˚ .♡ ˖*° ୨୧ 🌺nani🌺 ˚.*‧ •♡

1. The Man Who Saved You

2. The Man You Make Uneasy

3. The Man With a Beautiful Smile

4. The Man Who Kiss You for the First Time

5. The Man Who Speaks With His Eyes

6. The Man Who Makes You Whole

7. The Man Who Found His Fire in You

8. The Man You Didn’t Expect to Need

9. The Man Who Knew Before You Did

10. The Woman He Followed Into the Dark

11. The Woman He Saved from the World

You shake yourself back to reality, giving the soup another stir in the pot before you reach to turn off the stove. You move to take a spoon from one of the drawers. The smells in the kitchen makes your mouth water, and your moves are maybe too quick as you taste the still too hot food.

The moment the spoon touches your lips, you hear a loud and frustrated sigh coming from the living room.

Well, maybe today isn’t as peaceful as you thought it would be.

You swallow that spoonful of soup, humming at the taste before you put the used spoon in the dirty dishes. It clatters against the plates, but you’re already out the door, worry filling you as you round the corner and your eyes fall on Alex.

You furrow your brows, not noticing anything unusual. Alex is laying on the couch, headphones on, tapping on the bunch of paper in front of him in his lap with a pencil. You almost swoon at the way he looks like. Black tank top with gray sweatpants. One of those outfits he wears when he’s not in his practice room, playing on his cello in just a shirt and his underwear.

“Alex,” you call out, but quickly realize that he can’t hear you because of the music playing in both his ears.

So you walk through the room, your bare feet tapping on the wooden floor quietly as you get closer. When you arrive beside him he still doesn’t look up, and as you sit down a soft breeze hits you through the open window behind the couch.

“Alex,” you try again, leaning closer to him.

When he still doesn’t pay any attention, not even turning his gaze towards you for a second, you do something that you immediately know you would regret after.

You take hold of the bunch of paper in his lap, placing it on the coffee table in front of you, followed by his pencil too.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks confused, brows furrowing, making the lines between them deeper.

You reach to push back his headphones, letting it hang around his neck as you look at him. “Lunch is ready,” you announce with a soft smile, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of his forehead.

His hands fall back onto his stomach, and with a frustrated sigh he throws his head back against the pillow. “I was in the middle of analyzing a very hard passage,” he murmurs under his breath, and you immediately feel guilty for interrupting him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you couldn’t have known,” he shakes his head, lifting his head and looking at you. With one hand he reaches out, holding you by your waist and pulling you suddenly towards him. To prevent falling across him and landing on the floor, you throw your leg over his lap, straddling his hips. When your eyes fall on his face, you see a wide grin paying on his lips. “It’s okay.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, his arms circling your middle and pulling you down to his chest. You rest your head in the crook of his neck as much as the headphones allow, and you listen to the music playing from it, the pace too fast, notes flying so quickly you can’t even understand how someone is able to play that.

“What is it?” you ask, curiosity winning as you glance up at him from behind your eyelashes.

“Saint-Saëns, Cello Concerto No. 2, Op. 119,” he answers immediately. Your eyes widen at his precision for knowing the exact passage, and you smile up at him.

“Sounds complicated.”

“That’s why I’m analyzing it first. I may understand harder works, but not this one. The notes I’m making don't make any sense,” he explains, his thumb drawing small circles on your back.

“And it’s making you frustrated because you want everything to go perfectly on your first try.” It’s not even a question. You know him so well now, to understand that he’s a perfectionist, when it comes to his playing and music.

“At this point you know me better than me," he chuckles. He angles his head so he can place a soft kiss on your temple, hugging you tighter.

You stay like that for a few minutes. Him holding you, the music playing beside your ear, the occasional chirping of birds creeping through the window, filling the room. But no matter how peaceful the moment seems like, the position makes your legs go numb, so you start squirming in his lap, trying to find a better one.

As you move, you feel his hands tightening on your waist, and he lets out a low groan. “Shit. Stop moving around, baby.”

You look at him confused for a second, not understanding why he says that, but then realization dawns on you when you push yourself back to sit in his lap again. You can feel something hard under you, pressing against your center. You look at him with a surprised expression, but then a satisfied smile stretches across your face. “You’re hard.”

He tries to ignore your statement, clearing his throat as he looks up and down your body. “This is my shirt. The one that I played in yesterday.”

“Don’t avoid the conversation,” you warn him, leaning close so you are hovering above him, steadying yourself with your hands on his chest. “You’re hard just by me moving around a little in your lap.”

“That wasn’t moving around a little. You were basically dry humping me. Of course I get hard.”

“Oh, Alex. I see some concepts are not clear for you. This is what dry humping is,” you shoot back with a wicked smile, starting to move your hips around in his lap, dragging the most aching part of your body across the hard line of his cock in his pants, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh at the feeling, the thin fabric of your underwear not blocking the sensation.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips and guiding your movements as he occasionally lifts his hips to match your rhythm.

When he closes his eyes and throws his head back, you suddenly stop. He tries to thrust up again, but you lift off of him enough that he can’t reach you, and he looks at you with a wounded expression. “Why did you stop?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop, no? You said it moments before.”

