy or John at first, but too many original male and female characters can get confusing — so I added them as independent characters, soooo different from the movie... sue me... Lucy and John both work in high-level positions at Harry’s company. Get ready for a John × Reader × Harry love triangle… you’ve been warned. 💋🔥---- series masterlist . next chapter

Never Call Your Ex When You’re in Trouble

Kyoto, Japan

You came to Japan to heal. At least, that’s what you told everyone — your therapist, your mother, your reflection in the bathroom mirror at three a.m.

After years of emotional chaos and depressive free fall, you’d decided that enlightenment had to be cheaper than another nervous breakdown in Manhattan. So when Emily — your half-Japanese, half-chaotic childhood friend — said she knew a Zen temple in Kyoto that “changed her cousin’s life,” you said yes. Mostly because “changed her cousin’s life” sounded marginally better than “cried in your ex-husband’s hoodie for six weeks.”

As a Manhattan elite, you’d imagined something peaceful, cinematic — like a luxury wellness retreat with minimalist décor and optional chanting.

Instead, they took your phone at the gate, your Chanel lipstick at check-in, and your will to live somewhere around hour two of the first meditation.

It’s been… what, thirty-six hours? No. More. You know because you counted.

The silence was unbearable. Not New York silence — the kind that hums with distant horns, espresso machines, and ambition. This was pure, undiluted silence. You could hear a leaf fall. You could hear your heartbeat. You could hear the part of your brain that missed Spotify.

The meditation was so dull that even the thought of crawling under your Manhattan bed to open the box labeled “bad memories — do not open” and crying for hours suddenly sounded more therapeutic.

You tried to focus on your breath like the guidebook said. But your knees were cramping, your back hated you, and the girl next to you looked like she’d already achieved Nirvana twice before breakfast.

“If enlightenment means slowly losing feeling in my legs,” you thought, “then I’m practically the Buddha.”

The gong rang. Salvation. You bowed (half a second late, as usual) and followed Emily outside.

Two days later — yes, that was your limit — you found yourself wondering what the punishment was for cursing at a monk.

You hadn’t planned on getting kicked out of a temple. But here you were.

It started with the phones. You and Emily had hidden them in a sock drawer, turning them on at midnight like two teenagers in a sleepover prison break. Then came the snacks. A bag of M&Ms. One tragic crunch. Caught red-handed — or, more accurately, chocolate-fingered — by an actual monk.

Now you were standing in the courtyard before Jeff Shore, the temple’s soft-spoken, American-born Zen master. He looked at you with that calm, terrifying kind of serenity only people without email seem to possess.

“In Zen practice,” Jeff said, voice steady, “every craving is a teacher.”

Emily nodded solemnly, whispering under her breath, “Then apparently, I’m a genius.”

You elbowed her. “Shut up.”

“And what does craving teach us?” Jeff asked.

“That the vending machine near the gate still works?” Emily whispered again.

You bit your lip.

Jeff blinked.

Jeez Em.

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

“It teaches,” he continued evenly, “that peace isn’t something you can download or buy. It’s what’s left when the wanting stops.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about chocolate or your entire life. Probably both.

Then he bowed slightly — polite, final.

“I think,” he said, “it’s time you return to the world you came from. The temple is a place to confront illusions. But you seem to have brought too many with you.”

A pause. A faint, monk-like smile. “Please… do not come back.”

And that was that. Compassionate exile, Kyoto edition.

The Road to the Airport

“You just had to check your notifications during zazen,” Emily muttered, dragging her suitcase down the gravel path.

You shot her a look. “Oh, I’m sorry — who smuggled Pringles into a monastery?”

“They were emotional support Pringles!”

“You got us exiled.”

“You took a selfie with a monk in the background!”

You paused. “…Okay, that one’s on me.”

Emily groaned. “And because of you, the monk threw our phones into the pond for purification or whatever!”

You laughed, mimicking Jeff’s calm voice:

“When the water is still, it reflects truth. When the phone rings, it reflects attachment.”

Emily snorted. “Yeah, and when it sinks, it reflects your fault.”

By the time you reached the train station, the whole thing already felt like a fever dream — bamboo forests, temple bells, and one very patient man probably praying you never return.

And just like that, your grand journey toward enlightenment had come to an end.

Kyoto Station

The Kyoto Station was chaos wrapped in order — a sea of calm faces and quiet announcements that somehow made you feel more frantic. You and Emily stood at the ticket machine, luggage half-open, dignity long gone.

“What do we do now?” Emily whispered. “We call Mikey,” you said, digging into your fancy purse. “He owes me at least three favors.”

You found a public phone. A miracle. After a few failed coins and an operator-assisted call that cost roughly a small fortune, the line finally clicked — static, then his voice.

“Mikey! It’s me. Listen, my phone’s dead — literally dead, monk threw it into a pond — I need a ticket. To New York. Today.”

“Wait—hold on,” he said, voice rushed, wind and traffic behind him. “You’re alive? Thank God, I’ve been trying to reach you for days. There’s something I have to tell you—”

A loud honk cut through the line.

Tires screeched.

“Hey! Watch where you’re—”

Then a pause.

“Okay, listen, I’ll book it, but—”

Muffled voices.

“What the hell—” you blurted.

A new voice, low and commanding:

“Hi, Michael.”

You froze. That tone didn’t belong to anyone friendly.

“Ah—hey, fellas,” Mikey said quickly, words tripping over each other. “I was just about to call you guys, actually—funny coincidence!”

“Get in the car. Now.”

Emily leaned closer. “What was that?” You shrugged helplessly, mouthing, no idea.

“Um, I’m… uh… kinda busy, sis,” Mikey said, suddenly all fake calm. “I’ll call you back.”

Click. Line dead.

“Mikey?” “Mikey, don’t you dare—”

The dial tone hummed like mockery. You slammed the phone down. “Goddamn it, Mikey!”

Tokyo

By the time you and Emily made it to Tokyo, you were running on caffeine, sarcasm, and spiritual disappointment. The plan was simple: buy new tickets, get out.

Inside the airport mall, everything gleamed — luxury stores, perfume counters, digital billboards whispering tranquility, connection, upgrade your life. For a moment, it almost felt like Manhattan again.

“Real meditation is this,” you muttered, eyeing a Cartier display. “Credit therapy.”

You swiped your Amex Black card. The terminal blinked twice before freezing.

Transaction declined. Account temporarily suspended. Please contact your financial institution.

The cashier blinked, then bowed politely.

“I’m very sorry, ma'am… your card appears to be suspended.”

You frowned. “That’s impossible.” You tried again. Same result.

“Would you like to try another card, perhaps?” the cashier offered, voice soft — as if afraid to startle a wounded animal.

You forced a smile, the Manhattan kind that said everything’s fine, my dad owns half of Midtown. Only… apparently, he didn’t. Not anymore.

But you didn’t know that just yet

“Maybe Mercury’s in retrograde,” Emily said dryly.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Or my family accountant just had a heart attack.”

Emily sighed, pulling out her card — reluctant, but still smiling.

“Fine. Emotional support money. Add it to your tab.”

“You’ll get it back, I swear.”

“Sure. Like my Pringles.”

Flight JL006 — Tokyo to New York

The plane hummed like a lullaby for rich people. First class smelled like champagne, regret, and second chances.

Emily was already out cold next to you. You were just about to doze off too, with your mask on and your hair all set—after all, you’d spent a solid ten minutes getting it just right. You scrolled through the seat’s entertainment system, but nothing stuck — every movie felt like a life you didn’t want to live.

No phone. No messages. No way to check if Mikey was okay. And you missed your mother. Scarlet Queen — actress, enigma, professional heartbreaker. She’d probably dramatize your return like an Oscar speech.

You sighed. The temple had been boring, sure, but not pointless. It had forced you to sit with yourself — something you’d avoided for years. Maybe something had shifted.

You’d come to Japan to heal. You’d failed spectacularly. But somehow, it felt like the failure mattered — like something new would begin when you landed in New York.

The seatbelt sign chimed. Engines roared. Outside, the night sky bled into dawn — pale light spilling over endless blue.

Somewhere behind you, a man in a tailored suit turned a glossy magazine page. TIME, the red border catching the cabin light. On the cover: Harry Castillo — “The Man Who Rebuilt Wall Street.”

But you didn’t see it. Sleep finally took you, mid-thought, mid-chaos — somewhere between past and turbulence.

Manhattan.

The city glittered like a diamond under a black velvet sky. The Entrepreneur of the Year gala had ended hours ago, but the hum of applause still echoed in Harry Castillo’s head.

He’d flown in from Singapore that morning — a sixteen-hour flight, two espressos, one flawless speech. A week away. A new branch launched. A deal sealed. Now, he was finally in the backseat of his car, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened, exhaustion settling behind his eyes.

Beside him, Ron scrolled through the tablet, tone casual but loyal.

“Hell of a speech tonight, boss. Even the Bloomberg guy looked impressed — and that man doesn’t smile at weddings.”

Harry smirked faintly. “That’s because he’s been divorced three times.”

“So have half the room,” Ron replied, chuckling. “Forbes, CNBC, TIME — they’re all over you. You broke the internet again.”

Harry’s gaze drifted to the glossy TIME magazine on the seat beside him. His own face stared back — confident, untouchable. The headline screamed:

Harry Castillo — Person of the Year The Man Who Rebuilt Wall Street.

He picked it up, flipping to the full-page photo spread.

“This picture,” he murmured. “You chose it?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Looked powerful. Is something wrong with it?”

Harry studied the image — him in a navy suit, skyline behind, chin lifted just enough to say I won. He shut the magazine gently. “No. Just wondering.”

The silence between them was filled with the hum of the city and the soft jazz playing low in the background.

“Your collar’s creased,” Ron said, half-smiling.

Harry gave a humorless laugh and straightened it. “It’s been a long week.”

Outside, Manhattan blurred past — neon signs, marble facades, gold reflections. He wasn’t just tired. He was haunted. Every time he left New York, he swore the distance helped. But every time he came back, the city reminded him of her.

His gaze flicked outside — and froze. Through the tinted glass, the familiar glow of The Plaza Hotel shimmered against the night.

His chest tightened.

Seven years ago. White roses. Champagne, laughter. The flash of a silk gown under the chandelier. You — laughing, nervous, radiant — walking toward him like you believed in forever. Like you’d never leave.

He blinked hard, jaw tightening.

“Harry?”

Ron’s voice broke the spell.

“You’re approving tomorrow’s schedule, right?”

Harry turned his gaze back to him, slow and unfocused.

“What? Oh. Right.”

Ron hesitated, watching him carefully — he’d known that tone for years.

Harry looked out the window one last time, the Plaza fading behind them.

“Move the morning meeting. I’ll take the day to rest.”

“Rest?” Ron asked softly.

Harry leaned back, eyes on the skyline.

“You’ve worked with me long enough, Ron. You know what that means.”

Ron said nothing — just nodded, understanding too well.

Upper East Side, Manhattan.

Just a few blocks away.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the Queen family residence, a prewar Art Deco–style apartment tower that stretched confidently toward the night sky. The kind of building that had always looked too certain of itself — all marble, brass, and old money silence. Even now, it stood there like nothing could ever touch it.

You stepped out and looked up, tracing the glittering windows floor by floor.

It was beautiful, still — painfully so. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You’d missed this: the faint scent of polished stone after rain, the low hum of the city below, the way coming home always felt both comforting and condemning at once.

But something was different tonight.

Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t spoken to your mother in three days — no phone, no messages, no video call.

The silence around you felt heavier than usual, as if the building itself knew something you didn’t.

The doorman straightened the moment he saw you, his uniform immaculate, his smile a little too rehearsed.

“Welcome back, Ms. Queen,” he said, opening the glass door. “It’s… really good to see you again. We’ve missed you around here.”

You smiled faintly. “Hey Rob, thank you. Rough night, huh?”

He hesitated, eyes darting briefly toward the lobby. “Not since I saw you come back, Ms. Queen.”

Before you could reply, the bellboy appeared — young, polite, trying too hard not to stare.

He lifted your suitcase from the trunk, balanced it effortlessly, and gave a small nod toward the elevator.

“Allow me, ma’am.”

You followed him through the quiet lobby, your heels echoing against the marble floor.

He pressed the button for the eighteenth floor, stepped in beside you, and waited in silence as the elevator rose.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the elevator's shiny panel—looking pale and restless, like you hadn't slept a wink. It was that kind of tired that comes from worrying, not from traveling.

Just waiting for your family to give you some answers.

The elevator opened with a soft ding, the familiar smell of lemon oil and your mom’s favorite perfume filled the hallway—warm, tidy, and a little fancy, just like a good memory. The bellboy stepped out first, holding the elevator door open as the soft chime faded.

“Welcome home, Ms. Queen,” he said, wheeling your suitcase neatly into the hallway.

You nodded, distracted. “Thanks.”

He left the bag beside the entryway table, gave a polite half-bow, and disappeared down the corridor — his footsteps fading much too quickly for a place that used to hum with staff.

You slipped off your jacket, waiting — out of habit — for someone to appear and take it.

No one did.

The silence pressed in, thick and unfamiliar.

Weird.

You turned toward the grand living room, half-expecting the faint clink of glasses or the quiet shuffle of heels on marble.

Nothing.

“Baby sister!”

The voice broke the quiet like champagne corks popping.

You spun around.

There he was — Mikey.

Leaning against the doorway in a T-shirt and sweats, eyes shadowed, hair messy, the same careless boyish grin trying to survive exhaustion.

“There you are!” he said, voice caught somewhere between relief and irritation. He pulled you into a hug before you could answer, tight and impulsive.

“Where the hell have you been? Mom’s been—” He stopped, scanning your face. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically, forcing a smile. “You?”

He gave that familiar shrug — the kind that hides a dozen problems.

“Define okay.”

You let out a soft laugh and brushed past him, stepping into the living room.

The penthouse looked as amazing as always — with its walls filled with art, the shiny grand piano, and the city lights shining through the glass like something out of a dream.

And yet… something was off.

No soft footsteps, no quiet voices...

Only stillness.

You stood there for a moment, taking it in.

The silence felt like a welcome — or a warning.

“Where is everyone?” you asked finally. “The staff?”

Mikey rubbed the back of his neck, a troubled expression crossing his face. “They're all gone,” he said quietly.

You frowned, processing his words. “Gone? All of them?” you echoed, a pang of concern rising in your chest. “What about Lara?”

Before he could answer, a familiar voice filled the hall.

“I'm still here, darling.”

You turned to see Lara, your mother’s long-time assistant, her friend, her shadow. Late forties, sharp eyes softened by loyalty, tablet in one hand, the same calm, practiced smile she’d worn since your childhood.

She opened her arms. "Welcome back, Ms. Queen.”

You smiled despite yourself and hugged her. She smelled like tea and expensive stationery — the scent of someone who’d kept your mother’s chaos running for decades.

“Your mother’s waiting,” Lara said gently. “She’s been worried sick.”

You took a deep breath, straightened your coat, and followed her through the hallway.

Your mother stood at the far end of the drawing room, perfectly framed by the chandelier’s soft light.

Even now — fifty-nine, flawless, eternally cinematic — she looked as if she’d stepped off a movie set. But beneath the poise, you could see it: the tension, the exhaustion, the fragile crack in the performance.

The moment she saw you, she crossed the room in two elegant strides and pulled you into her arms.

Her embrace was warm, desperate, familiar.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” she murmured, her voice trembling. “You vanished, my baby. You scared me.”

You sighed, easing back.

“My phone’s gone. Long story. Let’s just say monks and electronics don’t get along.”

Cradling your face in her hands, Scarlet blinked, caught between amusement and confusion. “Of course. So the Japan trip didn’t fix you, huh?”

“Actually,” you said, “it was great. Until my black card stopped working.”

From the couch, Mikey snorted, fished out his wallet, and tossed his black card onto the coffee table. “Spiritual awakening, Manhattan edition.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. “Yours too?”

Scarlet motioned toward the sofa.

“Sit, darling. We need to talk.”

You hesitated. “Why do I feel like you’re about to ruin the word talk for me?”

“Just sit,” she said softly, her voice tender but edged with unease.

Uh-oh.

You did.

And the moment you did, something shifted.

The warmth in the room evaporated — replaced by a cold, deliberate stillness.

The kind that comes before a truth you’re not ready to hear.

Scarlet took a slow breath, her tone slipping into the careful calm of an actress who’s memorized bad lines. She told you everything — finally.

Your stepfather’s companies, the investment branch, the private equity firm… they’d taken a hit.

A bad one.

Frozen accounts, investigations, and now the banks were circling.

You stared, the words sticking somewhere between disbelief and anger.

“You knew? All this time — and none of you said anything?”

Scarlet’s eyes glimmered under the chandelier light.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” she said softly. “But you needed space. You were healing. You’ve… already been through enough.”

The way her voice broke on that last word made you look away — what else could she mean by enough?

From the couch, Mikey shifted uncomfortably. “I knew, too,” he admitted, scratching his neck. “For a couple of months now. Since I got back from Vegas.”