“No, hell no. I don’t want you to stop. The music must have got to my brain for saying that. Too many notes, too many sounds, too many—”

You don’t let him finish the sentence, capturing his lips with yours. He groans into the kiss, and you take that quick moment to take control, slipping your tongue past his teeth. His hands wander down from your back to your ass, squeezing down hard when you teasingly nip at his bottom lip.

You can feel his hands moving again, up under your — technically his — shirt, caressing your back before he moves them to your front, moaning gently when he realized you don’t have any bra on. He immediately starts playing with your breasts, the callouses on his hands rough against your skin, but still igniting a fire on the path he takes with them.

You can feel the wetness between your thighs, and maybe because of the lack of oxygen getting to your brain because of the kiss, or because something else entirely, you get an idea you never had before.

You break away from him with a soft gasp, taking in a deep breath as you look into his eyes, seeing only hunger and desire burning in them, his soft brown eyes turning almost fully black.

When you feel like your brain can function again, you reach for his headphones, taking them off from around his neck, but not putting them down behind you on the coffee table. You just hold them while he looks at you with confusion. You nod towards his tank top. “Take it off.”

He complies without a sound, taking his hands from under your shirt and sitting up so he can quickly get out of his tank top, throwing it to the side. When he is done, he lays back again, his hands finding their place again on your waist.

You lift the headphones a little in the air, hovering above him again. “So I hear this piece is very fast. Must require some amazing finger work,” you wonder, and you watch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I wonder how yours is compared to it.”

Without warning you take hold of his left hand, guiding it down along the waistband of your underwear until you dip it into the fabric, his fingers immediately swiping across your wetness. He moves to dip his fingers lower, but you stop him with a soft squeeze on his wrist, and you hold up the headphones in your other hand. “You’ll follow this pace, alright?” you ask, and lift it to put it on his head, but he is the one stopping you now.

“I won’t be able to hear you that way.”

“Take it as a challenge or an experiment,” you answer. “Imagine a deaf musician. They simply rely on their feelings and eyes. They feel the vibration of the strings under their fingers, see where they’re supposed to hold them down. You feel too, no?” you ask, bucking your hips into his hand, his fingers gliding across your folds again.

“I do,” he nods, his voice strained.

“Great. Good thing you have this piece on repeat.”

You place the headphones on his head, pulling them over his ears so he can only hear the music and nothing else. You nod at him, and he dips his fingers between your folds, swiping them back and forth until his index settles on your clit, drawing slow and tight circles over it.

But his pace is not matching the music you heard coming from his headphone earlier, so you lean down next to his ear, lifting one side of the headphone so he can hear you. “I don’t think the music is this slow.”

That is all you say before placing the headphone back on his ear and leaning back again. At your words his finger immediately speeds up, following the pace of the piece in his ear. His eyes are studying your reactions closely, and you can see them glint when your mouth opens around a soft moan, your eyebrows running together.

You reach to unbutton the shirt you have on, giving him a free sight of your bare breasts, and he doesn’t miss a beat as he sits up to take one of your nipples in his mouth while his right hand plays with the other. His tongue circles around the hardened nub while his index finger wanders downwards towards your entrance. You hold on to him with your arms around his shoulders, and you tilt your hips a little when he eases one finger inside of you, a soft moan leaving your lips.

He starts to move it in and out of you to the music, and you can already feel your walls tightening around his finger, your orgasm building up faster in you than you expected.

It doesn’t take long until he adds a second finger too, and you look down at him.

He is now resting his chin on your sternum, your nipple still glistening from his saliva. But in his eyes you see such concentration like you never saw before. He is looking out for every small breath you let out against his face, every time you open your mouth when you moan, every time you furrow your brow at the sensation growing in you.

And you know he can also feel the way your walls are tightening around his fingers.

So when the music hits another fast point and he picks up the pace of his fingers again, you let go. You fall forward, letting your forehead rest against his while your orgasm washes over you. Your thighs are shaking slightly around his, but he holds you up, slowing his fingers so you can ride out your high without him overstimulating you.

When you feel like your body can work again, you lean in to kiss him. He reciprocates it, pulling his hand out from your underwear to place it on your thigh.

When you pull back, you also push off one side of his headphones. “And how is your timing?”

“What do you mean?” he asks confused.

“Your timing. When you have to hold down the note, or jump into a passage,” you explain, trying to sound like you understand everything about his world.

“It’s pretty good I guess,” he shrugs, still looking at you with furrowed brows, trying to guess where this conversation is going.

“How about we practice that too?” you ask, slowly climbing off of him to lay down on your back. He follows you, hovering above you. “Do you want the underwear to stay?” you ask, hooking your thumbs in the waistband.

“No, not this time,” he shakes his head, his answer coming out breathless. You start pushing the lacy material off, but he takes over halfway down your thighs, pulling them off himself and throwing it on the ground. His eyes fall on your exposed center for a second, and before you can say anything, he is already laying on his stomach between your thighs.

You place your leg on his shoulders, but realize that this position easily pushes off his headphones, so you reach down to pull it back in place, keeping your hands on either side of his head.

He doesn’t wait for you to approve his action, he dives in, swiping his tongue all the way from your entrance to your clit. You jerk your hips at the sudden contact, and he places one hand on your lower belly to keep you still.

You let out a loud moan when he starts drawing quick circles over your clit with his tongue, you are sure that he can hear it even through the headphones. And when he closes his lips around the little nub and starts sucking it gently between his teeth, you know you won’t be able to last too long this way.

And the second time you come, you want that to happen on his cock.

So you quickly pull him up by his hair, and the sight of him with your wetness glistening on his mustache and beard makes you go dizzy. You partially push back the headphones from his ears again.

You open your legs wider so he can settle in, and when he is leaning comfortably over you, you reach down to pull down his gray sweatpants along with his underwear too. The moment his cock is free, your focus falls on it. His tip is already glistening with his precum, the head almost an angry red for being denied any friction for so long.

You place your hand on his stomach first, following that path of coarse hair from his belly button leading down to his cock, taking a hold of him.

He lets out a long groan above you as you gather his precum with your fingers, spreading it over his length as you stroke him a few times.

When you pull your hand away, he tries to chase it at first, bucking his hips, but then he waits for what you are going to do next. You reach up taking a hold of his headphones. “Concentrate on the timing,” you remind him before you put the headphones back over his ears.

He purses his lips, but nods. He reaches down between your bodies, taking a hold of his cock and guiding it through your folds a few times before he lines himself up at your entrance, pushing in slowly. Your walls stretch around his length, and you throw your head back against the pillows at the feeling.

He lowers himself closer to your body, his forearms resting on both side of your head, his chest making contact with your breasts.

When he bottoms out, you both let out a strained moan. He waits for a few seconds for you to adjust to his size before he starts moving based on the music.

His rhythm is steady, and when he hits the spot in you, you don’t even care anymore if he really is following the music’s timing, or he is just making it up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders, keeping him close while you wrap your legs around his waist, the new angle allowing him to go deeper in you, making you see stars.

You are moaning at every thrust, and next to your ear Alex is grunting too, breathing heavily and occasionally cursing under his breath. You can hear the music drifting out from his headphones, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

You tear it off from his head, throwing it to the ground carelessly.

Alex falters for a second, pulling back to look down at you, and when you nod in encouragement it is almost like a spell falls over him. He leans down to capture your mouth with his, and he starts driving into you with more force and determination, and you can’t help but hold on to him tighter, every thrust sending you further up on the couch.

The living room is filled with moans and the sound of skin slapping against each other, the smell of sweat and sex lingering in the air. Now the house is not filled with cello notes bouncing off the walls, but with the music of two people merging into one.

“Oh God, Alex,” you moan into his mouth.

He groans too, closing his eyes tightly. “Fuck, I missed hearing your moans,” he murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.

You can feel yourself get closer to your high again, and you pull back to warn him. “I’m close, Alex. I think I’m gonna—” Your sentence is broke off with a loud moan from you, your walls squeezing him tight as your orgasm washes over you in waves again, this one a lot more powerful than the previous.

Alex doesn’t stop moving above you, but you can feel how his thrusts become sloppier, and he doesn’t need more than a few before he comes hard, burying himself to the hilt, his warmth filling you. You can feel his cock twitching in you as your walls milk every last drop of cum from him, and then he collapses over you, careful not to crush you with his weight.

Neither of you says anything, but you don’t need to.

You brush your fingers through his hair, combing back the sweaty curls as he breathes into the crook of your neck. His hand is all over your body where he can reach — your arms, your shoulders, your sides, your outer thighs.

You have already learned that after such an intense time with you he always needs time to process. He is not used to such level of intimacy, not used to being vulnerable in front of anyone. So after these moments he needs some time to look back at them while you hold him close. Not because he is weak, but because he is afraid of the possibility that it was only just a dream that he made up to comfort himself.

And you always wait patiently until he is the one to break the silence.

Like now.

“I’m hungry,” he says with such simplicity that you can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.

“I bet you are. We’ll need to re-heat the soup.”

“Maybe, but I don’t regret having this moment,” he shrugs, looking up at you with a loving smile. He cranes his neck to place a kiss on your jaw before he pushes himself off of you. Both of you let out a low hiss when he pulls out of you, the emptiness in you suddenly too unexpected. He gets up from the couch, pulling his underwear and sweats back on before he looks back down at you. “I’ll get a wet towel.”

You nod, resting your head on a soft pillow as you watch him walk away, the muscles in his back moving under his tanned skin, hips swaying slightly with every step he takes, making your eyes fall on the curve of his ass.

When he disappears around the corner, you look up at the ceiling, closing your eyes for a few minutes, listening to the birds chirping outside under the window.

You only open them again when you hear his footsteps.

He kneels down beside the couch, cleaning you gently, and you watch in silence as he works. When he is done, you look around for your underwear, and when you see it on the ground you reach for it, but he stops you. You glance at him holding up a simple black material, and you look at him with a questioning expression. “A new pair of underwear. So you wouldn’t have to put on back one that is… well, you know,” he tries to find the words, and you consider it adorable how he stumbles over his own thoughts.