You caught the look in his eyes — the one that said he wasn’t there for sightseeing.

Then came the sound of footsteps — slow, deliberate — across the marble foyer.

Richard -your stepfather- appeared in the doorway — tall, silver-templed, the kind of man who built empires with a handshake and lost them with a market crash. Even now, in a perfectly tailored suit, he looked like someone negotiating with gravity itself. He saw you and called out your name, and you grinned at him. “Welcome home,” he said with a smile as he came closer.

“Hey, Dad. Nice to see you.”

You stood, and he pulled you briefly into a hug — brisk, but real. He kissed your temple. “I assume your mother told you,” he said, looking at her. “I’d hoped to handle it quietly, without involving you. But the losses are… worse than we thought.”

He flopped down into the armchair across from you and grabbed your hand, somehow feeling both professional and warm at the same time.

“I hope your time away helped, baby,” he said quietly. “You’ll need that clarity. The next few days will be… unpleasant.”

Scarlet reached for his sleeve; he kissed her hand absently, eyes already on you and Mikey.

You leaned in closer and placed your hand on his knee. "I'm sorry, Dad."

“No,” Richard said gently. “I’m sorry.”

He inhaled, his voice flattening into boardroom rhythm.

“Here’s what’s going to happen next: your apartment lease, which was under my accounts, has been suspended. You’ll be moving back here until we get everything stabilized.” He adjusted his suit as he spoke, a gesture he often made, but everyone knew precisely who he was addressing, as always.

Mikey blinked. “Wait. I’m moving in here?”

“Yes.” Richard straightened, steel in his posture. “We’re keeping appearances intact. No rumors. No headlines. Scarlet and I will manage the public front. Lara will handle statements. And you will stay here—” he looked directly at you “You too, honey.”

You exhaled, steady but skeptical. “Okay, but how bad is it really? Can’t you restructure? Take a loan? There must be something—”

Richard’s sigh was slow, measured. Not angry. Just heavy.

“It’s worse. Debt exceeds projected assets by thirty percent. Investors are gone. The board’s demanding answers. If one more bank calls a loan early, we’re insolvent by month’s end.”

Scarlet’s hand trembled at her throat. “If this leaks… our sponsors, the Foundation, the charity circles—”

“It won’t leak,” Richard said, cutting her off with weary certainty.

Scarlet let out a brittle laugh. “Richard. Please. I’m a public figure; they’ll catch wind of this long before I finish my next drink. The headline practically writes itself: Scarlet Queen — bankrupt and broken.”

He turned toward her, eyes sharp but steady. “No, they won’t. Because I won’t allow it,” he said, the words precise, deliberate — not loud, but commanding. “We’ll get through this. Not by luck. Not by denial. By strategy. Like we always have.”

You and Mikey exchanged glances.

“Your father always finds a way,” Scarlet said, giving you both a reassuring smile.

He nodded and exhaled slowly, then straightened his shoulders, that familiar boardroom posture returning. “I need all of you with me on this. No panic. No mistakes. Until the numbers stabilize, we keep up appearances and stay united. Understood?”

You, Mikey, and Scarlet nodded — quiet but resolute, the unspoken weight of his words settling between you.

For a moment, there was something almost human in his gaze — pride, exhaustion, maybe even gratitude.

Then Richard rose, offering Scarlet his arm with a gentleman’s grace. “Come on, darling. Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow, we start fixing this.” He looked at you. “You should get some rest too. It’s been a long flight.”

Scarlet nodded, brushing a hand down her silk robe. “Yes, darling. You look exhausted. Go on, we’ll talk more in the morning.”

You forced a smile. “You’re right. I’m barely holding my eyelids up.”

Scarlet leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Goodnight, my love.”

You watched them disappear down the hall, their footsteps fading into the marble hush. Then you turned toward the grand staircase, your heels clicking softly on the polished floor. Your room was upstairs — same one you’d grown up in, untouched, like time had politely refused to enter.

Halfway down the corridor, a voice came from behind you.

You turned to see Mikey hovering in the doorway, looking jittery. “Sis. There’s something I need to tell you.”

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure your parents’ door was closed.

You sighed, one hand already on your bedroom doorknob. “Mikey, please. I’ve had a sixteen-hour flight, a family financial apocalypse, and an emotional intervention from Mom. If this isn’t life-or-death, can we not do this right now? I just want a shower and my bed. Preferably in that order.”

“It’s important,” he insisted.

You groaned. “Fine. Make it quick.”

He hesitated. “You remember that blonde? The one from Vegas I went with—”

Before he could finish, you pushed the door halfway closed with a tired smile. “Goodnight, brother.”

“Wait—come on! At least let me finish!” he called through the crack.

Already pulling your earrings off, you muttered, “Mikey, I’m not emotionally equipped to hear about your tragic love life tonight. Try again at a reasonable hour. Like never.”

The door clicked shut.

Inside, you peeled off your clothes one by one, tossing them onto the velvet chair, kicked off your heels and headed toward the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the silence — soothing, steady.

Outside, in the hallway, Mikey stared at your door, jaw tight. He muttered under his breath, “That damn blonde scammed me. And now I owe the wrong people.”

His phone buzzed in his hand. He froze.

“Oh, great,” he whined. “They’re calling.”

He answered, voice dropping to a nervous whisper as he started pacing.

“Yeah, yeah I know. Twenty-two hours left. I’ll get the money, I swear. I’m on it.”

The Next Morning

Sunlight spilled across the high ceilings, coating the penthouse in that golden glow only the Upper East Side could afford.

For the first time in months, you’d actually slept — deeply, dreamlessly. The kind of sleep that lets you forget your problems... until the morning decides otherwise.

Maybe it was the exhaustion from yesterday, or maybe it was the simple miracle of waking up somewhere that didn’t smell like incense and humility.

“Ah, home sweet home,” you murmured. “No monks. No mosquitoes.”

You stretched beneath the linen sheets, hair tangled from sleep, and reached lazily for your silk sleep mask.

“Yuliana?” you called, half-asleep. “Coffee. Almond milk. Extra hot.”

Silence.

You frowned, tugging the mask down to your neck.

“Yuliana?”

Nothing.

No soft footsteps, no distant “right away, miss.” Just the hum of Manhattan below and the whisper of curtains moving in the morning draft.

Then it hit you.

“Oh, right,” you sighed dramatically to the ceiling. “We can’t pay the staff anymore.”

Reality — served black.

You sat up, rubbing your face, trying to push away the fog of sleep and denial.

Six months ago, you had an assistant for your assistant.

Now you were about to make your own coffee… and probably fail spectacularly.

You stood, slipping into your silk robe, catching your reflection in the mirror.

Your hair was chaos — elegant chaos.

Scarlet’s voice echoed in your mind: “A Queen is never unkempt, even in tragedy. Perfect hair. Perfect nails. Perfect smile.”

You sighed and reached for your brush.

Your mom had been telling you this since you were five. Besides your first and last name, the one thing you really knew was that you had to look good, no matter what happened. She definitely drilled that into you, having spent her life in the spotlight.

By the time you padded down the marble stairs, you looked every bit the woman who had it all — except, apparently, the help.

The kitchen smelled faintly of espresso… but not the perfectly timed kind you were used to.

You eyed the chrome machine like it was a spaceship.

“Okay,” you muttered, pressing a random button. “This can’t be that hard.”

The machine hissed like an offended cat. Steam shot sideways.

“Right. Maybe a little hard.”

“Ms. Queen.”

You jumped.

Lara stood in the doorway. “May I?”

You stepped back immediately. “Please. Before I turn this into a very expensive fire hazard.”

She smiled faintly, moving with the grace of someone who’d been holding this household together long after it stopped deserving to stand.

As she poured the coffee, you watched her — the last soldier of a fallen empire.

“You’re still here,” you said softly.

“Someone has to keep the lights on,” Lara replied, sliding the cup toward you. “Besides, your mother needs me. She’s been... tense.”

You smirked. “That’s her default setting.”

Lara didn’t answer — just gave that polite smile that meant you have no idea.

In the living room, Scarlet sat perfectly poised on the cream sofa in a silk robe, flipping through glossy magazines with the intensity of someone reviewing tax fraud evidence. The breakfast table that once looked like a Vogue shoot was gone; now there was just cereal, two spoons, and denial.

Mikey hovered beside her, eating straight from the box. “Mom, seriously, who even buys print anymore?”

Scarlet didn’t answer — because her hand had frozen mid-page. Her eyes widened.

Then, a sharp inhale.

“Oh… oh no. God.”

Mikey frowned, leaning closer. “What? Did they use your bad side again?”

She turned the magazine toward him.

Black suit. Perfect smile. The headline blazing across the page:

From Legacy to Leverage: Harry Castillo’s New Empire on Wall Street

Mikey blinked. “Sweet, merciful Jesus.”

Scarlet pressed her manicured fingers to her temple. “That’s Harry.”

He squinted at the subheadline. “Wait—so it’s true? He really started his own firm? Damn. Guy’s probably a trillionaire by now.”

Scarlet snapped the magazine shut like it had insulted her. “She can’t see this. Not now.”

“Yeah, agreed,” Mikey said quickly. “Hide it. Hide all of them.”

Scarlet shoved the glossy stack under the couch pillows. “If she asks, tell her Vogue went digital.”

At that exact moment, your voice floated from the hallway.

“Good morning!”

Both froze.

You strolled in, coffee cup in hand, hair brushed to perfection, casual but radiant.

“Why are you hiding magazines under cushions? Is this a new Pilates routine?”

Scarlet blinked. “Nothing, darling! Just—cleaning.”

“Really?” you said, eyeing the pillow fort. “Because that’s definitely Harper’s Bazaar peeking out of your crime scene.”

“Don’t,” Scarlet warned softly, smile a little too wide. “You look lovely this morning, sweetheart. Sit, have your coffee. No reason to ruin your mood.”

You arched a brow. “Why would my mood be ruined?”

Mikey, panicking, grabbed the stack and mumbled, “Gotta… take these upstairs. Recycling.” Then he vanished like smoke.

You shrugged, settling onto the sofa, flipping a throw pillow absently.

Somewhere under it, Harry Castillo’s perfect smile stared up at you from every corner of Manhattan — and you hadn’t even realized yet.

Park Avenue — Late Morning

The city was already awake, glowing with late-morning efficiency — taxis honking, people rushing, the kind of rhythm you’d missed and hated in equal measure.

The family driver hadn’t shown up that morning — apparently, the car had been “temporarily repossessed.”

So you did something you hadn’t done in years.

You called a cab.

“God, I miss the limo already,” you muttered, sliding into the backseat.

The driver didn’t even look up. “Where to?”

“Midtown.”

Chase Bank, then Goldman, then Citibank.

Three banks, three rejections.

Each conversation was a new flavor of humiliation.

“I’m sorry, Ms Queen, but the accounts under your family’s holding company are currently under review.”

“I’m afraid we can’t process any withdrawals until the audit clears.”

You smiled — that brittle, polite smile Upper East Siders wear instead of swearing.

By the time you left the third branch, your heels were killing you and your pride had staged a walkout.

Lexington Avenue — Early Afternoon

You found yourself standing in front of Chez Akiko, a sleek Japanese fusion restaurant tucked between two designer boutiques.

The scent of sesame oil and fresh ginger wrapped around you like a good memory.

You always came here on Thursdays — it was the only place in Manhattan where you didn’t have to pretend everything was fine.

Emily’s mom Hinata owned the place — all dark wood, soft jazz, and waiters who moved like dancers.

Why weren’t you chilling with your fancy friends instead?

Because Emily’s the only one who doesn’t treat friendship like some kind of brand deal.

She wasn’t fake.

She was real — the kind of friend who never tried to use you, never posted your worst photo to Page Six, and never smiled just because someone richer walked in.

While your so-called elite circle peddled drama like it was an art form, Emily was busy working shifts at her family’s restaurant, arguing with her mom over delivery costs and invoices. In the end, that felt far more authentic than any rooftop brunch you had ever attended.

You’d called her before coming — briefly told her about the bankruptcy mess — and she’d simply said, “Get here. We’ll talk over sushi.”

Emily spotted you the moment you walked in, waving from behind the bar.

Her blonde-streaked bun was a little messy, apron tied crooked, grin wide.

“Well, look who’s back,” she joked, wiping down a glass. “I figured after Japan you’d be MIA for at least a month.”

You chuckled as you plopped down in your usual spot. “Come on, this is my favorite place in all of Manhattan. And your salmon rolls are still way better than what I had in Kyoto.”

Emily laughed. “Keep saying that — my mom will frame it. You know she claims you’re basically keeping this place alive. Half our sushi orders are yours.”

“Then tell her I want stock options.”

“Right, because you definitely need more of those,” she teased, then softened. “You look better, though. Less… haunted.”

You stirred your tea. “I’m not haunted. Just… mildly financially doomed.”

Emily’s smile faded. “So what you said on the phone — your stepdad’s companies—?”

You waved a hand. “Not at lunch. I’m pretending to be zen today.”

There was a pause — that quiet, warm kind that exists only between old friends.

After lunch, you glanced at her apron, then the open kitchen behind her.

“I still don’t get it,” you said. “You graduated Columbia — double major in sociology and media — and ended up waiting tables?”

Emily shrugged, completely unbothered. “Family business. Besides, people talk more when you’re pouring their tea than when you’re interviewing them.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s depressing.”

“That’s data,” she said with a wink.

You laughed — really laughed — almost forgetting all the drama waiting back home.

She leaned on the counter, smiling. “So… what’s next for the fallen Queen?”

You swirled your drink, then reached into your bag, pulling out two phone boxes.

“Debt repayment,” you announced. “You covered me in Japan, remember? Consider your hero properly rewarded.”

Emily blinked in disbelief. “You got me a phone? Are you serious — and… is this the newest model out?”  

“Yeah, I can’t go for the old stuff.”  

Emily laughed. “Right. So, how much do you have left after this?”

You shrugged. “Thirty-eight thousand… three hundred, I think.”

Her jaw dropped. “Wait. $38,300? That’s your broke number?”

You blinked. “Why? Is that… not low?”

Emily gave you a look that could curdle milk. “Jeez, girl. For normal people, that’s called a small fortune.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. That’s, like… one bad shopping day. Maybe two if I skip the shoes.”

Emily snorted. “Oh right, because God forbid you walk among mortals in last season’s heels.”

You smirked and fixed your hair casually.. “Well, I have a reputation to uphold. But I really feel bad for all those folks out there just trying to make it with a lot less than this,” you said, your voice cracking a bit.

"Welcome to the real world, Your Majesty. Population: people who check their bank accounts before buying socks.”

You nodded. “Cruel. True. But cruel.”

“Chill,” she said, handing you another cup of tea. “You’ll get the hang of it. Who knows, you might even figure out how to tip with real cash," she added, passing the bill to you.  

“Blasphemy,” you whispered dramatically. You paid with your last functioning card — small victory, at least civilization recognized you again.

A bell chimed as new customers walked in.

Emily gave your arm a light squeeze and went to greet them, leaving you alone at the bar.

Then, you reached for the glossy new phone box, peeling the seal open with practiced precision.

You slid in your SIM card, tapped Activate, and waited.

The screen flickered.

A second later—

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

A flood of notifications hit all at once — unread messages, voicemails, DMs, tagged photos, and three missed calls from your mother.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I’ve re-entered the Matrix.”

Emily slides back with a tray of plates, glancing at your phone lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Jesus, we were offline for what, a week?”

“Ten days,” you correct. “Apparently that’s long enough for civilization to collapse without me.”

Emily smirks, sets your tea down. “Or maybe they just moved on.”

You stick your tongue out and start deleting the usual spam—until your feed freezes on a face you know too well.

Those eyebrows.

Those deep brown eyes.

That chiseled nose.

Perfect jawline.

That infuriating, immovable confidence.

Your stomach drops so fast you nearly lose your grip on the phone.

You blink once.

Twice.

Shaking your head. “No fucking way.”

Emily glanced at your phone screen, her eyes going wide. "Oh. My. God."

You kept your gaze down, your thumb mindlessly scrolling through an endless stream of posts, each one echoing the same headline, complete with tags and familiar profiles:

“Ugh! These vultures seriously need new hobbies!” you exclaimed.

A soft voice from the kitchen — Emily’s mother — glances up, puzzled.

“Girls? Why are you shouting? Keep it down, please.” “Sure, Mom,” Emily called back with her usual singsong deflection. Then she nudged you, eyes wide, chin tilting toward the man at the corner table.

A customer sat there, flipping through his paper — TIME folded open in his lap.

There he was again: black suit, perfect posture, that maddeningly composed smile you’d once woken up next to. TIME — Harry Castillo: The Man Who Rebuilt Wall Street.

“Please tell me that’s Photoshop or AI,” you muttered. But your hands were already reaching. Like a woman possessed, you snatched the magazine and flipped to the portrait. One very real expletive escaped your lips.

“Hey! What the hell, lady? Are you insane?” the man barked, reaching for his magazine. Neither you nor Emily flinched — both of you were already reading like it was breaking news.