“I get it, don’t worry,” you reassure him, taking it from his hand to put it on. When the material sits around you comfortably, you take his face between your palms, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”

“Right,” he laughs nervously, getting up from the ground and pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll, uh, get us some food then. I’ll be right back,” he announces.

Before he can disappear behind the corner you call after him. “Alex.”

He turns around quickly, eyebrows pulled up, waiting for your next words. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His lips pull into a small smile at those three words. He nods before he finally disappears.

He didn’t say it back. He never has, but you're patient with him. You know about some of the traumas that happened in his past. He sometimes is emotionally distant, but you don’t blame him. In those times you let him have his moment in his practice room, and when he comes out after spending hours in there, you keep him company.

Sometimes he talks about what happened at the rehearsal that day, or why he feels that way, sometimes he just prefers the silence and you close to him. There were times he asked you to read for him, or asked if he could play for you while you watched.

Even though he doesn’t say it out loud, you know he loves you. He shows it with his actions.

He just needs time to process his own emotions and feelings before he can say those three little words out loud too.

And you will be next to him when that day comes. Let it be days, weeks, months, or even years. But you know that you won’t ever be his first true love.

His true love will always be the music, and the beauty of playing. He fell in love with it as a child, and since then the bond between him and the music only grew. Nothing proves it better than him still playing on his first cello, that he got from his parents.

But you don’t mind. It was composed for him this way.

And his fingers run through the strings of life with a quiet, but strong confidence, creating a beautiful melody.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @eviispunk, @baronessvonglitter, @johnssherlock221, @goonersquad101, @my-tearsricochet, @nutbutterjellie, @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa

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

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

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

You reached back and felt your hair.

Your fingers snagged on… something.

A roller.

Still stuck in your curls.

Perfect.

You looked like a runaway debutante having a nervous breakdown.

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

It carried you straight to PH.

Your heart hammered the whole ascent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watched you do it like he could barely breathe.

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

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

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

Ding. Cold, white LED light flooded the elevator.

No marble. No mirrors. No wedding gown.

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

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

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

And then he appeared from the dim hallway.

Not barefoot. Not rumpled.

Just… painfully effortless.

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

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

You liar.

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

“There’s something in your hair.”

You ripped it out so violently your scalp protested.

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

Harry lifted an eyebrow.

“That tracks. It’s Mikey.”

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

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

You followed, irritation snapping under your skin like static.

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

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

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

It hit you like a memory with teeth.

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

A perfect bachelor penthouse.

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

It was curated. It was Harry.

And the painful part?

His taste had gotten better without you.

He poured himself a whiskey.

You didn’t wait.

“Why did you give him the money?”

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

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

He laughed once — cold, sharp, biting.

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

You stared at him, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry blinked. “A what?”

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

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

“But I’ll pay you back.”

He let out a dry, incredulous huff.

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

The humiliation stung deep.

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

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

You swallowed the hurt.

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

He exhaled sharply.

“Alright. You’ve said it.”

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

He nodded once. “Yes. That’s enough.”

“Great.”

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

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

You froze.

His gaze pinned you in place — sharp, demanding.

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

Your throat closed. Your stomach twisted.

“That’s none of your business.”

You turned again.

Almost reached the foyer.

Then—

You turned back. It was your turn.

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

You stepped closer.

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

Silence. Long, heavy.

Then Harry breathed out slowly.

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

Your heartbeat stuttered.

“What?”

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

You blinked, stunned.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“And say what? Why would I call you?”

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

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

Ice crawled over your skin.

“Are you serious?”

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

“That’s not—”

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

You froze in place.

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

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

Your pulse stopped.

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

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

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

He straightened — cold, distant.

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

He pointed to the door.

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

And just like that, he walked away.

Left you standing there with your heart caving in.

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

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

You wiped your face, lifted your chin.

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

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

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

High above you, behind the penthouse window—

Harry stood braced against the glass, breath ragged.

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

And the memory hit him like a punch...

He unlocked the door expecting warmth.

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

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

Your silence.

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

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

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

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

But the air felt wrong. Still. Empty.

He frowned.

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

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

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

His chest tightened.

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

He opened it—

And froze.

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

And everything that belonged to you… was gone.

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

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

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

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

He pulled out his phone, dialing you instantly.

One ring. Two. Three.

Voicemail.

He tried again. And again. And again.

Finally — someone answered.

But it wasn’t you. “Harry.”

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

Before he could inhale to argue—

Click.

The line went dead.

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

He dialed again. Blocked.

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

Your scent was fading already.

And for the first time in years—

He didn’t know if he wanted you gone.

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

Because the truth was brutal:

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

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

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

And then—

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

Oh no. Not now. Not tonight.

Slowly — painfully slowly — you turned your head.

There he was.

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

Your eye twitched.

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

You turned back toward the entrance.

He scrambled after you.

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

You kept walking. Unbothered. Cold.

Mikey hovered beside you like a lost puppy.

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

You stopped in front of the doorman, Rob.