At the next table, four guys were talking. The other scrolled through his phone, voice dripping with gossip. “You hear about Castillo’s ex? Total bitch, apparently. Took a fat divorce check — and shares, too.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, smirking. “Bet she made his life hell. Heard she tried to grab half his company.”

Your stomach tightened. Blood roared in your ears.

Emily hissed, “Sweetheart, don’t—” But it was too late.

Everything inside you decided to stop being zen. You heard the monk’s calm voice echo from Kyoto — “Anger is a visitor; do not invite it in.” You remembered the stillness, the bells, the discipline, almost feeling calm, almost. But…then… the last man laughed. “They’re all the same, those Upper East Side sluts. Probably the biggest whore of them all.”

Your vision tunneled, hands shaking with anger. “What did you just say?”

Something in you snapped. Before logic could intervene, you grabbed the nearest bottle — cold glass, slick from condensation — and swung.

CRASH.

The bottle met skull. The man howled, collapsing sideways. A chorus of shrieks erupted; chairs scraped; someone dropped their chopsticks. “Jesus Christ!” “Are you crazy?” “Oh my God!”

Emily’s hand flew to her mouth. “Shit—shit—shit—”

You stood frozen, chest heaving, watching him press a trembling hand to his head, crimson seeping between his fingers. For one insane second, you almost felt… relieved. Like balance had been restored.

Then a voice cut through the chaos — harsh, sharp, final: “Call the police!”

Jazz still played faintly through the speakers, absurdly calm, like the soundtrack to a disaster no one saw coming. And somewhere in the back of your mind, the monk whispered again — “When you react, you feed it.” You exhaled shakily, staring at the shards on the floor. “Guess I overfed it.”

Castillo Capital Headquarters — Early Evening

The glass conference room emptied slowly, the kind of exit where everyone tried to look productive on their way out.

Harry stayed behind, jacket off, sleeves rolled, reviewing the stack of quarterly reports Ron had left on his desk. His phone buzzed once on the desk. Personal line. He barely looked. No one ever called this number.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

Ron, still seated on the couch, glanced up. “Persistent. Secret admirer?” Harry didn’t smile. He picked up the phone, eyes narrowing at the name.

Emily Takahashi

He hadn’t heard that name spoken to him in years. For a moment, his thumb hovered over decline. Then he sighed and swiped accept.

“Emily,” he said, voice clipped.

Her voice came fast, breathless. “Harry—thank God. I know you’re going to hate this, but please, just listen. We’re at the precinct—she’s—there’s been an incident—”

He straightened. “What are you talking about? Who’s at the precinct?”

Emily’s tone cracked under urgency. “You know who. She—someone said something, there was a bottle—look, it’s bad, okay? They’re pressing charges. Please, you have to come.”

Harry’s expression hardened, the warmth draining out of his voice. “Emily, whatever she’s done has nothing to do with me anymore. That chapter closed a long time ago.”

“Harry, please,” she tried again. “They’re not letting her go without—”

He cut her off, ice in every syllable. “This isn’t my problem. And she’s not my responsibility. Don’t ever call me for her again.”

He hung up.

The phone hit the desk with a soft thud. For a long second, he just stood there, hand still on the receiver, chest rising once in a long, slow breath.

Ron tilted his head, studying him. “Bad news? Or the usual kind?”

Harry gave a small, humorless laugh and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline shimmered, all steel and triumph — the city that had once made him, broken him, and now bore his name in bronze letters twenty stories below.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly. 

Ron stood, straightening his tie. “Then let’s focus on this one. The CNBC team’s waiting for tomorrow’s brief.”

Harry nodded, collecting himself. “Right.”

He grabbed his jacket, his expression unreadable again — every trace of the earlier crack sealed. “Let’s go, Ron.”

They walked out together, the automatic lights dimming behind them.

Midtown Precinct — Evening

The booking room smelled like cheap coffee and disinfectant, humming under the flicker of fluorescent lights.

You sat on a cold metal chair, your leg bouncing under the table, nerves firing faster than your thoughts. A crumpled paper towel sat forgotten in your hand, damp from how long you’d been clutching it. Emily stood a few feet away, arguing with the officer, her phone still clenched in her fist like a weapon.

The desk sergeant crossed his arms, unimpressed.

“Let’s make this simple,” he said. “Apologize to the gentleman, and he withdraws the complaint. Otherwise, this goes in as assault. You’ll be held until bail or arraignment.”

“Apologize?” you echoed, scandalized. “For what, exactly?”

“For this,” the injured man barked, pointing to the bandage wrapped around his forehead. “She tried to kill me! Came at me like a maniac!”

You turned to the officer, voice trembling with fury.

“He called me a whore. Loudly. In front of everyone. He lied about me — about who I am. I’m the one being attacked here..”

The man laughed, leaning back with smug superiority.

“Lies? Attacked? Come on! I don’t even know you! I said it about her—about Castillo’s ex. Not you.”

You shot up from your chair. “That is me!”

The man and his friends burst out laughing, eyes sweeping over you with open disbelief.

“You? His ex?” one of them sneered. “Yeah, right. That’s some stand-up comedy right there.”

The officer frowned, glancing between you and him. “Is that true, miss? You’re Mr. Castillo’s ex-wife?” He looked down at the form. “Name here says… Queen. Ms Queen?”

Your throat tightened.

Shit.

If you said yes, it’d be in the files, the press, the feeds by morning.

You saw it already — the headline scrolling across screens: “Queen Family Scandal — Arrest in Midtown.”

Your mother fainting on a velvet chaise, Richard raging in his boardroom. Paparazzi outside the apartment gates.

You could almost hear the whispers: ‘First bankruptcy, now jail? How poetic.’

Your mouth went dry. “I’m—” You stopped. The name hung there like a noose.

“Yes? Ms?” the officer pressed.

Emily’s hand clamped on your sleeve. “Tell them the truth,” she hissed. “Say it. You were married to him.”

You tried. “I—”

The word barely formed before your voice cracked.

The injured man smirked. “See? She's a psycho. Lost it completely. She hit me for nothing.” He leaned closer, voice dripping poison. “That’s assault. Lock her up.”

The sergeant let out a weary sigh, raising his hand to signal his men to take you into custody.

The fluorescent hum buzzed in your ears.

Then came the whispers.

And then—footsteps.  

Firm, even, expensive footsteps.

The kind of rhythm that belonged to someone who was never late for anything except, apparently, your life.

Emily’s head snapped toward the door. Relief washed over her face.

“Harry’s here,” she whispered. “Oh my God—he’s actually here.”

You turned.

There he was.

Dark tailored suit, crisp tie, not a single detail out of place.

Even under the harsh fluorescent lights, he looked immaculate, composed.

And damn it — he looked better than ever.

Fine wine. Aged. Sharper. Intoxicating.

Hot.

You stared at him, pulse stuttering, every ounce of Zen you’d scraped together in Kyoto instantly combusting.

Of course he had to age like a Dior campaign.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Your heart gave a traitorous kick.

You tried to look away.

Failed.

Across the room, the injured guy and his pals straightened up, looking eager to impress. “Mr. Castillo—wow,” he stammered, scrambling to his feet while the others quickly gathered around him, just like the Dalton brothers.

“Sir, it’s awesome to meet you!”

"Mr. Castillo, is that really you?"

Emily exhaled hard. “Harry—thank you, thank you for coming,” she said, half-relieved, half-apologetic. She shot you a look that clearly meant See?

Harry’s gaze swept the room once, taking everything in — the uniforms, the bandages, the ridiculousness of it all — then landed on you.

You were the only one still sitting, so you quickly looked away.

But he just couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you.

For a brief moment, it felt like the whole station hit pause.

He turned to the sergeant, extending a hand with easy composure.

“Good evening. I understand there’s been… an incident. How can I help?”

Polite. Controlled. Corporate.

“Mr. Castillo,” the sergeant said, startled. “Yes, sir—there was a dispute. Your—uh—”

Harry didn’t wait for the rest.

“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,” he said, offering his card in one smooth motion. “Let’s resolve this quickly.”

No warmth. No theatrics. Just power, precision, leverage.

And within minutes, like magic, it was over.

The charges softened, the tension dissolved.

Because when Harry Castillo stepped into a room, even chaos took notes.

Outside — The Precinct Steps

The evening air hit sharp.

The guys huddled around Harry, grinning like fools, following him out.

“Mr. Castillo, sir—meeting you is an honor,” one said, thrusting out a hand. “I own a small trading firm—maybe we could—”

“Big fan, sir,” another added. “You’re a legend.”

You stood a few feet away, watching the scene unfold — the same men who’d mocked you now tripping over themselves to shake his hand: one of them mumbled, “Lucky you’re out of that marriage, huh? She did you a favor.”

They all looked at you like you were the grossest thing they’d ever seen. Harry was keeping his poker face, but you could tell he was pretty amused. His jaw flexed once. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

You muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Emily to hear.

“Look at them. Sycophants.”

"Parasites." Emily added.

Harry’s head tilted, just slightly, like he’d caught the word. Then he started toward his car.

Ron was waiting, the door already open.

Emily nudged you, stage-whispering, “Go thank him. He literally saved your ass.”

“I won’t.”

“Go!” she hissed. “Say something!”

You shrugged.

“Harry!” she shouted, giving you another nudge as she took off running.

Great, thanks Em.

Harry stopped. Turned. His expression unreadable. “Yes?” he said softly — that smooth, deadly tone that could slice marble.

“Um…” You bit your lip. “Thanks. For… coming.”

He nodded once, coolly. “Don’t bother me like this again.”

Not a request. A command.

You blinked. “Wait, what? No. You don’t get to just—” Anger rose in your chest. “This is your fault.”

He turned back, incredulous. “My fault?”

“Yes! If people hadn’t been whispering lies — if you hadn’t let those stories spread — I wouldn’t have been arguing with those jerks in the first place!” You stepped closer, eyes blazing. “None of this would’ve happened!”

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “What lies?”

“The alimony. The shares. The crap about me taking half your company!” Your voice cracked under heat. “You know it’s not true.”

A dry laugh escaped him, humorless and cutting.

“You think I go around gossiping about you?” he asked. “You don’t exist in my world anymore.”

Then, quieter, colder: “For the record, I barely remember you.”

Your breath caught — then fury rushed in to fill the space.

“You barely remember me?” you repeated, disbelieving. “You forgot me until it was convenient!”

He stepped closer. Too close.

The city lights reflected off his eyes, sharp and dangerous. “You never change, do you?” His voice was low, almost intimate. “Still dramatic. Still looking for someone to blame.”

A pause — a flicker.

Still beautiful, though, he thought but his anger overshadowed that thought. "What a shame.”

His heated breath brushed against your face, carrying the remnants of his cologne.  

Damn.  

Your heart raced.  

His scent—captivating and familiar—hit you like a ghost from the past.

The air between you felt thin, like glass about to crack. One wrong breath and you’d either shatter it or set it on fire.

For a second, neither of you moved.

You could’ve kissed him.

You could’ve slapped him.

You weren’t sure which would’ve hurt more.

He straightened first. “I don’t have time for this,” he said.

“Neither do I,” you shot back, voice trembling.

“Good."

"Fine."

"Great.”

“Wonderful.”

Ron, ever the patient guy, held the car door open and watched the scene in front of him like he was catching a romantic comedy unfold.

Harry gave you one last look — unreadable, burning — and turned away.

You remained motionless as the car slipped into the flow of traffic, its taillights glowing red against the backdrop of the city.

The anger, the humiliation, the ache — all tangled together, heavy in your chest.

Emily came up beside you, trying to sound light.

“Well. That went… better than expected?”

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “Yeah. Perfect. My knight in shining ego.”

Then, quieter, watching the car vanish down the street:

“God, I hate him.”

A beat.

“And I still want to punch him.”

Harry leaned back in his car, quietly clenching his jaw as he stared out the window. Ron shot him a sideways look from the passenger seat, feeling both curious and a bit hesitant.

“I’ve never seen you that angry before, boss,” he said lightly. “Can I ask—who was she?”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t answer.

The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the city moving past.

Then, without turning, he exhaled — slow, controlled, the kind of breath meant to keep everything else inside.

He mumbled your name, more to himself than anything

Still feels strange on my tongue, he thought. A faint, bitter smile curved at the edge of his mouth. "My ex-wife."

Midnight — Two Bedrooms, Two Worlds

You lay in your bed, still dressed, the city’s glow bleeding through the curtains. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish and insomnia. Every time you closed your eyes, his face — that damn look, that voice, that “don’t bother me again” — replayed on a loop you couldn’t shut off.

You flipped onto your side, punched your pillow, then flipped again.

“‘I barely remember you,’” you mimicked under your breath, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, please.” You turned over, sheets twisting around your legs. “As if I ever think about you. I don’t. I never do.”

Right. Sure.

You definitely don’t think about him — not his stupid perfect jawline, not the way his curls fall just a little too deliberately messy, not those eyes that used to look at you like you were the only person in the room.

You absolutely never think about his eyebrows — the arrogant tilt of them — or his mouth, those infuriatingly kissable lips that still know exactly what they’re doing in your memories.

And his body? Please.

You don’t think about the broad shoulders, or the veins down his forearms, or the sculpted chest you pretended not to stare at every morning in your twenties.

His voice doesn’t echo in your head at night. His scent doesn’t haunt your pillows.

Nope. None of that.

You never think about him at all.

A pause. “Not once,” you mumbled. “Not even when I—” You stopped. Because even alone, you didn’t trust yourself to finish that sentence.

Outside, the city purred. Inside, your chest thudded like a secret you’d been trying to forget for years.

You rolled over again, pulling the covers to your chin, whispering one last line into the dark: “Forget me? Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Harry.”

Tribeca — Harry’s Penthouse

Downtown, the skyline glittered like a necklace against the Hudson. Harry’s Tribeca penthouse was silent, vast — all concrete elegance and glass edges.

He lay awake, staring at the dark. Then — a sharp exhale.

“I don’t think about her. Not anymore.”

Right. Sure.

Harry Castillo absolutely does not think about you.

He doesn’t think about the way you used to say his name — half-teasing, half-claiming — like it belonged to you before it belonged to the magazines.

He definitely doesn’t think about your eyes, or how they used to soften when you laughed, or how they used to burn when you fought. And he never thinks about your mouth — the smile he pretends he forgot, the kiss he pretends he doesn’t remember like muscle memory.

He doesn’t think about your shape slipping through his penthouse in the mornings, wearing one of his shirts and ruining his ability to focus for the rest of the day.

He doesn’t remember your perfume, the one scent that can still stop him dead in a crowded elevator.

He doesn’t think about your hands — small, warm, always tugging at his tie like you were born to undo him.

And your voice? The one that could cut him, calm him, or completely destroy him?

He definitely doesn’t hear that in his head at 2 a.m. when the city goes quiet and he can’t sleep.

No. Harry Castillo does not think about you. “Damn it.”

He sat up, kicked the sheets away, and crossed the room barefoot, muscles tight with restlessness. The city sprawled beneath him through the panoramic windows — perfect, cold, and his.

He opened the cabinet, grabbed the Macallan bottle he saved for nights he swore he was fine, and poured two fingers into a heavy crystal glass. He took a long sip, jaw flexing, eyes fixed on the view. “Still getting under my damn skin,” he muttered.

He closed his eyes, the sound of your name slipping past his lips before he could stop it — quiet, reverent, like a confession. It tasted unfamiliar now. He hadn’t said it out loud in years.

The ice clinked softly in the glass as he drained the rest. The skyline outside burned faintly against the dark — and both of you, in different corners of Manhattan, stayed wide awake, losing separate battles to the same memory.

You woke up furious.

Not confused-furious, not quietly-brooding furious — Upper East Side furious.

The kind of rage that came with headlines, whispers, and perfectly manicured humiliation.

You threw off your silk sheets like they had personally betrayed you and stormed upright—

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

Your phone vibrated like the NYSE during a market crash.

Eyes half-open, hair a bird’s nest of expensive misery, you grabbed it.

Notifications were pouring in so fast you considered throwing the phone out the window… again.

And there it was — your personal apocalypse, wrapped in Manhattan gossip.

The damn group chat.

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly sprained something. But at least you texted back like a pro.

And of course, the private messages...

You groaned and collapsed back into your pillow.

“Of course,” you muttered.

“Manhattan doesn’t sleep — it stalks.”

Your phone dinged again.

You looked.

And hell yeah! — Mikey.

You stared, expression flat enough to belong in a Vogue spread.

“Fantastic,” you muttered.

You rubbed your temples, inhaled, and typed back with the grace of someone who had absolutely no grace left.

Mikey:

sis pls it’s serious this time.

You:

The last “serious” thing was you “accidentally” buying a racehorse at an auction.

Mikey:

ok but that was DIFFERENT—

this is bad.

like BAD bad.

You stared at the screen, letting the dread settle.

You:

NO.

I’m not dealing with your disaster before coffee.

We’ll talk later.

Much later.

Possibly never.

And then, with the authority of a woman who had survived divorce, humiliation, and being arrested before breakfast—

You muted him.

You ignored him and every message.