Composed. Elegant. Ice queen mode: activated.

You tilted your head.

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

Rob blinked. “Hear… what, Ms Queen?”

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

Behind you, Mikey slapped his chest like hello?!

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

You didn’t turn.

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

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

He ran in front of you.

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

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

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

You smiled sweetly.

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

He nodded miserably. “…Yes.”

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

You stepped past him.

“But—BUT—where do I sleep?!”

“Hotels exist.”

“With what money?!”

You pointed at his wrist.

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

He clutched his wrist protectively.

“My watch?! This is vintage!”

“And so is your stupidity,” you snapped.

Mikey’s jaw dropped.

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

You walked toward the elevator..

Behind you:

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

The elevator chimed.

You stepped inside just as Mikey yelled:

“ARE YOU KIDDING?!”

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

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

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

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

Rob cleared his throat.

“No, sir. I live in Queens.”

“Queens?! How ironic,” Mikey muttered.

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

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

The gown was still couture.

Still stunning.

Still dramatic enough to silence a room.

But last season is last season.

In Manhattan?

Practically vintage.

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

Not here.

Not in this glittering battlefield where weakness is carnage.

The chandeliers sparkled like diamond guillotines.

Music swirled.

Laughter floated like champagne bubbles.

And then—

“Honey!”

“Heey babe!”

“There she is!”

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

Hailey was the first to gasp dramatically.

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

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

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

You smiled sweetly — weaponized sweetness.

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

You would never forgive him.

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

And yet—

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

Vivienne Castillo.

Harry’s mother.

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

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

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

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

Translation: the city knows you disappeared after the divorce.

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

Not venom.

Just truth wrapped in silk.

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

Scarlet stiffened beside you — nails digging into her clutch.

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

“We adore treating our staff.”

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

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

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

Not in who you were.

In what had happened.

Her gaze gentled for the briefest second.

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

She never hated you.

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled.

Slow.

Dangerous.

Delicious.

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

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

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

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

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

Something dangerous.

Something like:

War.

Sunlight slipped through your curtains, warm and unwanted.

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

Your silk robe lay draped over the chair.

Your skincare neatly arranged.

Your life… not so much.

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

Toner.

Serum.

Eye cream.

Moisturizer.

Brush hair.

Fix your face.

Fix your mood.

Then, coffee in hand, you opened your laptop.

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

Castillo Capital.

Harry’s company.

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

Sharp suit. Cold eyes. That stupid jawline.

You stared at it for a long, simmering moment.

Then whispered:

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

You scrolled.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for.

Maybe a crack in his armor.

Maybe something to weaponize.

Maybe… anything.

Then you saw it.

A banner.

Your brow lifted.

“Interesting…”

You were a Columbia economics graduate.

Top of your class.

Born into finance.

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

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

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

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

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

You lifted your chin, eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

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

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

Your lips curled slowly, wickedly.

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

Emily choked on her sakura tea.

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

You smirked.

“He will. Every day.”

You slid your phone toward her.

Emily glanced at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers flew aggressively across the keys anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning.

You dressed like a woman raised on marble floors.

You always had.

Silk. Shape. Precision.

Elegance sharpened into armor.

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

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

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

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

your natural habitat.

But today called for a different kind of beauty.

You finally chose:

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

a high-waisted pencil skirt tailored to perfection,

silky sheer tights in black,

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

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

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

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

Exactly why you wore it.

One last look in the mirror:

polished, poised, frighteningly beautiful.

A woman built for victory.

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

Lara glanced up first.

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

Scarlet looked up from her tea, eyes widening.

You were—dressy. Very dressy.

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

You paused, arching a brow.

“How do I look?”

It wasn’t their approval you needed.

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

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

Scarlet’s gaze softened.

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

You gave her a single, cool, devastating smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t smile.

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

a storm wrapped in silk,

a ghost from Harry Castillo’s past,

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

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

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

and the entire lobby had turned to stare.

Today?

You blended just enough to be strategic.

People glanced at you—

once,

twice—

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

…but they didn’t gawk.

Good.

You didn’t need an audience.

You needed entry.

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

Her badge read: Tara – Front Desk Ops

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

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

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

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

Because someone was waving at you.

Aggressively.

Like he’d spotted Beyoncé in the wild.

“Oh God…” you muttered.

That guy.

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

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

You stared at him.

“…John, right?”

He straightened proudly.

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

“Yes,” you said, smoothing your skirt.

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

You raised a brow.

“Oh? CFO already? Impressive.”

John turned bright red.

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

Cute.

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

Ah.

That explained everything and nothing.

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

That awkward blend of nepotism baby and earnest overachiever.

Rare.

He blinked, suddenly remembering his manners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw tightened.

Understatement of the century.

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

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

When a crisp voice sliced through the air:

“Ms. Queen?”

You turned.

And there she was.

HR Director.

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

Her charcoal sheath dress was tailored like architecture.

Her dark bob gleamed under the LEDs.

Her posture radiated: I fire people before breakfast.

She looked at you up and down.

Slow.

Precise.

Noticing everything:

The perfect blowout.

The pedigree of your blouse.

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

Was that… envy?

Maybe.

Or caution.

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

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

“Lucy,” he said. “Good morning.”

But Lucy’s eyes flicked back to you.

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

She turned toward the elevators, expecting obedience.

You followed.

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

so earnest you had to fight a smile.

Ron was pale.

Dana was paler.

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

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

“This is—this is insane—this is—”

“Don’t panic,” Ron hissed.

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

They reached the office.

Ron took one shaky breath—

—and knocked.

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

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

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

Harry didn’t even look up.

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

Ron exchanged a terrified glance with Dana.

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

“you… really need to see this one.”

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

He flipped open the first résumé.

Glanced.

Turned the page.

Another candidate.

Turned.

Then—

He stopped.

His fingers tightened on the paper.

His shoulders locked.

The room felt suddenly thin, like the oxygen evaporated.

MISS QUEEN

Columbia University — Economics

Relevant coursework…

Experience…

References…

And then —

your photo.

Your elegant smile.

The tilt of your chin Harry once kissed every morning—

His nostrils flared.

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

An involuntary pull.

And then...

The explosion.

Harry snapped the folder shut so violently that Dana yelped.

He shot to his feet.

“What the hell is this?”

Ron took one terrified step back.

Dana looked ready to faint.

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

Ron glared at her.

“I said we should tell him—”

“You did not—”

“ENOUGH.”

Harry’s voice cracked like a whip.

Both froze.

Ron swallowed hard.

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

Dana nodded frantically.

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

Harry clenched his jaw.

A muscle ticked in his cheek.

His voice came out low.

Cold.

Controlled — the dangerous kind.

“Neither of you saw this.”

Dana nodded like her life depended on it.

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

Ron raised a shaky hand.

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

“No.”

The word cut the air clean in half.

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

Adjusting the expensive watch on his wrist.

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

“Where,” he asked tightly,

“is the interview?”

Ron blinked.

“Conference Room B. HR floor.”

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

“I’ll be attending.”

Ron’s eyes nearly popped out.

“Sir— but CEOs don’t usually—”

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

“I said. I’ll be there.”

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

Dana watched them leave, hands pressed to her temples.

“Oh no,” she whispered to herself.

“God help whoever’s in that room.”

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

Both were children.

Or at least they looked like it.

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

“So… how old are you two?”

The girl brightened.

“Twenty-two.”

The young man added proudly,

“Twenty-three. Just graduated.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Babies.”

They laughed awkwardly.

You smiled like a duchess meeting peasants.

Then muttered under your breath:

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

The door opened.

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

A brief pause — giving the moment weight.

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

But she didn’t finish.

Because the door opened again.

And the temperature in the room plummeted.

Harry Castillo stepped inside.

Every atom in your spine stiffened.

He looked... really pissed off and intense.

Good.

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

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

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

Harry didn’t look at her.

He was staring at you.

Soft.

Stunned.

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

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

Lucy’s eyes flicked between you and him sharply.

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

You smirked. "I-"

Harry snapped out of it.

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

Lucy blinked at him — CEOs NEVER joined interviews —

But she nodded anyway.

“Of course.”

She gestured at the chairs.

Everyone sat.

You lifted your chin.

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

The whole room stiffened.

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

His eyes glinted.

“Is that a problem, Ms. Queen?”

He paused.

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

You smiled sweetly.

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

The two candidates looked like they wanted to evaporate.

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

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

Questions.

Answers.

Corporate nonsense.

Then—

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

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

She paused — brow arching just slightly.

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

A soft ripple of amusement passed through the room.

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

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

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

Ron outright snorted before he could stop himself.

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

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

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

Then her expression sharpened back into corporate neutrality.

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

You kept your posture perfect.

Shoulders back. Chin steady. Smile flawless.

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

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

But no one in the room saw the truth.

All they saw was poise.

Confidence.

A woman carved from prestige.

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

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

He skimmed your bullet points.

You saw the exact second he recognized your embellishments.

His jaw twitched.

Then—

He struck.

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

Lucy raised her brows, impressed.

The other candidates looked lost.

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

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

You smiled.

Because he thought this would break you.

Adorable.

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

He frowned.

Slightly.

You continued, sweet and sharp:

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

A flicker of annoyance.

Good.

Lucy leaned forward, interested.

Harry’s voice was lower now.

“Explain it to the room, Ms. Queen.”

“Gladly,” you said.

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

Lucy nodded.

The other candidates blinked like you were speaking ancient Greek.

Harry stared.

Not angry.

Not impressed.

Something more complicated.

Something hotter.

And more dangerous.

When you finished, Lucy smiled.

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

You tilted your head toward Harry.

“Satisfied, Mr. Castillo?”

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

You nodded politely.

Harry tilted his head, feigning casual interest.

“Then you must have handled some significant clients.”

Crap.

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

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

You kept your face composed.

“No.”

The other two candidates jerked their heads toward you.

Lucy raised an eyebrow.

Harry’s eyes narrowed with delighted malice.

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

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

A beat.

“Surely you agree, Mr. Castillo?”

Lucy actually smiled.

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

Harry spotted it and swore under his breath.