Every ping, every “babe are you okay?”, every seen at 8:43 AM from people who only text when you’re trending.

You got up, showered, dressed — silk blouse, high-waisted slacks, pearls.

Scarlet and Richard were in the dining room — or what used to be the dining room back when your family still had staff, dignity, and a chef who made cloud-like omelets.

Now there were two cold plates, three abandoned newspapers, and a silence that felt like guilt wearing pearls.

Scarlet looked up first, startled by the sound of your heels clicking like warning shots.

“Sweetheart,” she began, smoothing her robe. “You’re up early—”

“You knew.”

Scarlet blinked. “Knew… what?”

“Oh, don’t do that.” You held up your phone like evidence in a murder trial. “Harry. TIME magazine. Wall Street’s resurrection story. Ring any bells?”

Richard’s paper lowered half an inch.

Scarlet froze.

You laughed — one sharp, humorless exhale that made both of them tense.

“So you two knew he was everywhere,” you said, voice rising, “but didn’t think to mention that my ex-husband is suddenly Manhattan’s favorite miracle?”

Richard didn’t flinch. “It wasn’t relevant.”

“Oh, really? Because it felt pretty relevant when strangers in a restaurant were discussing my non-existent alimony while calling me—” You cut yourself off. “Never mind what they were calling me.”

Scarlet’s expression softened. “Honey, we didn’t want to upset you. You just got home. You’ve been through so much after the div—”

“Oh please,” you snapped. “Don’t say divorce like it’s Voldemort. It happened. I lived. I healed. Mostly.”

Scarlet opened her mouth, then closed it helplessly.

Richard cleared his throat.

“We had bigger issues,” he said, voice crisp. “The companies. The accounts. The investigation. Whether your ex-husband is on a magazine cover or the moon changes nothing.”

“Except when half of Manhattan starts gossiping about me,” you shot back. “Or when I end up in a police station because of it.”

Both parents stiffened.

“You were what?” Scarlet’s voice shot up an octave.

You waved a hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not charged with anything. Yet.”

Scarlet swayed like she might faint. “Oh dear God.”

“And before you ask — yes, Harry showed up.”

That got their attention.

Scarlet straightened. Richard’s jaw tightened.

“Well,” Scarlet breathed, “maybe that’s… good?”

You stared at her, offended on a spiritual level.

“No, mother. Nothing about yesterday was good. Not the banks. Not the assault charge. Not the sudden TIME cover. And definitely not the part where you two hid the entire Harry renaissance arc from me like it was a spoiler.”

You grabbed your bag — dramatic, intentional, and loud.

Scarlet reached out, voice pleading.

“Honey, at least eat something—”

“No.” You were already halfway to the door. “I’m fasting on disappointment today.”

Richard called after you, “Where are you going?”

You didn’t turn around.

“To get coffee,” you snapped, heels striking the marble like gunshots, “and to rethink why I ever came back to this circus.”

By the time you reached Emily’s family restaurant, you’d ignored five calls from Mikey.

The sixth one broke you.

“Mikey, unless you’re on fire—”

“Just hear me out,” he said. “Maybe you should talk to Harry.”

You froze on the sidewalk. “Excuse me?”

“You mentioned he came to the police station to save your ass. Clearly, he still cares—”

You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Cares? Mikey, he came because he can’t stand bad press, not because he gives a damn about me.”

“I’m just saying—maybe—”

“Mikey,” you said sweetly, pushing the restaurant door open halfway as the bells chimed. “If you finish that sentence and bring up Harry again, I’ll block you and disown you.”

"But-"

Click.

You hung up before he could reply.

Emily appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, brow raised.

“Was that your brother?”

You nodded, exhaling.

"He wants you to get back with Harry?”

You scoffed. “Oh, he doesn’t care about love. He just wants me to beg Harry to ‘save the family business'.”

Emily snorted. “Typical Mikey.”

You rolled your eyes. “Tell me about it.”

Inside, the restaurant buzzed with late-morning calm — the clink of teacups, faint jazz, and the soft chatter of regulars.

Hinata, Emily’s mother, looked up from the counter as you approached. “Ah, my favorite troublemaker,” she teased in her calm, motherly tone.

You bit your lip. “Hinata, I’m so sorry about yesterday. The scene, the shouting—”

Hinata waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Those men won’t be back. I banned them myself.”

Emily added with a grin, “Like, literally banned. They’re the Dalton brothers of sushi now.”

You laughed for the first time that morning, a small, grateful sound. “Thanks. I couldn’t even tell my own family. I only mentioned a tiny bit—they’d make it all worse. But you two… you actually get it.”

Hinata smiled and pushed a cup toward you. “Coffee?”  

“Thanks,” you replied, plopping down with a sigh.

Then your phone buzzed against the counter.

You took a sip, flipped it over.

“Damn it, Mikey, if this is you again—”

Incoming call: Ex-Harry-bit C

Yeah, you put him in your contacts like that.

You choked — actually choked — on your coffee.

Emily leaned over, eyes huge. “Oh my God.”

You didn’t pick up.

You stared at the screen like it was a bomb.

And the phone kept ringing.

“Emily, YOU answer it!” you hissed, shoving the phone at her like it was radioactive.

Emily caught it mid-air.

“Why are you throwing Harry at me? He’s calling YOU.”

She slid the phone back across the counter.

You immediately shoved it back.

“I’m not talking to him! Why is he calling?! What does he want?!”

Emily shoved it back again.

“Answer it before he hangs up! Go!”

“Oh my God—fine! But I’m not answering immediately, that’s desperate.”

Emily smacked her forehead. “You are unbelievable—JUST OPEN IT.”

You inhaled sharply — dramatic, trembling, absurd — then swiped to answer.

“...Hello?” you said, pretending you totally didn’t have him saved.

A pause.

Then Harry’s voice — smooth, deep, controlled.

“Hey,” he said, and said your name.

Just hearing it from him made something unpleasantly familiar twist in your stomach.

You widened your eyes theatrically.

“Harry?? Oh—hi. I didn’t know it was you. Number wasn’t saved.”

Emily silently gagged.

Harry, unimpressed, continued in a calm tone:

“I want to see you today.”

You blinked. “Huh? See… me?”

Emily mouthed: NO WAY! while bouncing like a maniac.

You pushed your hair back, affecting maximum aloofness.

“Well, I’m… very busy today, actually. Packed schedule."

What you didn’t know — what you couldn't know — was that Harry was literally right outside.

Parked across the street.

Engine idle.

Watching you through the tinted window like some brooding Wall Street phantom having the worst lunch break of his life.

Through the glass of the restaurant, he could clearly see you and Emily huddled together over the counter.

“So you’re very busy? Really?”

You swallowed. “Yeah, I mean… I guess I could arrange a time? If it’s, you know, important.”

Emily rolled her eyes and laughed, and you quickly shushed her.

The line went quiet for half a second — long enough for him pinching the bridge of his nose, regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.

Then his voice came through, sharper now, precise, like a command.

“Be at my office at 3.”

You blinked. “Sorry, what? Why?”

“You’ll find out then."

Click.

He hung up.

You stared at the phone.

Then your lips curled into the slowest, most dangerous grin.

Emily grabbed your shoulders shaking you.

“WHAT DID HE SAY?!”

You whispered like you’d inhaled champagne:

“He wants to see me. At his office. At three.”

Emily shrieked. “SEE? SEE? I KNEW IT! He’s NOT over you!”

You tossed your hair, triumphant.

“Oh please. Of course he’s not. He saw me yesterday, all the memories came back. Honestly — can you blame him? Forgetting me isn’t exactly easy.”

“Right? Absolutely! I mean, he was head over heels for you! I still remember all the things he did for you,” Emily laughed, then checked the time. “You said three?! Girl, it’s already almost noon!”

Your eyes went wide.

“Oh God, I need to shop! And get ready!”

You grabbed your bag, bolted for the door.

Emily yelled after you, “CALL ME LATER!” before turning to confused customers with a bright smile.

You stepped out of the taxi like a woman on a mission — or more accurately, like a woman who had spent forty-five minutes perfecting her eyeliner specifically to ruin a man’s sanity.

The wind caught your hair as if bribed, your heels clicked like they had something to say, and the city — rude, shameless city — stared.

Literally stared.

Two finance bros slowed down mid-conversation.

“Is she… famous?” “No idea, but holy—”

A tourist couple whispered like you were on some celebrity walking tour.

“Who is that?” “Probably someone famous.”

You didn’t hate it. Correction: You loved it.

Because for the first time since your life spontaneously combusted, you felt alive. Dangerously alive.

Castillo Capital’s headquarters towered above you — all sharp glass, black steel, and billionaire ego. The revolving doors whooshed open, and suddenly you stepped into a universe colder and richer by design.

The lobby rose six stories high — marble floors you could eat off of, glass walls that reflected your fear back at you, suits moving like currents of money and caffeine. Not one of them even glanced at you.

But you lifted your chin anyway.

You were a Queen. Even if your bank account had started a mutiny.

The security desk looked like it belonged in a spy movie — three guards who could double as presidential detail, and behind them, a massive abstract sculpture that screamed someone spent too much money for this.

You approached with your most weaponized Upper East Side smile.

“Good afternoon,” you said. “I’m here to see Harry Castillo.”

The head guard didn’t blink.

“Name?”

“Ms. Queen?” 

Someone chimed in for you.

You turned to see who it was.

A guy in a sharp suit, tablet tucked under his arm, had a friendly look and a warm smile.

“My name is Ron. I’m Mr. Castillo’s assistant. He asked me to bring you up.”

Poor Ron. God knows how many breakdowns Harry gives him a week.

You nodded, keeping your thoughts to yourself.

Ron scanned his badge; glass gates slid open with that expensive click only rich buildings have. Once you stepped through, the barrier shut behind you like a door sealing fate.

The elevator bank buzzed with controlled chaos — suits, heels, AirPods, whispered finance jargon about yields and spreads.

No one looked at you, but somehow they all saw you.

The elevator dinged. Ron stepped inside; you followed.

The doors shut.

The elevator shot upward, stomach-dropping fast.

You caught your reflection in the mirrored panel — cool, composed, nervous.

Exactly how you looked the day you married him.

Ron stared straight ahead, silently.

You tried not to think about Harry. Naturally, you failed.

His face at the precinct. His voice: Don’t bother me again. The way your heart had ignored that entirely.

Ding.

Executive floor.

You stepped out into a hallway lined with glass offices, warm lighting, and expensive silence. Even the air smelled like eucalyptus and authority.

Behind a sleek marble desk sat a woman in a flawless navy dress, hair slicked back, posture perfect — the kind of woman who could ruin you with an email.

Her name badge read Dana.

She looked up with a polite, assessing smile — the kind that said she’d absolutely Googled you on break.

“Ms Queen?” You nodded.

“Mr. Castillo is waiting for you,” she said, voice smooth.

At the end of the hall, a pair of massive glass doors stood slightly ajar.

A brass plaque beside them read: HARRY CASTILLO — Chief Executive Officer

Ron stepped ahead, leaned in, and knocked twice.

A low, controlled “Come in” came from inside — and your heartbeat stuttered.

Ron pushed the door open and stepped aside, letting you pass.

“Right this way, Ms. Queen.”

You walked into Harry’s office and Roy closed the door behind you, leaving you alone.

With him.

He led you into his office — a cathedral of matte black, floor-to-ceiling windows, and Harry Castillo -your ridiculously hot ex-husband- himself behind a marble desk, looking like sin in corporate form.

He didn’t stand.

Not even a polite nod.

Bad sign.

Very bad sign.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the leather lounge.

You sat across from him, perfectly groomed, perfectly composed — which somehow only made Harry scroll his jaw once, the slightest give-away that he’d noticed. He looked strong, sharp, maddeningly gorgeous in that charcoal suit. The years had been good to him — infuriatingly so.

His fingers steepled on the desk.

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

Then he opened the drawer slowly — too slowly — and slid a thick envelope across the glass.

You blinked. “Wow. I didn’t realize we were doing paperwork on this… date.”

“This isn’t a date,” he said flatly.

Your smile sharpened. “Of course it’s not. You’d have to actually like me for that.”

A flicker in his eyes — irritation, memory, something in between.

You tilted your head. “So what’s this?"

“Read it.”

You unfolded it, teasing, “A scrapbook? Divorce: The Sequel? Fan-mail from your Forbes admirers?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, controlled, practiced. “It’s a contract."

You leaned forward. “That sounds… romantic.”

He ignored you and continued.

“It’s a confidentiality and non-disparagement agreement. Plus a settlement.”

You stared.

“In English, Harry.”

“It means you agree not to talk about me,” he said calmly. “Not about my company, not about our marriage, not about anything that could create noise or invite press. You stay out of trouble, out of headlines, and away from anything that ties your name to mine.”

You blinked slowly.

“You called me here,” you said, voice cool and soft, “to make sure I never speak about you again?”

His jaw tightened.

“This isn’t personal.”

“That’s hilarious,” you laughed. “Because it feels extremely personal.”

He didn’t rise to it.

With a smooth motion, he nudged another document toward you, the paper gliding effortlessly across the surface of the desk .“And,” he added, “if you sign, you’ll receive the payment.”

You raised a brow.

A payment.

“I spoke to my attorneys last night. They calculated what your alimony would’ve been if you had taken any when we divorced. I adjusted the number to reflect inflation, projected returns, and the last five fiscal years.”

You stared at him, lips parting.

“That sounds… horrifyingly complicated.”

“It’s accurate.”

You glanced back down at the number — a dizzying row of digits, too many zeros, the kind of sum that makes normal people faint and Upper East Siders sit up straighter.

Your throat tightened.

“Harry… this—this can’t be right. This is—”

Huge.

Enormous.

Absurd.

Life-changing.

And absolutely insulting.

You looked up sharply.

“So what? You think you can buy me off? Buy my silence? Buy my absence?”

Harry didn’t react.

He just leaned back in his chair.

“I think,” he said calmly, “that this is enough money for you to never worry about your family’s situation. Or your own.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks.

“You calculated this entire thing because you think I’m desperate?”

“I calculated it,” he said quietly, “because it’s what you’re owed.”

Something in your chest pulled tight.

You stared at the paper again — at that monstrous, obscene number — and something inside you snapped like a diamond under too much pressure.

“Wow,” you said, voice trembling with disbelief.

“So this is what we’re doing now? Your revenge arc?”

Harry frowned, confused. “Revenge?”

“Don’t play innocent,” you spat, shoving the paper back across the desk. “Five years ago, I said no to alimony because I didn’t need it. Because my family was still on top, because my life was stable, because I refused to take money from the man whose parents—”

You cut yourself off.

He knew the rest anyway.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I’m aware of the past. That’s not what this is.”

“Oh, but that is exactly what this is. You just want me to sign away the last piece of dignity I have with a pretty little NDA bow and a thank-you card.”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

You stood — fury radiating off you like heat.

Then, with pristine precision, you grabbed the contract — ripped it in half — and let the shreds rain across his marble desk.

Harry flinched.

Barely.

But he flinched.

“I don’t need your money,” you said, voice shaking with rage.

“Not then, not now, not EVER. I walked away without a cent because I was a Queen.”

You straightened your shoulders, eyes blazing.

“And guess what? I still am.”

You turned toward the door.

Harry didn’t move.

Then — suddenly — you stopped, spun back around, and marched right up to his desk again, leaning in close enough to see the pulse jump in his throat.

“You know. I didn’t come here to be bought. I didn’t come here for your pity, or your calculations, or your accountant-approved apology. I came because— maybe… maybe you’d simply apologize.”

Harry froze — utterly blindsided.

“But clearly, the man I married — the one who actually had a soul — is long gone. And now there’s just you. Cold. Polished. Calculated. And honestly?”

You leaned in.

“You’re worse than your father ever was.”

His breath hitched.

He stood so fast his chair slammed backward.

In two strides he was in front of you, hands gripping your shoulders, voice low and furious:

“Watch your mouth. And remind me—why the hell should I apologize? You’re the one who wanted the divorce. You’re the one who had your lawyer call me— too busy being a Queen to speak to your own husband, right? Or did Her Highness forget that part?”

His fingers dug into your skin then, harder than he meant to — harder than he realized.

You winced. “Harry— you’re hurting me.”

His eyes flashed — realization slicing through anger.

He released you instantly, stepping back like he’d burned himself.

The air crackled.

You turned away, heading for the door — then his voice hit your back, rough and defeated:

“Take the money. Please.”

A pause.

“Your dad’s situation is bad. And you don’t… have a job.”

You stopped at the door.

Turned your head slightly.

“I’d rather starve than take your charity.”

And you slammed the door so hard the entire floor shook.

Harry stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, staring at the torn pieces of the contract — the only evidence left of you in the room.

Your heels clicked too loudly on the marble as you stormed down the hallway, vision blurring, chest too tight to breathe. You refused to cry. Not here. Not in his building. Not where the walls probably still remembered your name. Ron stepped forward as a reflex when you reached the elevator. “Ms. Queen, I can escort you down—” You lifted a trembling hand. “Ron… please.” Your voice cracked. “I want to be alone.” He blinked, taken aback. You’d never sounded that breakable. “O-of course,” he said softly, stepping aside. But worry pulled at his features; the moment the elevator doors closed, he turned on his heel and hurried straight back toward Harry’s office. The elevator hummed, each floor drop tightening the knot in your chest. You bit your lip hard, trying to swallow the sob pushing upward. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t give him that. The doors slid open. You stepped out—too fast—and crashed directly into someone.

Hot coffee splashed across your chest. “Aaah! Oh my God—!” Your scream echoed. “Oh—shit! I am so sorry!” the man yelped. “I swear I didn’t see you—why were you running like—” Then he saw your face. He froze. Completely. Eyes widening, mouth dropping a little before he whispered: “...wow.” You inhaled sharply. “Wow?! My dress is ruined and your reaction is wow?” He blinked rapidly, flustered. “N-no—I mean yes—I mean— I’m very sorry, I should shut up—” But you weren’t listening anymore. Something inside you finally broke. Tears spilled, hot and humiliating, streaking down your perfectly done makeup. “I spent two hours getting ready for this,” you sobbed. “My hair, my makeup—this dress cost more than your rent, probably—and for what? For what?! To be humiliated by a man who—” Another sob punched out of you. The man panicked. “Oh God—oh no—please don’t cry—please—I'm John by the way—uh—not helpful, sorry—”

“I’m not crying,” you cried, crying harder. “I’m just—frustrated! And angry! And humiliated! He—he just sat there with his stupid contract and his stupid calm face while my whole life is falling apart and he—he—” You waved your arms, nearly hitting him with your bag. “He just gets to move on! Like everything is perfectly fine for him—while I’m—while I’m—” You choked on your words. “While I’m trying so hard and I’m so tired of being strong all the time—He has no clue what I've dealt with all those years!” John slowly reached for a napkin from the counter beside the elevators, offering it like he was trained to approach wildlife. “Okay. First,” he said gently, “I only understood like… half of that.” You let out a broken laugh through the tears. “Second—yes, the dress is expensive. Obviously. You look—uh—fantastic in it. Really fantastic.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, aside from the coffee art I accidentally created.” You blinked at him. He pointed at the coffee stain with a straight face. “It’s giving… modern expressionism. Very avant-garde. Probably could show that in SoHo.” A wet laugh escaped you. Against your will.

He smiled, relieved. “There it is. I knew you had a sense of humor.” “I don’t,” you sniffed. “You do. You just forgot because life is being an asshole.” He handed you another napkin. “Let me walk you out. At minimum, I owe you a cab ride and, uh… emotional support napkin distribution.” You allowed it. Too numb to protest. He walked with you to the doors, staying half a step behind you like a makeshift bodyguard, opening the revolving door and stopping a taxi with one confident wave. As you slid inside, he leaned down a little. “Ugh—I’m really sorry. Like, seriously. But… it was kind of amazing ruining the prettiest dress I’ve seen all week—” You rolled your eyes and gave him a smack on the cheek. “You totally deserved that,” you shot back. Then you slammed the cab door. The taxi pulled away. John just stood there, frozen, rubbing his cheek where you hit him, grinning like a fool. Then— “Crap,” he muttered to himself. “I forgot to ask for her name.”

The next day, you’d spent the entire time at Emily’s, crying, ranting, and repeating the same sentence at least twelve times: “I hate him. I hate him. Why is he hot and cruel? I hate him.” Emily held your hand over bowls of miso soup. Hinata kept refilling your tea. It was healing. Almost. But evening came anyway. And with evening came Scarlet Queen’s iron will. Even if your heart felt like it was sliding down an elevator shaft. Because in this world — in your world —even if you’re depressed, heartbroken, financially doomed, or emotionally disintegrating… You still show up.You still smile.You still sparkle. It was the rule.The curse.The armor. You sat in front of the vanity as a makeup artist worked on your eyeliner and a nail tech buffed your nails into glossy perfection. A stylist zipped up garment bags and laid diamonds on velvet. It was the full Upper East Side pre-gala ritual — silk robe, rollers in your hair, someone fussing over your manicure.

Very queen-like. Very you. Your phone buzzed on the vanity. Harry calling. Third time today. You hit decline without hesitating. But your chest tightened anyway. You slipped into your gala gown — a stunning, sculpted number that hugged all the right places — and stepped into your heels. You were fastening your earrings when a shrill scream echoed from downstairs: “MICHAEL! WHAT ON EARTH—!?” You froze. Then you hurried to the top of the stairs. Mikey stood in the foyer. Covered. In. Dirt. He looked like he’d crawled straight out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. Dust in his hair. Mud on his shirt. And a little blood. “MIKEY?!” you shrieked, rushing down the steps. “Why do you look like you clawed yourself out of a cemetery?!” Mikey lifted both hands weakly. “Okay, okay, everyone calm down—” Scarlet fanned herself dramatically. “Calm down?! You look like a corpse that escaped its own funeral!” Lara tried to hold Scarlet steady. “Scar, breathe. Breathe.” You grabbed Mikey’s arm. “Mikey. What. Happened.” He exhaled shakily. “You remember that Vegas trip? So uh… funny story… I might have… slightly… accidentally… sort of… gotten into a little gambling situation—”

Scarlet shrieked again. You winced. “A little gambling situation?!” you yelled. Mikey threw his hands up defensively. “I was trying to tell you—Okay fine. It was the mafia. Russian. The scary kind. They literally made me dig my own grave.” Scarlet collapsed into a nearby chair clutching her pearls. “Jesus Christ!” Lara patted her back. “Stay with us, Scar.” You crossed your arms, feeling like something was off about the story he was telling. “Wait… how did you get out?” He swallowed. “I… paid them.” You blinked. Slowly. “With what money, exactly?” “Was it a small amount?” He looked at you like a guilty golden retriever. “Well… it wasn’t…” Scarlet leaned forward. “How much?” He squeaked. “T-twenty million.” Silence. You stared. Scarlet stared. Even Lara stared. Then everything clicked in your mind: Harry calling all day. Mikey disappearing in the morning. Mikey begging you to talk to Harry. The envelope on Harry’s desk. The money check. And when you told him about Harry's money offer, he said you should've taken it instead of providing any emotional support. Your vision tunneled. You lunged. “You did not—Mikey tell me you didn’t go to Harry!”

He backed away fast. “Okay but LISTEN—” “NO!” you screamed. “TELL ME YOU DIDN’T TAKE MONEY FROM HIM!” Mikey whimpered, “They were going to bury me alive! What was I supposed to do?! They already made me climb into the hole— It was so damn scary!” Scarlet shrieked again pointing at the elevator. “MICHAEL QUEEN! YOU ARE BANISHED FROM THIS HOUSE! GO! GET OUT!” Lara held her while she fake-fainted onto a velvet chaise. You grabbed Mikey’s collar. “My gala gown is ruined because of your zombie dirt—and you lost 20 million dollars to the mafia?! At least tell me the rest is still with you please please Mikey." He squeaked again. “Th-they took the interest too…” “Noooooooo—” You shook your head like a deranged bobblehead, your diamond earrings violently jingling. “Tell me you did not just—” “They… took the entire check.” You pounced. Literally pounced. Mikey yelped as you tackled him to the ground, scratching and kicking like a gremlin in couture. Scarlet wailed. “LARA STOP THEM!” “I’m trying!” Lara cried, holding Scarlet back instead of you. "But he deserved it," she murmured. Mikey squealed. “Ow! You're choking me!” “Good!” you screeched. “Maybe it will unshake the stupid out of you!”

You released him only when you noticed your gown smeared in dirt again. “God, no!” you screamed. “you ruined it twice!” Mikey coughed violently. “Sorry—?” “GET OUT!” you and Scarlet shouted in unison. Your Bedroom – Minutes Later You slammed your bedroom door, ripped off your filthy gown, and collapsed onto the bed in your lingerie, screaming into a pillow: “I hate you, Mikey!” You rolled onto your back, chest heaving. Your phone buzzed again. A message from Harry:

Your jaw dropped.

“Oh, hell no.”

You grabbed your phone and hit call before your brain could catch up.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then Harry answered, bored, irritated, sarcastic.

“So… did you and your brother enjoy the money? Can I assume this drama is finally over?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Harry… listen to me. Please. We need to talk.”

A beat.

Then—

“…Fine.”

You swallowed hard.

He added, voice cool and controlled:

“If you want to talk, come to my place. I’m working tonight. I can’t leave.”

You inhaled sharply.

“Okay. Send me the address.”

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[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 7] l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: smut (+18), oral (f!receivig), protected sex (congrats!), fluff, friends to lovers (maybe?), kissing, flirting, wine, flowers

A/N: you've been waiting for me and I really wanted to give you this chapter. today i had my last class before the break. my first year of college is behind me! yeeey! i'm really happy and proud of myself. this week, between studying, working, and creating projects - i wrote this thing for you. i hope you like it. your comments and messages are honey to my heart. thank you for being with me.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

New York greeted you with rain, but the sun was still shining in your heart and head. The whirlwind of work you fell into right after your return made your head spin. However, that's how a few days ended with your phone turned off and no one answering your emails.

Right after you got back, Susan quickly told you how Mrs. Kruger-Waltz had almost forced her to tell you the name of the hotel you and Castillo hadn't stayed at.

"I'm sorry." she said. "She was... She was just awful."

"Maybe she just knows what she wants. She knows her position." you replied, scrolling through your email inbox. "You know, if she was a guy, no one would care so much."

"Are you defending her?" Susan looked at you in surprise.

You shrugged. "I don't know, I just noticed it."

You had some time to think about what happened in the hotel restaurant and what Harry did next. Diane was hard and mean to you, but then again she wouldn't have achieved the same status by being sweet and loving, would she? She moved in a man's world and accepted their rules, played their game.

"Harry would never do that." Susan commented as she sat down at her desk and went back to work.

"Harry's some kind of unicorn or gem." you chuckled and Susan smiled back. "We're lucky, my dear."

"I'll buy him a mug for Boss' Day."

"Good decision."

Castillo hadn’t been in the office all morning and hadn’t returned until after lunch, and even then one of the accountants had entered the office right behind him with a stack of papers under his arm.

The soft hum of a computer and Susan’s typing filled the room. It took you almost an hour and a half to go through your email. You were in the middle of checking Harry’s presence at some meeting when you heard the sound of an incoming message. You reached for your phone and read it.

[Harry Castillo]: sent a picture.

You frowned and clicked on the message. A picture appeared on the screen, the one Harry must have taken of you when you weren’t looking. The wind blew through your hair, and you shielded your eyes with your hand, pointing at something. You felt a pleasant tickle around your heart and were about to reply when another picture appeared. One of those “hand-held” ones. Harry was wearing black sunglasses and was smiling, and you followed him, sipping your iced coffee.

[You]: Really? When did you take it?

[Harry Castillo]: I like it. You can't blame me. I have more.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help but smile. This guy was impossible.

[You]: You have a meeting with your accountant. You should focus on work.

Three dots appeared, bouncing off each other. Finally, his answer showed up.

[Harry Castillo]: Boring. You're much more interesting. What are you doing this Friday?

“Is everything okay?” Susan leaned over her computer.

“Umm... Yeah. I just...” You looked up from your phone and waved her off to let her know it was nonsense. “I got a text.”

“Did that text make you laugh?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand. “Please tell me his name, how tall he is, where he lives, and how much he makes. Handsome?”

“You’re scaring me,” you replied quickly. You typed, “I have to check my schedule. I’m really busy. I have a lot of work to catch up on,” and sent it off. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, sure.” She winked at you.

Harry must have been really bored — his reply came just seconds later.

[Harry Castillo]: I’ll wait patiently.

[Harry Castillo]: Wait! I’m your boss. So I want to tell you that as much as I appreciate your work, I'd like to spend a nice Friday night with you even more. Dinner and wine?

Damn! You were so unprofessional! Your cheeks burned with fire as you typed the next words.

[You]: Will there be kissing?

The dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared. You imagined Harry trying to text while talking to his accountant. Finally, his message lit up your screen.

[Harry Castillo]: A lot.

Excitement and fear filled you as you prepared for your date with Harry. It shouldn’t be like this. You’ve known each other for over a year, you’ve spent hours talking, you’ve watched him date other women, and you thought he was the coolest, most charming man in the state. But uncertainty was building under your skin as you put on your dress and applied your lipstick.

What if this evening wasn’t what you both expected? Maybe you’d just given in to the hot LA sun, and here all the excitement would die down and it would just be awkward? You’d seen the women Harry had dated, and you weren’t sure if you fit the mold.

But there was something about Harry that made you want to give in. You wanted to take the first bite, jump in, and never look back. The risk was enormous, but you couldn’t help yourself.

When you stepped out onto the sidewalk, he was already leaning against the car door. The sleeves of his black sweater were pulled up slightly, and when his gaze landed on you, it lingered there for a moment. As if he wanted to remember the sight for a long time.

“Hi,” he greeted you as you approached him. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you. You’re not bad either.” He smiled gently.

“I reserved a table for us. You weren’t there yet.” Harry said, stepping away from the door and opening it wide. Before you could get there, however, he reached into the backseat, and a bouquet of spring pink peonies appeared before your eyes.

“For you. Since it’s a date, it has to be flowers.”

You must have had a surprised look on your face because Harry just smiled. You took the bouquet from him, still unable to believe he was taking all this so seriously.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.” You managed to choke out.

“Not like you.”

Your cheeks must have already turned the shade of flowers, but Harry didn’t say anything to that. You slid into the backseat of the car, the door slamming shut quietly. A moment later, Harry was sitting next to you, and the car was gliding through the streets of the city, which was melting into the setting sun. Despite all the stress, it turned out that the tension you expected did not appear. Quite the opposite. You talked freely - about the coming week, about the film you wanted to see at the cinema but did not have time to go, and many other things.

If it weren't for the driver's voice announcing that you were already there, you wouldn't have even noticed the car had stopped. Harry got out in a flash and as soon as you grabbed your bag, he opened the door for you, holding out his hand to help you.

"What's this place?" you asked as he led you into the glass building and through the elegant lobby.

"You'll see for yourself," he replied, clearly enjoying himself. "My friend recommended it. I think you'll like it."

"Have you been here before?" your gaze wandered to the crystal chandelier above you, but you made your way to the elevators.

"No, I was waiting for a special occasion."

You were that occasion. He didn't want to say it, afraid of embarrassing you, but as soon as he found out about this place, he wanted to take you there immediately.

Harry loved watching him take you to such beautiful and exclusive places as this. Simple awe, your eyes widening as if you wanted to see even more, and he could give it all to you. In return, he never asked for much, your presence was enough.

The elevator quietly and quickly took you to one of the top floors, and when the doors opened, you found yourself in the vestibule of an elegant restaurant. Dim lights, soft music, and pleasant smells filled the air. Harry had to take your hand and pull you towards the young man standing in the doorway, because your eyes wandered over the decor.

“We have a reservation. Castillo.” he said.

“Of course.” The man glanced at the tablet, then smiled. “This way, Mr. Castillo. Ma’am.”

The soft carpet muffled your footsteps as you walked along the tables. The guests hidden in their booths paid no attention to you at all. Harry’s fingers were still intertwined with yours as you walked out onto the glassed-in terrace. One of the tables was set up at the back, a little further away from the others, and that’s where the man led you.

“Please sit down,” he said, smiling and gesturing to the chairs. “A waiter will be here in a moment to take your order. Would you like some wine?”

“Yes, please. I hear you have some great chocolate soufflés.” Harry replied, pulling out a chair for you.

The man's face lit up. "Yes, sir. They'll be perfect for dessert."

He nodded and left you alone. Harry sat down across from you. The soft light of the lamps reflected in his dark eyes, and a smile never left his lips.

"Congratulations." You said, resting your chin on your hand and looking out the large window at the city covered in the last rays of sunlight, night already lurking around the corner. "This place is really... wow."

"I'm glad you like it. I wanted it to be something special."

You looked at him in silence for a moment, as if you were thinking about something. Only after a moment did you speak. "You could take me to a hot dog stand and I'd love it too, Harry. You know that, right?"

He knew. God! He nodded, because he knew it. He once took you to a really expensive restaurant, and on the way back you told him to stop because you wanted fries. “How was I supposed to eat these micro-portions? You could take me here and I’d be so much happier.” It was adorable.

You never looked at him through the prism of money, and it was refreshing. Harry could be sitting next to you in sweatpants, eating takeout, and you treated him the same way you did when he was wearing a suit worth several of your salaries.

The waiter showed up a moment later to take your order, you and Harry went over each item on the menu in detail, sharing your thoughts, and then he brought you wine.

“I wonder,” you began, sipping the sweet wine. Harry raised an eyebrow in curiosity, “how is this different? We’ve been to places like this before. Maybe not in this kind of atmosphere, but still.”

He thought for a moment before answering. “I think,” he began slowly and carefully choosing his words, “that today I can look at you without shame. And you look stunning.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. “Really?”

“I brought you flowers too.”

“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“And we’ll kiss.”