Strike one for him.

He flipped your résumé back open.

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

“For one year.”

He didn’t hide the contempt.

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

You smiled, calm and razor-sharp.

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

A shrug.

“I’ve always been versatile.”

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

“So you change your mind quickly?”

His tone was soft—dangerously soft.

“Commitment issues, Ms. Queen?”

You froze.

Lucy blinked in surprise.

The other candidates stared at the table.

Harry wasn’t done.

“We value loyalty here.”

He glanced at Lucy and the other HR woman.

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

A direct hit.

Personal.

Petty.

Classic Harry.

You inhaled slowly.

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

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

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

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

The entire room sat in stunned silence.

Ron, standing at the door, audibly swallowed.

Harry forced a tight smile.

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” she said brightly — too brightly.

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

You smiled.

“Of course.”

Harry leaned back, jaw tight, fury simmering.

Lucy continued, refocused:

“Ms. Queen, one last question.”

You turned to her politely.

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

The room went silent again.

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

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

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

You continued, voice calm, confident, devastating:

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

Your eyes flicked to Harry for barely one second.

“But I don’t.”

A breath.

A perfect smile.

“I become better.”

Silence.

Lucy finally exhaled.

“Thank you, Ms. Queen.”

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

And he hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walked toward the glass elevator.

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

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, he did.”

“That’s odd. Harry never does that.”

“You know him?”

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

Your smile tightened. “I see.”

Your phone buzzed.

1 New Message — Ex-Harry-bit C

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

You blinked.

“Everything okay?” John asked.

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

“Want me to wait?”

“No. Rain check.”

He nodded sweetly. “Anytime.”

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

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

Harry pulled you toward the service elevator, jaw clenched.

“Harry— what the hell—”

“Quiet,” he snapped.

Ron slipped in behind you as the doors shut.

“Let go of me!”

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

The elevator dinged. Executive floor.

He grabbed your wrist again.

“Move,” he bit out.

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

Ron rushed ahead, peeking outside. “Clear.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I needed a job!”

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

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

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

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

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

“Why’s that, princess?”

“Because the company was my idea.”

Harry stilled.

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

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

His voice cracked, then hardened.

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

He turned away.

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

He stopped. “This is exactly me.”

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

He froze.

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

A smirk — cruel, devastating — curved his lips.

“…Not a bad idea.”

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

You bent your knees a tiny inch—

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

Heat shot up your spine.

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

Harry’s expression shifted.

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

Then you turned and marched toward the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gestured angrily at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry snatched it.

Inside, circled in blue ink:

MS. QUEEN — SELECTED

Harry’s jaw flexed.

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

Harry marched into his office, Ron trailing behind.

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

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

He didn’t pick it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry muttered immediately, voice sharp:

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

Ron froze, hands hovering over his clipboard.

Harry glared at the silence.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Ron cleared his throat carefully.

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

Harry scoffed. “I’m asking you to speak, not write your will. Go on.”

Ron exhaled slowly.

“Okay. If you want my opinion… Ms. Queen might be right.”

Harry whipped around in his seat.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Ron stammered, “why are you blocking the hiring? She was selected. Objectively she’s a strong candidate.”

“She lied on her résumé,” Harry snapped. “She exaggerated everything.”

“Yes, that part is… problematic,” Ron admitted. “But honestly? She’s not a bad hire. In fact, she’s—”

Harry cut in.

“She’s what, Ron?”

Ron stared out the windshield for courage.

“…She’s right. You’ll see her every day. It’ll bring back memories. It’s natural to… to be affected. Anyone would be. So I guess—”

He swallowed hard.

“—you are scared.”

Harry stared at him. Silent. Offended. Personally attacked on a molecular level.

“I look scared to you?” he said quietly. Too quietly.

“…Are you not?”

“No,” Harry said, looking out the window as the city rushed by. “No. That’s over. Completely. Done.”

But then—

Your voice cut through his skull:

Prove it. Hire me. Prove it.

Harry’s jaw flexed.

He leaned forward.

“Ron.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want Ms. Queen’s file on my desk first thing in the morning.”

Ron blinked. “You’re… going to sign it?”

Harry nodded once.

“Yes. I’m hiring her.”

Ron let out a stunned noise — half gasp, half wheeze.

Harry kept his gaze fixed outside at the blur of lights.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his mouth.

“Let her come,” he murmured. “We’ll see who gets destroyed this time.”

He closed his eyes briefly, cold confidence settling in his chest.

“Be afraid, princess,” he whispered. “You asked for it.”

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You had been hired by the Castillo family almost five years ago. As a commercial photographer, your goal was to help promote their business and brand. Your relationship with the family extended to them permanently hiring you for your services, which also meant you had to photograph corporate events. 

You had gotten used to their extravagant parties and the family had always been so very nice to you. 

But it was their oldest son that you had more of a personal relationship with. It started off as a one night stand, a drunken night where you both spent the entire night just pouring your hearts out to one another. 

You wanted marriage. 

So did he. 

You felt like you couldn’t find the right guy. 

He felt like no woman could meet his standards. 

You wanted someone simple, someone that could challenge you but ground you at the same time. 