You looked at Harry like he was crazy, but his spontaneity and sincerity were simply endearing. “I do it very well, don't I?”

You sighed and took another sip of wine. “Very much. I don’t understand… If you’re doing it so well, why am I here? So many women…”

“Stop it.” Harry said quietly, his voice low and firm, cutting you off mid-sentence. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

You blinked, not knowing what to say, so you decided to stay silent. Harry leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. The atmosphere between you changed – not tense, but something different, more intimate.

“You’re here because I want you to be here. Not someone else. Not any other woman. You. It’s not about how many people I could be with—it’s about how few people make me feel this way.”

You opened your mouth, but you couldn’t get a word out. It was hard to say anything when your heart was pounding in your chest and Harry was looking at you so intensely. He reached out and took your hand before you even noticed. He stroked it with his thumb.

“I know you have a lot of doubts and worries, but I’m not doing all of this because it’s a ‘date.’ I really want this. Every bit of it.”

You let out a breath you had been unconsciously holding in your lungs. “You’re so serious.”

He nodded. “Dangerously.”

“Then I guess I should think about it seriously, too.”

Harry smiled. He lifted your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it. Light flickered in his dark eyes so intently focused on you. Something had changed between you. It wasn't about flirting anymore, but about certainty and safety.

The waiter's arrival pulled you out of the bubble that had closed around you for a moment. It was nice. You sat there, eating really good food, drinking wine and looking at the city that was slowly getting brighter with the glow of the lamps. You didn't feel any worries or fear anymore, because what had appeared between you and Harry was like a warm balm that enveloped both of you. Everything seemed fine and normal, and he did everything to make you feel at ease.

“Oh my!” you sighed as you entered the elevator, the doors closing quietly behind you. Harry looked at you intrigued. “I left the flowers in the car. They’ll definitely die there.”

“Oh no!” he frowned as you told him the truly devastating news. “We can’t let that happen. I have a vase at home if you’re interested.”

The words came out of his mouth so naturally that no matter what you answered, it would be the right answer. No pressure, a simple hint that you understood immediately, and the decision was yours. He waited, you could see it in his eyes.

“Crystal?”

“Of course.” He nodded.

“Hmm... I don’t know if I have a vase.”

He narrowed his eyes, his lips lifting into a gentle smile. “You’re going to risk their lives?”

You bit your lower lip, trying to hold back the smile that crept onto your lips, but you failed miserably. After a moment, you both burst out laughing.

"I shouldn't," you finally said. "They're such beautiful flowers. Besides..." Harry raised an eyebrow. "Besides, we haven't kissed yet."

That was the sign Harry had been waiting for. In an instant, his warm hand rested carefully on your cheek, and the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. He quickly managed to look into your eyes, and you already felt his soft lips on yours.

Jesus! How much you missed his lips. He kissed you gently, carefully, as if testing the water, but when you touched his neck, wanting to get closer, he completely lost himself. Two steps, you felt the cold wall of the elevator behind you and Harry's solid, warm body in front of you.

A soft tongue broke through the barrier of your lips, causing you to moan quietly. The bastard smiled.

“Do that again and I’ll lose myself in you.” He whispered, but didn’t give you time to respond, stealing your breath again. Colossal hands held your waist tightly, your fingers slipping into his soft hair. It was just you and Harry, nothing more.

You didn't remember how you got to his apartment. Your brain had shut down all rational reasoning the moment you got into the car, when Harry took your hand, when he kissed the back of it tenderly, and when you drove through the city with impatient smiles on your faces.

There was no doubt - you knew what you were getting at, but you also felt no pressure or hesitation. If such a thing existed, Harry would have accepted it without resentment and, like a true gentleman, would have driven you to your apartment without complaint. Desire and excitement hung in the air that almost quivered between you.

You hadn't drunk enough wine to be drunk, unless you could be drunk on his presence and how he treated you - with respect, care, tenderness.

His lips were on you again when you entered the apartment, as if he had missed the taste of them in the few minutes of travel.

"F-flowers, Harry..." you managed to whisper.

He looked at you, confused. He completely forgot you were holding them in your hand. That fucking vase was in some cabinet, now he had no idea which one.

However, you solved that problem in a flash, throwing them on the wooden table by the wall, your hands once again grabbing his face, pulling him into a kiss. He wanted you. Jesus! He wanted you like he hadn't wanted anyone else in a long time. The wall behind you appeared suddenly, but thank god for that, because otherwise you would have slumped to the floor.

"Are you sure you want this, baby?" he asked, pulling his face away from yours for a moment, Harry's eyes dark as night. "One word and..."

"I want it." You whispered and saw the relief on his face. "I want you, Harry."

He wanted to hear it. Kisses landed on your neck as he pulled you away from the wall and slowly led you towards the bedroom. The switch by the door turned on the small lights by the nightstands. The bedroom was large, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city at night and a bed covered in white satin sheets. You paused for a moment.

Harry's hands slid up your arms, sending warm shivers down your spine as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I can't believe you're here with me. Are you actually real?"

You placed your hands on his chest. The strong beating of his heart was palpable beneath your fingertips. "Yes, I am."

His hands moved to your back, slowly and meticulously to the zipper under your neck. Harry tilted his head. "May I?"

You nodded, not trusting your lips. You held your breath as you felt the zipper slide open, slowly sliding the dress off your shoulders, letting it fall gently to the wooden floor.

"You're stunning," he said, and you knew he was serious.

It was all in his eyes, which, with admiration, as if you were the eighth wonder of the world, moved from your face, through your cleavage, the curve of your breasts and lower, lower... He took a deep breath. "Forgive my lack of eloquence, but I have no idea what to say now."

"Then maybe don't say anything, Harry." You suggested. Your hands grabbed the hem of his sweater and slowly pulled it up. He had a beautiful body and you really missed seeing him like this. Small freckles on his chest, broad shoulders and strong arms, soft stomach. You realized that it had been a long time since you had stood in front of someone so exposed and vulnerable, but with Harry you felt no shame or embarrassment.

He kissed you again, hungrily and lovingly, pulling your hips to his so that you felt the distinct bulge in his jeans. There was no point in waiting. The belt was unbuckled, you tugged on your jeans to slide them off.

“On the bed, darling,” he mumbled in a low, deep voice. You sat down obediently on your heels, watching Harry take off his jeans, leaving them carelessly next to your dress, and a few seconds later he was by your side. Gently, without breaking the kisses, he pushed you onto the satin sheets. Sweet weight on you, hands exploring your body as if he wanted to memorize the map of your body. His lips slid down to your neck, collarbone and cleavage. The scent of your skin mixed with the scent of your perfume and went to his head.

“I want to taste you, baby. Will you let me?”

He felt you shiver under his fingers, tensing nervously. Dark eyes lifted to you, watching you carefully.

“Is something wrong?” Harry asked.

“No, it’s just… It’s been a while since I last did this.”

He smiled softly. “Baby, I’ll take care of you, I swear. If you tell me to stop, I will.” You bit your lip lightly. “I want you to feel good, baby.”

You nodded. You couldn’t help but give in to those eyes and smile. Fingers slid under the waistband of your panties and slowly, carefully, slid down.

The first kiss on your stomach, another below your belly button, then on your mound, and then you sighed softly as you felt Harry’s hot lips on the inside of your thighs.

“You’re already throbbing, baby…”

You buried your face in your hands, feeling the warmth creep up your neck. Harry brazenly lay between your legs, throwing one over his shoulder and teasing your sensitive center with his warm breath. The first lick, a gentle kiss, and after a moment he sank into your pussy as if it would save his life. Tongue and lips worked hard and you couldn't cover your face anymore, trying to grab anything that would give you stability. A loud gasp escaped your throat as he sucked on your clit.

You were so turned on, your body so hungry for what was building inside you, that you couldn't control anything. Harry placed a hand on your stomach, trying to hold you down as you tried to lift your hips, maybe even escape from what you were feeling.

“Stay like this, baby. I’ve got you.”

And he really did have you. When he looked up, saw you like that, he knew he’d never forget you. Eyes closed, lips parted, gasping for air, chest heaving in sharp breaths. You were on the edge, and with one thrust he pushed you towards that abyss, to watch you fall apart under his lips and tongue. He already knew that this sight would stay with him forever.

You weren’t fully conscious. The orgasm that had shaken your body was still pulsing under your skin as Harry kissed your thighs and with a scoundrel’s smile he hovered over you again.

“You’re so sexy…” he said, “I could spend hours there.”

“You can’t.” you panted, shaking your head, “I want you inside me, now.”

You lifted yourself up, kissing him hard and pulling him with you onto the bed. He was so hard in his boxers that when you slid your hand in there, wrapping your fingers around his cock, he sighed through clenched teeth.

“Condoms.” he groaned. “I have…”

“Where?”

He nodded towards the nightstand, and you arched your back and reached over, pulling out a foil packet. You opened it deftly as Harry pulled down his boxers, freeing his hard and already leaking cock.

The condom was slid on in a quick motion, and soon the tip was brushing against your entrance. Your gaze moved from the space between your thighs to your faces almost simultaneously. No words were needed.

Harry slowly pushed himself into you, stretching you pleasantly, all the way to the base. You needed a few seconds for both of you.

“Jesus…” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “You’re squeezing me so hard. I can’t get over this, I don’t want to.”

Gentle hands stroked his shoulders, slipped into his soft hair. You were so warm, he could feel your heartbeat, he could feel all of you. This moment should stop, he wanted to feel this forever.

“Move, baby, please.”

Your sweet voice was like an order he wanted to fulfill. The first movement of his hips and you both sighed quietly. Harry lifted himself up on his elbows to see your face, to kiss you again, his cock moving hard and confidently inside you. You quickly found a rhythm together, trying to remember to breathe, but it was hard when you wanted to taste each other’s lips at the same time so much.

“It feels so good, Harry…” you moaned quietly, “Just like this.”

He grabbed your thigh with one hand, squeezing his fingers tighter. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your face, his hips slamming harder and he felt your walls tighten around his cock. You were close, faster than he expected, but Harry knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t last long either. You opened your eyes unexpectedly.

“I want to be on top.”

You surprised him, but he agreed without hesitation. He pulled out of you and rolled onto his back, and a moment later you were on top of him, positioning his cock so that it would slide inside. God! His eyes almost rolled back as he pushed himself deeper into you than before. You rested your hands on his chest and started moving, setting a fast rhythm.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he saw you tilt your head slightly, closing your eyes and letting out quiet moans that you were no longer suppressing. His hands on your hips set the rhythm, strong and determined

“Harry…” you moaned “I’m so… So close.”

“I can feel it, baby. Let go, I've got you. I've got you…”

He lifted himself up, wrapping his arm around your body and using his other hand to press you harder, as if he wanted to go even deeper. His lips sucked on the spot on your collarbone. He wanted to mark you, you were his, more than ever.

A shiver ran through your body, your nails digging into Harry's shoulders, but he didn't let go. He pressed you harder against his body, helping you through it. The fire must have burned your thighs, but you didn't stop. A few more strokes and Harry came with a groan, clenching his hands so hard he had to leave marks.

Your hot bodies were sticky with sweat, but you were still as close as lovers could be. It was only after a few long moments that Harry lifted his head, his eyes full of delight and pleasure. His hand cupped your cheek, as if he was afraid you were real.

Words weren't needed, you felt the same. The kiss was soft and sweet, mixed with smiles, quiet giggles, careful movements of his hands. You felt like nothing would ever be the same again.

And it felt good.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist: @nrschuster30 @maried01 @lunariantears @thatesqcrush @suzysface @youkeeno @legoemma @nuo0n @sarahhxx03 @hazzzy418 @pedrofan @peepawispunk @readingiskeepingmegoing @maryfanson @anoverwhelmingdin @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @axshadows @picketniffler @underneath-the-sky-again @kaysfanficcorner @noisynightmarepoetry @xmaykeca @orcasoul @sincerelywithheartt @southernbe @chaoticfestninja @telumendilsoul @hermionelove @paleidiot @lemon-world1 @diabaroxa @scarcetti @thatoneperson38747 @pascal-mynightlyobsession @sunnytuliptime @krystal---meth @nikoanna @capuccinodoll @titlee78 @goodvibesonly421 @crlsummer @chewie-bars @dean-and-baby343 @warmdragonfly @harriedandharassed @speaktothehandpeasants @pasc4lfuzz @darkheartgatita @deesparticus @beezusvreeland @sunnytuliptime @theoraekenslover @secretlettersfromyourlove @yassspose @pinkblackbra @avengersfan25 @kakiki3

[cruelfvkingsummer]

imagine having to explain to your children that their daddy could've been a billionaire but instead you chose love and now they have roommates and student debt

[imaswellkid]

Me, amidst the avalanche of pictures, trying to decide between filtering the tags, or letting the fangirl beast loose.

[pedrospookiebookie]

you said you have other blogs and I am politely requesting those, not because I want to follow them or even because I agree or disagree with what all has been going on, I'm just tired of seeing yall in the tags and I want to block everything you have because you're so goddamn irritating lmao

[7-unkn-0-wn-7]

types of people: my irl friends

the model - aesthetic instagram, effortless beauty, dressing up, makeup, quiet in class, talking to boys, fluttery heart, planning outfits, perfect hair, deep thoughts, pretty friends, being popular

the sweetheart - soft blankets, disconnecting from social media, making jokes, busy schedules, checking up on your friends, impulsive decisions, getting the joke 10 minutes after everyone else, being the baby of the group

the insomniac - dark circles, glowing computer keys, drinking heavily, passing out in class, black coffee, glasses too big for their face, energy drinks, shaky hands, loud music, witty comments, getting into arguments

the materialist - retail therapy, gucci sneakers, accidentally judgemental, bubble baths, skin care, admiring art, expensive vacations, distant family, long conversations, firm voice

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 1: Blind Date

series masterlist next chapter

Summary: You work as a housekeeper in a rich family's mansion and often have to deal with their spoiled daughter. One day, she asks you to pretend to be her on a blind date with a guy her dad picked out for her. Your mission is to make him not like you so he won't want to marry her. But here's the twist: will Harry end up hating you, or could he actually fall for you? That's the real question. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Word Count: 4.8k for now, There will be a part two if you guys like it, but I'm not sure about the rest. Sorry for the poor writing; that was quick. authors note: I am not sure about his name. If there's any update, I will edit. English is not my native, so please be nice; this is my third fanfiction. Thank you for the reblogs, comments, and likes. Love you all!

"Ugh, this dress is so last season! Are you serious? Everything here is out of style—get rid of them! Call Elliot and have them send me another dress, or I'm going to be really pissed!"

As if tossed at you like a used handkerchief, another dress worth thousands of dollars—perhaps only worn once—landed in your hands. You sighed as you looked at the elegant dress you were now holding, the Gucci label glinting under the light.

"Story of my life," you mumbled.

Working as a housekeeper in a millionaire's house was hard enough, but dealing with his spoiled and ill-tempered daughter was exhausting. Yet you were determined that it would soon be over. You could no longer endure this physical and psychological torture. With the money you had saved, you planned to open your own restaurant—fulfilling your dream. You just needed to save a little more and hang in there a bit longer.

Your boss was a decent, kind man, but his daughter was so unbearable that every housekeeper assigned left the next day.

How do you even tolerate her? 

Because you didn’t have the luxury of quitting and waiting for a new job. You were still young and trying to establish yourself in the business. The extra pay you received was simply to endure her antics. Your kind millionaire boss had even promised you all the support you needed, suggesting you could quit your day job and focus solely on managing his daughter’s affairs. But how could you have known it would be so challenging? Still, you managed to get through each day and believed you could endure this for just a little while longer. After all, you had survived three challenging years already, right?

The mansion was enormous, and everything inside was meticulously organized. Everyone—housekeepers, gardeners, cooks, and even the owners—followed a disciplined daily routine. 

Except for the young lady of the house.

You never knew when she would wake up or come downstairs to join her family at the dinner table. She was stubborn, mean, and unpredictable, and you had to manage her behavior just as you managed her dresses, her dates, and her friends. Because you were responsible for her, there were times when you wished you could handle all the housework yourself and let someone else take care of her demands. Despite being just an ordinary housekeeper, your name was the one that echoed the most throughout this vast mansion.

Why? 

Because the young lady constantly called on you to fulfill her never-ending requests. And it was one of those moments again. Since it was evening, you guessed she was probably getting ready for a night out at the club, and you felt a surge of annoyance as you rushed to her room.

"I can’t believe my dress, which was tight before I started this job, is now way too big. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. It’s all thanks to that b.i.t.c.h.," you spelled, mumbling to yourself, quickly making your way up the stairs.

One of the cleaners dusting the vases in the hallway shot you a wink and let out a sigh. Man, you’d do just about anything to be in her shoes, just taking care of that vase!

As soon as you knocked on the door, the young lady Melanie opened it, pulled you inside by the arm, and slammed the door shut behind you. You were taken aback—had you made a mistake? It had only been two hours since you last saw her; you had picked up her clothes off the floor and taken them to the laundry room. She had seemed content, busy texting on her phone. What could have possibly happened in such a short time?

“Is something wrong?” you asked, your eyes wide. For some reason, she looked super tense and nervous.  

“You’ve gotta help me,” she said almost desperately, which caught you off guard; it was pretty rare for her to ask for help like this, very rare.  

“Of course, if I know what’s going on…” 

“Remember that thing we did with the senator's son? I need you to do something like that again.”

You froze for a moment. She was referring to something you had helped her with before—something you weren't very proud of.

“Oh, but—” you frowned. “You said I’d never have to do anything like that again.”

Years ago, you had done your best to disguise yourself as Melanie to turn off the senator's son and prevent him from marrying her. It had worked, but lying to someone was a real headache. Thankfully, Melanie's father hadn’t suspected a thing, but the thought of risking it again felt scarier than anything else.

“I know, I know, but I’m in a tough spot. My dad has been speaking with a matchmaker again to arrange a match for me. After the scandal at the club last time, he's determined to marry me off for sure. Please, I need your help.”

How could she still act so childish in her late twenties? As she looked at you with those pleading eyes, memories of all the times she’d yelled at you and scolded you flashed in your mind. It was fine when you were more like her special assistant instead of just a housekeeper, but now it feels like you’re just a toy to her. When she wants to have fun, she plays with you—almost like you’re her little slave or something.

“I’m not here for that,” you said firmly. “That is not my job.” Your patience was running thin, and this was just too much.  

“But you’re supposed to help me,” she shot back, stubborn as ever. “And it’ll be easier this time, I promise.” 

You narrowed your eyes and said, “We got caught last time when the guy found out and cursed both of us. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? And if your father discovers what we’re up to this time…”

She replied with a grin, “We won’t get caught this time because I already sent them your photo instead of mine. Besides, you know how my father is strict about always having my picture removed from newspapers and magazines.”

“You did what?” you wailed.

“Chill, it’s all figured out. I’ve been working on this since last week. You’ll have dinner with the guy, pretend to be me, scare him off, and boom! He won’t want to hear my name again. Easy peasy!”  

You rolled your eyes. “But he’s surely seen your photo somewhere; he can’t be that clueless.”  

“No, he’s a very busy businessman. He has lived abroad for years and has just returned from France. He’s looking to set up his business here in New York,” she said as she opened her laptop and pulled up a webpage with information about the man. “It seems he’s also looking for a suitable match,” she continued, glancing at his photo and pursing her lips.

You froze when you looked at the photo; he wasn’t at all what you expected. He appeared to be a mature, charismatic, and intelligent man. But how could you sit opposite this man and pretend to be someone else? The thought made you shudder, raising the tiny hairs on the back of your neck.  

“As you can see, he’s much older than me. I don’t think he’ll tolerate disrespect. If you’re disrespectful to him, he might get annoyed and just leave the table,” she said with a chuckle.

You laughed too, but for a different reason. You were sure that if she went to the meeting herself, he would get up and leave when he saw her personality.  

“I think you should go; maybe he won’t like you,” you suggested.  

She narrowed her eyes at you like she'd just caught you saying something crazy. “He won’t like me? Seriously?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky grin. “Anyway, I can’t risk it. I don’t want to marry him or anyone else, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck in the same room with that old man.” 

As if I want it so much, you thought.  

“Come on, please do this for me! I promise I’ll be good; I won’t make you work too hard. I’ll ask Dad to give you a nice raise,” she said, clasping her hands together and trying to look cute.  

Well, good raise would mean you could quit your job and bail out of here earlier, right? You crossed your arms and glanced back at the laptop screen, staring at the photo of that guy—Harry Castillo. You made a decision that you had no idea would change everything in both his life and yours.

“Fine. When’s dinner?” you said, feeling a bit anxious.  

“Oh, you’re the best! I knew you couldn’t say no!” she said excitedly. “This Saturday.”  

“But that’s only two days away,” you pointed out, feeling even more nervous.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you all set. Just make sure you displease him,” she grinned.  

You sighed deeply, already sure you’d regret this choice.

“Don’t you think this dress is a bit… exaggerated?” you muttered, looking at yourself in the mirror.  

It was an elegant burgundy dress—strappy, satin, and adorned with pearl details—the kind of designer item you could never afford, even if you worked your entire life.  

“Am I trying to make him hate me or make him fall for me?” you asked, frowning.  

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry; he’ll never fall in love with you,” she said arrogantly. This was typical behavior for her, so you chose to ignore it. “As much as you want to annoy him, remember that you represent me. I don’t want anyone gossiping that Melanie Johanson is wearing a lame dress,” she continued while picking out a matching purse.  

“But everyone knows I’m not you, except that poor guy.”  

“I don’t suppose you were planning to wear one of your own skimpy outfits,” she remarked. “Do you want our game to be exposed?”  

That was too much—being scolded and being forced to do something so ridiculous for this spoiled girl.  

“Fine, go to that dinner yourself then,” you said, slipping off your heels.  

She grabbed your arms. “No, no, no, please. Okay, I’m sorry I was rude. But I need you; no one else would do something like this for me.”  

“It’s good that you realize that,” you muttered.  

“Here, take this; it’s time,” she said, giving you a smile.  

Honestly, putting up with Melanie’s constant demands, cleaning up after her, and covering for her felt like child’s play compared to what you were facing tonight. 

A nice raise, you keep telling yourself trying to soothe yourself. I’m doing this for my restaurant; I’ll get it started someday.

The restaurant was one of the most famous, expensive, and luxurious places in New York—somewhere you would never normally set foot in. But tonight, thanks to Melanie’s name, you could easily get in. You were overwhelmed by the incredibly polite behavior of the restaurant staff.  

Melanie may have been extravagant and reckless, but she had thought of almost everything for tonight—from the driver who brought you here to the all restaurant staff. 

All this effort was for one purpose: to rid herself of the matchmaker’s match.  

When they took your fur coat at the entrance and told you that Mr. Castillo was waiting for you, you took a deep breath. After one step inside, when you saw him, you nearly backed away. Harry was busy on his phone, scribbling notes in his small notebook. He looked really sharp and stylish—way more handsome and appealing than in the photo.

Damn.  

You wanted to escape; you wished to put an end to this nonsense before it even began. Without realizing it, your feet started to move backward. Just then, you turned around and accidentally bumped into the waiter behind you, causing him to drop the champagne glasses he was carrying on his tray. The glasses shattered, and champagne spilled all over his outfit. You cursed yourself for the mishap.

Before you could even respond, the waiter apologized. “No, it was my fault; I’m sorry,” you said nervously, trying to wipe off the champagne from his clothes.

The other waiter and the staff stared at you in shock. 

Yes, you were a wealthy lady now, but what harm was there in being polite?

"No, ma'am, I should have been more careful," he said before turning and walking away.

"Miss Johnson?" said a soft, deep voice. 

You turned around to meet him and felt almost breathless. There he was, few inches taller than you, with broad shoulders, curly hair, deep-set brown eyes, a sharp nose, and an attractive appearance. 

"Melanie, right?" 

"Y-yes," you stammered, batting your eyelashes. 

And that smile! For a moment, the world seemed to stop; all the sounds in the restaurant faded, and you almost forgot why you were there. 

"I'm Harry," he said, holding out his hand. It took you so long to look at his face that you nearly forgot to acknowledge his hand. He laughed again, that wonderful smile lighting up his face. "My hand has been waiting for a while," he said teasingly. 

You felt your cheeks flush as you realized what he meant. "I'm sorry," you replied, quickly reaching out to shake his waiting hand. His hand was big and warm. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed. You knew you needed to work up the courage. 

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “Shall we head to our table? Or do you want to stay here all night?” 

“S-sure,” you said sheepishly. 

Well, there wasn't much you could do about it. This wasn't just about him being wealthy or handsome. Even if it was a fake date, it had been years since you'd been on a date, and you didn’t know many men in your life. 

Dinner was harder than you expected. Even though you and Melanie had practiced what you should and shouldn't say, your fears came to light. Harry seemed kind and understanding, and it was difficult to lie to him, which made you hate every minute of it. It got worse when he started grilling you with questions, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up with this silly game.

When you excused yourself to go to the restroom, you called Melanie. 

"What do you mean he hasn't left the restaurant yet?" 

"I don't know; the conversation got a little long, and he kept asking questions about me, I mean you." 

"Do something to make him hate you already!" 

“But how? Throw wine at him? This is all ridiculous. I think we should just tell the truth.”

"Don't you dare!" she barked.

Her voice was so loud that you had to smile apologetically when the other women in the ladies room looked at you strangely, hearing your end of the conversation. 

"What am I supposed to do? Our plan isn't working." 

“What's up with this guy? He should’ve bailed by now.” Melanie grunted.

“He seems nice—I doubt he’d be rude like that.” 

“Rude! That’s the ticket; just be rude enough that he can’t stand it.” 

“What? Seriously?” 

“Yep, you heard me. Just be as rude as you can.” 

You let out a sigh, really wishing you could just bang your head against the wall right now.

“I said do it, or you'll ruin everything. Call me when you’re done.” 

“But what am I gonna— Hello? Darn it!” 

Beep… Beep… Beep… 

She hung up. 

You’ll have to be rude, how wonderful! But she was right; you needed to get rid of this man for the night to end and for you to return to your normal life. Why did he have to be so nice and kind? If he could ever act like a jerk, you would have done it by now, but he was just too sweet. As you looked in the mirror, you thought of all the rude things a lady wouldn’t normally do. Ah, that sounds familiar; it reminds you of Melanie herself. The very thought of her actions made you smile nervously. You took a deep breath and left the restroom.

Encouraging yourself, you gazed at Harry's handsome face from afar.

You can do it, you can do it...

Your first move: act indifferent.

You changed your facial expression as you approached the table and deliberately looked away from his face. He was smiling warmly at you. No, you couldn't look at him; it would only complicate everything. You were about to apologize for being late, but no, you can’t. Instead, you pulled your chair noisily on purpose, scraping its legs on the floor to create an annoying sound. You sat down and crossed your legs, positioning your body so it wasn't fully facing him. Harry seemed surprised by this sudden shift in your mood, but he didn’t comment.

A little later, as your desserts were served, he looked at you, “I like chocolate cake too, especially with pistachio sauce. We have similar tastes,” grinning at you.

You looked at him and then at the waiter. “I don’t want this,” you said angrily.

“But ma'am, you ordered it,” the poor man replied sheepishly.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you said. “I’ll go with the tiramisu,” you added after a quick look at the menu, making sure to glance away casually.

“Sure, I’ll change it right away,” he said, taking your plate and walking back.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I’m great,” you lied, forcing a fake grin.

He didn’t ask any further questions, but he seemed to suspect something had changed. When the waiter brought your dessert, you decided to eat it rudely. You were sure Harry would be disgusted as you devoured your dessert quickly and rather rudely as if you were starving. You didn’t look at him again until you finished your plate. When you finally glanced up, your stomach feeling a bit nauseous, the look on his face was not what you had expected. He was smiling at you admiringly.

What the hell was that? 

Shouldn’t he have shown disgust or displeasure, just like the people at the next table who were staring at you with disdain?

But not Harry, not him. Why, God, why? 

As if teasing you, he laughed and reached for a napkin on the table, wiping the remnants of dessert from the corner of your lips. “You’ve got quite the sweet tooth, don’t you, sweet girl?”

How could he be so nice, even after everything? 

“Want to eat mine too?” he joked again. Clearly, you were amusing him instead of grossing him out. Ugh, just what you needed. Why was this so hard? 

“It’s the cream in it,” you said, a bit defensive. If you were going to get into a battle of words, you might as well dive in. 

When he looked at you, confused, you thought you saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe you could annoy him with your gourmet knowledge. 

“The Marsala wine is in the cream; it’s a secret recipe,” you said, trying to sound smart. 

Harry paused eating his dessert, rested his elbow on the table, and gave you an admiring look. “Interesting. I didn’t know you were into cooking. That wasn’t in the info.” That familiar warm smile was back.

Crap. Another mess-up. 

“I get it—you’re keeping it under wraps from your dad. I want you to feel comfortable talking about your hobbies when you’re with me.” 

When you’re with him? Damn, that was supposed to be the first and last time you saw him. You started playing with your fingers in your hair out of nervousness. 

Think, think, think. All you had left was to use the only card you had.

“Look, Harry, I’ll be frank. I don’t plan to see you again.”

Suddenly, he stopped. “Didn’t you like me?” he asked softly.

Was it possible not to like this man? But damn it, you had to lie. You looked away; it was hard to read his expression.

“You’ve probably heard about me from the tabloids. I’m not the type of woman to get attached to just one man. My father put me up to this matchmaker thing; I didn’t intend to.” You admitted this indirectly. He deserved a little honesty, didn’t he? “I’ve had and will have many men in my life. I don’t plan to get married. I mean, you’re not special. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” 

When you looked at his face timidly, you realized you got the reaction you had been waiting for since the beginning of the night. His smile vanished; his expression hardened, and the color of his eyes darkened. 

But why did your heart squeeze when you should have felt relieved?

When they brought your coat, you thanked them and turned to Harry for the last time. You would probably never see him again. You felt fortunate to have had the chance to meet and get to know this man, even briefly. He would probably forget you anyway; why would he remember you? 

“Can I give you a ride home so we can end things on a good note?” he asked, sounding a bit unsure.

You definitely didn’t see that coming. You paused, trying to figure out what to say. It would’ve been easier to just say no, but his eyes were so mesmerizing that if he’d asked you to spill all your secrets right then, you might have done it without even thinking.

“Sure,” you replied, feeling shy.

When the valet brought Harry's car around, your jaw dropped. This black, late-model Mercedes Benz S was probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your interest in cars stemmed from your childhood; your mother always complained that you didn't like dresses and jewelry like other girls—rather, you liked cars. It was clear you were different, and you had always been that way.

Just like the situation you found yourself in now. Maybe there was something wrong with you.

The two of you were silent the entire ride. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his gaze on you out of the corner of your eye. However, you were more captivated by the interior of the car. When would you ever get to ride in such a luxury vehicle again? It wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look. As you glanced towards his side to check out the control panel and see how much horsepower the car had, he caught your eye, causing you to quickly turn your head away. You had to suppress your curiosity.

"We’ll turn right here," you said as you approached the junction. Down the street, the giant mansion loomed, so close to your destination. You stole a quick glance at him, realizing this might be the only time you would see this man in person. You wanted to remember his handsome face. 

Suddenly, Harry slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt. Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked at him, startled that he had stopped so abruptly near the mansion. What had caused him to suddenly halt? He didn’t say a word, just stared at you, and his eyes seemed to communicate something intense. Was he angry and no longer wanting your company? 

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door handle, only to find it locked.

“Stay still,” he said as he unlocked the car doors. 

What was he implying? He walked around the front of the car, reached your side, and opened your door. 

Was this chivalry? If so, why did he stay away from the mansion?

“Aren’t you getting out?” His voice was kinda cold.

You didn’t know how to respond. You stepped out of the car without saying a word.

“Thanks for the ride—” 

Suddenly, he grabbed your arm—not roughly, but with a firm, questioning grip. His gaze was intense, but why did he look that way? Had he figured it all out? Maybe he was about to confront you for making a fool of yourself. After all, you had been willing to be open, and now you felt you deserved it. But you didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes, so you lowered your head. 

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Shit. 

You swallowed hard; this was the moment you had dreaded.

“I-I…”

What were you going to say? How would you even say it?

You were fucked.

Suddenly, Harry pinched your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him while his other hand rested on your waist. He tilted his head toward you, his hot breath brushing against your face, making your heart race. His lips were dangerously close to yours, and you could feel your throat going dry. What the hell was he going to do? Kissing you or scolding you? After what felt like an eternity, he pulled you closer by the arm around your waist and kissed you.

It had been a long time since you kissed someone, so you were almost shocked by his sudden kiss. No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, you finally closed your eyes and surrendered to him completely. Your surrendering gave him courage and he deepened the kiss, his hot tongue licking your lips and forcing them apart. While his expert hand lingered on the swell of your breasts teasingly, you moaned and opened your mouth for him and when his tongue touched yours, you could still taste the chocolate from the dessert he had just eaten. 

But suddenly, Harry pulled his head back, breaking the kiss and all contact. Instinctively mesmerized, you leaned forward, eyes closed and mouth agape. When you finally opened your eyes, you caught him snickering, and as the embarrassment of the situation hit you, you wished you could disappear. You instinctively pressed your hand to your burning lips and pressed hem together. Harry licked his lips and grinned. "Just as I predicted. You lied to me. There's no way another man has touched you recently."

For a second, your mind went blank, and you just stared at him, blinking in confusion. What the heck did he mean by that? "Y-you... w-what..." Great, now you couldn't even put together a simple sentence.

What next?

Just then, your phone started ringing. When you opened your purse to get it, Harry reached for it before you could. Fortunately, you had saved Melanie in your phone under a special nickname, not her real name. Harry laughed, raising his eyebrows in surprise and amusement. "Trouble?"

Yes, you had saved her as trouble.

"Can you hand my phone back, please?" you said, holding out your hands, but he caught them with one hand and gently pushed them away. 

“Your trouble can wait,” he said, rejecting Melanie’s call. He dialed a number on your phone, but realized what he was doing when his own phone started ringing.

“There, now you have my number,” he said, handing your phone back to you.

You frowned and grabbed your phone angrily, "What makes you think I’d actually call you?" 

Harry shrugged, pursing his lips. “Shouldn't I call you before I come to pick you up for our next date? I guess I could just come by your house and honk the horn instead.” 

“What?” you exclaimed.

He grinned.

You took a deep breath to release some of your tension. “Harry, why are you doing this? There won’t be a next date; I told you that.”

“One chance,” he said firmly.

“A chance of what?” 

"I want you to give me a chance. A real date. If, at the end of the night, you still feel the same way, I promise you’ll never see me again."

You shook your head. "But why? You’re a man who can have any woman you want. You’re rich, handsome, and kind—why waste your time on someone who doesn’t want you?"

You saw something in his brown eyes, something you couldn’t quite identify, but it was intense. “Because you're different from others,” he said sharply. “True, women are not unattainable for me; they are always around. But what I want is someone special, and I feel that you are the one. There’s something about you that has ignited something in me I haven't felt in a long time. I must admit, I'm surprised; I never thought I’d be attracted to you after reading the news about you, but it seems I was wrong. Can you give me a chance? Please?”

Oh, Harry, there’s so much you don’t know, you thought. Your heart was fluttering at the thought of saying yes, but how could you? How dare you? You weren’t Melanie, the daughter of a wealthy businessman; you were just an ordinary girl.

“You know I won’t leave without hearing your answer, right?” He grunted.

Just then, you heard a car approaching, and you freaked out. That was Melanie’s dad’s car. Your heart nearly stopped.

“You have to go, like, now!” you yelled in a panic.

“First, say yes,” he replied, frowning.

"Si, yes, okay, alright! But please, go now!" you urged, pushing him toward the back of his car. He chuckled in response.

You crouched down to hide your face as the other car drove toward the mansion and pulled him down with you.

“I want you to know I’ve never done anything like this in my life,” he admitted, snickering.

“Is that so funny?” you snapped.

"Okay, I get that you don’t want your dad to see us like this, and I’m curious why, but since you said yes, I’ll be a good guy and leave."

“Yes you do that,” you said with a sigh.

Harry took his phone out of his pocket and waved it before getting into his car. “You’d better answer it when I call,” he said, getting inside. He winked at your puzzled expression and started the engine. His car quickly disappeared from sight along the road. You turned toward the mansion, exhaled deeply, and murmured to yourself.

“I'm so fucked.”

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 6] l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, friends to lovers (maybe?), some kissing, ex-boyfriend, Mrs. Kruger, some tears, an unpleasant situation, some romance, some nerves

A/N: I wish I could write better to show what I have in my head when I plan this story. I'm not completely happy with it, but I hope it's just my mood and being overwhelmed. Thank you for every heart and reblog and comment. I don't want to demand or put pressure on you, but if you wrote a few words, I would be glad that I could read what you think about it all. Thank you for being here!

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

When you woke up in the morning, you felt a strange anxiety in your chest. Even though the previous evening had been really pleasant, nothing more had happened between you and Harry except for that kiss, you had the impression that you had crossed a certain line that you shouldn't have crossed. You wanted to blame it on the alcohol or the influence of the stars, but you couldn't hide one thing - you really liked that kiss.

"But he's your boss..." you groaned, rinsing your face with cold water. You repeated the same words later while taking a shower and getting dressed, as well as in the elevator and on your way to the dining room for breakfast.

But as soon as you saw Harry sitting at a table covered with a snow-white tablecloth, the thought that had been occupying your head quickly disappeared.

He noticed you as you entered the room. Your simple, casual dress nicely emphasized your shapes as you headed to his table.

"Good morning." he greeted, rising slightly.

"Hi." you replied with a smile, sitting down next to him "Have you been waiting long?"

"I just got here." Harry nodded to the waiter and he immediately appeared next to you "Would you like some coffee?"

After a moment, coffee and your breakfast appeared on the table. All the worries you had were blurred in the casual and pleasant conversation, and Harry didn't once refer to yesterday evening, for which you were grateful. If Harry had different impressions than you, you didn't want it to cast a shadow over such a promising day.

"Do you have any meetings today?" you asked, putting a piece of croissant in your mouth and reaching for your phone "I could work in the meantime. I'm sure I have a backlog of emails and..."

The phone slipped out of your hand and Harry without hesitation pressed the side button, turning it off. The screen went black. "We're not working today." he said, a mischievous smile appearing on his face "Neither you nor I. Tomorrow we go back to New York, we should use this day."

"What do you mean?" you asked surprised "Harry, your clients won't be happy if..."

"They can handle it." he interrupted you, took a sip of coffee, and then smiled again "We can spend this day however we want. Do whatever we want, eat whatever we want."

You watched him carefully as if you wanted to catch him in some trick. Maybe he was joking and just checking your reaction? You guessed that there must have been a few unread emails in your inbox, not to mention other messages. But your switched off phone was still resting on the table next to Harry, and his brown eyes were staring at you with audacity.

"Are you serious?" you asked finally.

He nodded. “Of course. You haven’t seen much yet, but if you just want to go to the beach, that’s fine with me.”

He noticed right away how you frowned and looked at him suspiciously. However, when you spoke, the corners of your mouth turned up slightly. "You just want to see me in a swimsuit again."

Harry raised both hands. "Guilty. But can you blame me?"

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I feel like I'm going to regret this, but... Damn it. Let's do this."

When Harry said you could do whatever you wanted, he really meant it. In the rented car, you set off through the streets of the city, visiting all the most popular places. You couldn't take your eyes off what the city had to offer, you admired the beautiful people, buildings, iconic places. Even though Harry had been to LA many times, he never once let you feel that he was bored. On the contrary, he accompanied you everywhere and was present one hundred percent.

Hidden behind his black glasses, he watched the delight in your eyes and the smile that never left your lips. Those small details and gestures that he knew so well about you, now seemed even more expressive to him.

He was afraid that after what had happened between you, some tension would appear, but you were so free with him that Harry felt relief. He didn't want to ruin your friendship, but he didn't think that what had happened was bad either.

"Harry! Come, you have to see this."

"But you wanted coffee." he was surprised, but you had already grabbed his hand and pulled him in front of a shop window with some trinkets to show him something. His brain didn't even understand what you were saying to him, he was only focused on how your hand fit perfectly in his.

You ate lunch in a nice little restaurant, and then ice cream in some booth by the beach. When in the evening you found yourself in a crowd of people and Harry, so as not to lose you, grabbed your hand again, you didn't let go of it even when your steps headed towards the beach.

“I’m gonna miss this sun,” you said as the waves lazily lapped at your feet.

“It’s only a few hours of flying. We can fly back anytime you want.”

You looked at him. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, his pants pulled up so the waves wouldn't get them wet, and his face was directed straight at the setting sun. He looked really handsome. The wind gently played with the strands of his curly hair, and his skin glowed as if Harry himself was the sun.

"You probably say that to all your assistants." you said, and he burst out laughing.

"Only to you, darling, I assure you." he replied.

"Such cheesy." you shook your head, but you couldn't hide your smile. "Oh, any woman would fall in love with you, Mr. Castillo."

He watched with interest as you lowered your head and lifted your foot slightly, playing with the waves that were steadily hitting the shore. This moment seemed to him cut out of life, where there was nothing more than you. Maybe that's why he decided to ask.

"And you?" you looked up at him. "Could you fall in love with someone like that?"

"Not with someone. That's not what you want to ask, is it?"

You were right. That wasn't what he was asking you. He wanted to know if you could fall in love with him. Was that even possible? You had crossed the line between boss and assistant a long time ago. The long evenings that you theoretically spent together at work, but in reality you just talked, the dinners, the occasional movie together, and many other things when you were just two friends.

“I think we make a good duo,” he finally said. “In and out of work. You know what I mean?”

You nodded.

“I would get first prize for Assistant Of The Year?”

“Definitely.” He frowned suddenly. “Does such a thing exist?”

You shrugged. “I have no idea. But I like working for you, Harry. I really do.”

“And I like spending time with you.” You smiled. “You’re smart, funny, beautiful…”

“Oh God, don’t do that…” you mumbled, feeling the heat rise to your neck.

Harry took a step toward you. “What shouldn’t I be doing?”

“That! You make me feel… embarrassed.”

One more step. “Is it bad? Tell me, when I kissed you last night, was it embarrassing?”

You took a deep breath, your chest heaving, and your eyes briefly darted away from the people walking in the distance. When you looked back at Harry, he had already taken off his glasses, his eyes looking at you softly, as if waiting for that one answer.

“No.” You answered quietly. “It was nice. Very nice, even.”

“I liked it too.” He replied. You didn’t even flinch as he gently brushed away a strand of hair that the playful wind had been playing with in your face. “And you know what? I still want more.”

His fingers gently trailed over your jaw, then down your neck to your shoulder. A warm shiver ran down your spine. You were almost certain Harry could hear your heart beating, he was so close. He waited for just one signal and he got it a moment later when a quiet, "So take what you want, Harry..." left your lips. And so he did.

His lips captured yours in a sweet and gentle kiss. Carefully, as if you were both exploring the area, testing how much you could allow yourself. His hand slid into your hair, pulling your face closer, the other rested on your hip, as if he was afraid you would run away. But you didn't have that in mind.

The scent of his cologne mixed with the scent of the sea, and you felt completely intoxicated by Harry. You gave yourself over to this moment completely, against all arguments of logic. Parted lips were an invitation to him. Without hesitation, Harry deepened the kiss, his soft tongue slipped in and you moaned quietly. The bastard smiled, you felt it.

"What?" you whispered. He stroked your cheek with his thumb, still smiling.

"Nothing." he rubbed his nose against yours, still smiling, until you finally patted his chest and pulled away.

"You're unbearable, you know that?"

Even though you stepped back, Harry's fingers slid down your arm and then tightened around your wrist. He tugged lightly, pulling you back to him. "And you're cute."

You rolled your eyes. This guy was taking you apart with childish ease.

"Tell me..." you looked at Harry with interest, "When we get back to New York, will you go out with me? On a real date?"

You watched him carefully, analyzing his words. There was nothing but sincerity in Harry's eyes.

"Do you really want this?" you asked.

He tilted his head, smiling. "Of course I do. I wanted to ask you out two weeks after you showed up at my office."

You shook your head in disbelief and giggled. “Okay. I can’t keep Harry Castillo waiting for me any longer.” He pulled you in again, kissing you lightly. You gladly let him.

Your suitcase was almost packed when you closed the door behind you and went to breakfast. You had a few hours before you were supposed to be at the airport, so you and Harry didn't have to rush. The elevator stopped on the ground floor, and you entered the lobby. You hadn't even taken a few steps when someone said your name.

"Daniel?" You frowned in surprise, not really knowing what was going on. "What... What are you doing here?"

The man smiled, walking up to you. It looked like he had to wait here. "We flew in at night. Nice to see you."

"Is Beth with you?" You looked around the lobby, but didn't see a familiar face.

"It's a business trip."

He didn't need to say anything more. A heavy stone fell into your stomach as you looked towards the dining room door. You already knew who you would meet there.

"And you?" he asked.

"W-what?"

Daniel smiled, then lightly placed his hand on your elbow and led you towards the dining room door. "I think you could use some coffee. Still drinking the same one?"

You noticed them immediately as you entered the sunlit hotel dining room. Many of the tables were occupied by guests, but where you usually sat, Mrs. Kruger-Waltz was now sitting with Harry. Her blonde hair fell smoothly over her shoulders, and her lips stretched into a dazzling smile. She rested her chin on her hand, completely engrossed in her conversation with Harry.

A cup of coffee was pressed into your hand, and Daniel led you straight to the table you had been eyeing.

“Mrs. Kruger, Mr. Castillo.” Daniel greeted politely, and Diane looked at you.

“Oh! It’s good to see you.” She said. “I was just telling Harry how hard it is to find you here. Could you answer the phone or at least answer your emails, darling? I thought you were responsible for that.”

Harry cleared his throat. “We’ve been busy.” He replied. “Sorry, Diane. I’m to blame too.”

Yes, he was. The phone he had turned off was still at the bottom of your bag. You hadn’t had time to check your emails. Cold sweat ran down your back at the thought of what you would find when you turned those devices on.

“Harry…” Diane placed a tender hand on Castillo’s shoulder. “That’s what we have assistants for. I think she should face the consequences of her negligence. But never mind!” she smiled happily. “I have some really good friends in Los Angeles that you should meet. Working with them could really benefit you.”

You noticed the quick glance Harry gave you. You must have looked like an idiot, standing at the table with a cup of coffee in your hand and complete surprise in your eyes.

“I have to apologize again, Diane, but we’re leaving today. In a few hours…”

“That’s no problem. I have my own private jet.” The woman took a sip of her coffee and winked. “Your assistant can fly back to New York on her own, right? Will you be okay?”

"Y-yes." You stuttered in surprise. "Of course."

"You see! Brave girl." Diane beamed. "She'll have a lot of work to catch up on, and we'll have a nice time here."

You didn't know what to say. You didn't have the courage to look at Harry, because Diane was watching you carefully. Finally, someone gently squeezed your elbow, said goodbye to them for you, and led you out of the dining room.

"You look really good, you know that?"

Daniel's words tore you out of your stupor. You looked at him in surprise and carelessly tilted your mug, spilling coffee on yourself.

"Fuck!" you hissed louder than you intended. You put the mug down on the small table by the wall and saw a stain on your shirt. "Ugh! Not that."

Daniel watched you carefully, a smile never leaving his lips. "Hey, don't worry. It's just a shirt." he said. “You’ll have time to change before the flight.”

“Yeah, I know.” You mumbled. “I just… didn’t expect you’d be here. If I checked my email or something…”

You felt a familiar touch on your shoulder, and Daniel placed a hand on it, trying to calm you down.

“Nothing happened. We all make mistakes sometimes, right? You’ll go home and make up for it.”

You quickly glanced at the door where you had left Harry and Diana. An unpleasant feeling of disappointment washed over you. You felt like you had let down not only Harry, but Kruger-Waltz as well, even though she wasn’t your boss. If you weren’t standing in the middle of the hall, you probably would have burst into tears.

“Listen…” Daniel caught your attention again. He pulled a white business card and a pen out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “If you need any help or… want to talk.” He scribbled something on the back of the card and handed it to you. “Call anytime. You know, I always liked talking to you.”

You looked at the card and then at Daniel, completely confused by the whole situation. In the meantime, he led you to the elevator, pressed the button, and the doors opened.

The next few hours passed at an alarming rate. Checking out of the hotel, taking a taxi to the airport, checking in and heading to the terminal. Your brain was on autopilot and you weren't entirely sure what to think.

In the morning, when you woke up, you felt like you had touched the sky, and at this point you were already down. You hadn't had a chance to talk to Harry and honestly, you wouldn't even know what to say. You felt like you had let him down, that your resignation letter was already on his desk. You shouldn't have let him turn off your phone, or at least you should have done your chores when you weren't with him or kissing him.

When you got on the plane, you felt even worse, if that was even possible. You sank into your seat and stared out the window. You exploded. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you hastily pressed your hand to your mouth to hold back a sob.

You hadn't felt this humiliated in a long time.

"Is this seat free?"

Shit. You wiped your tears with your sleeve and nodded. "Y-yes, go ahead." You waved your hand, trying to hide your face from the passenger sitting next to you. From the quiet sounds, you guessed he had taken the seat that was supposed to be Harry's.

"Did you enjoy LA?" the voice next to you said again.

You took a deep breath to calm yourself down and not sound desperate. "I really had a good time here."

"I'm glad to hear that. Are you free this week?"

"You know, I'm really not..." you turned to the other person and froze. Harry sat down right next to you, a gentle smile on his lips. He was clearly pleased with the effect of surprise and your expression.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. "Diane... She's waiting for you, Harry."

"I had to decline her offer. I hope she takes it well, although she didn't seem thrilled." he replied.

You looked at him, completely speechless. A few moments passed before you spoke again.

"You shouldn't have done that. You were supposed to sign a contract... Your company could have lost a lot of money." You spoke so quickly that even if Harry wanted to interrupt you, he wouldn't have succeeded. "You should have stayed in Los Angeles. I've already caused so much trouble. Of course, I understand that my resignation is just a formality..."

"Hey! Stop it." Harry grabbed your hand and that made you fall silent. "I won't accept any resignation, not from you."

“But Kruger…”

“Mrs. Kruger-Waltz is not someone my company would want to work with. Her attitude towards people in lower positions goes against my principles. As my assistant, you should know that.”

Your eyes widened even more, but you didn’t say anything. You stared at Harry with a mixture of awe and fear. Had he really rejected Diane and appeared on that plane?

“You should stay.” You finally said quietly.

He looked at you, then smiled gently. “One woman promised me a date. She’s worth coming back for.”

You shook your head in disbelief, but you smiled back. This was crazy. But it was Harry.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

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