He wanted a partner, someone equal to him. 

And by the end of that night after realizing that you both would likely end up dying alone, you ended up sleeping with each other. 

You both agreed it had been a mistake, that you both just had too much to drink and were just in your feelings. 

But then, it occurred again later that month. 

After a failed first date. You had stepped into his penthouse and just… used him, and he didn’t care either. You were helping him as much as he was helping you. 

And so, your relationship with Harry shifted. He’d use you just as much as you used him, but never did it pass that threshold into something more. 

Because he wasn’t what you wanted. 

And you weren’t what he wanted either. 

For now, both of you were just a warm body to each other. 

Someone to pass the time with. 

Someone to help him get his mind off a particularly rough date. 

Or someone to help you move on when you’ve been broken up with.

That was just the type of relationship you had with Harry and you didn’t mind. 

He didn’t either. 

When he met Lucy, you knew to keep your distance. Just like he would when you were exclusively seeing someone too. 

But it was different with her, you knew that already. 

The last conversation you had with him was after Peter’s wedding. He told you all about Lucy, how interested he was in her, how such a good match she was. He wanted more with her right away and you knew better than to get involved in his personal relationships. 

Because you knew that was just how Harry was. He had told you once before that love was always the most challenging thing in the world. It wasn’t his job, it wasn’t the endless meetings he had to attend, it was love. 

He couldn’t understand how difficult that seemed to be—how someone like him couldn’t find anyone worth settling down with. 

But Peter’s wedding had gotten him to start reflecting on the type of life he was living and the kind of life he wanted. 

And he wanted someone to love, someone to come home to. He wanted what his parents had, what Peter was able to experience with Charlotte. 

So, when he met Lucy, Harry thought he found the one. He knew that he could add value to her life, just how she could add value to his. Everything had been going smoothly too. He bought a ring, bought two plane tickets to Iceland, and was planning to propose to her just after a few months of seeing her. 

But when she found out about his scars late one night, Harry knew something wasn’t right. His relationship with her didn’t feel right. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt when she had broken up with him, but there was a bit of relief that he felt too. 

When she left, he went to your apartment. Didn’t say anything when you opened the door, he knew you weren’t seeing anyone. And before you could even ask what he was doing there, he had just leaned in to kiss you. 

It was urgent, messy, almost like he was trying to forget everything with Lucy. 

Because the conversation she had with him in his kitchen did made him feel like a child. 

Love is supposed to be easy. She said it so casually, so matter-of-factly too. 

So, he went to someone familiar. Someone that knew all parts of him. Someone without any strings attached. 

He went to you. 

And he knew you wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t push him to ask him what was going on. That wasn’t the type of relationship you had with him anyway. 

You welcomed him almost immediately and he spent the rest of that night fucking you into your mattress. It wasn’t a great relationship—you both knew that, but it worked for the two of you. 

When you both finally had enough of each other that night, Harry was already pulling on his sweatpants while you laid there in bed, naked with a sheet covering you. 

“I’m going to Iceland,” he blurted out. His tone was cold, hurt. 

“Okay,” you said. 

“Without Lucy,” he clarified. 

“I figured.” 

He sighed. 

And for a moment, your eyes softened. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “She said love is supposed to be easy… what the fuck does that even mean?” 

You sat up and reached for your shirt on the floor to cover at least your upper half. You knew Harry, knew the surgery he and his brother went through, knew how difficult it was for him to feel something that normally other people wouldn’t have trouble feeling. 

“Sounds like she was in love with someone else,” you answered honestly. 

Harry sighed. “I know.” 

“And yet, you still wanted to marry her.” 

He looked at you. “We could’ve been great together.” 

“In what sense, Harry? Because if love is what you’re really looking for, you weren’t going to find it with her.” 

“Oh, and you just know that, do you?” 

You sighed. “Don’t get all snippy with me, okay? I’m just—I’m telling you what I saw.” 

He sat down at the edge of your bed. His eyes softened too. You both knew how to regulate each other’s emotions in a way that no one else could. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. 

“I know,” you said, reaching out to run a hand through his hair. “And you’re hurting, I get it, but she wasn’t for you… and I think you knew that too.” 

“But we were compatible,” he reasoned. 

“On paper, maybe,” you whispered. 

“Exactly.” 

“Harry,” you sighed. “Did you love her?” 

He bit his lower lip and pulled away from you. “I don’t know.” 

“If you can’t answer yes right away, then the answer is already a no.” 

Harry looked at you and nodded once. You always had a soft spot for his deep brown eyes, but right now, he looked like a kicked puppy. So, you leaned in and gently pecked his lips. 

“You’re not old,” you reassured him. “You’ll find the perfect woman.” 

“I’m not getting any younger,” he said. “And maybe there just isn’t a perfect woman out there.” 

“Of course there isn’t.” 

His brows shot up slowly. 

“You just need to find the perfect one for you,” you finished. 

Harry looked into your eyes and moved a hand to your hip. The air felt charged now like something unspoken was now lingering in the air. You knew how to calm him down, how to get himself out of his head. He leaned in again. 

“Will you wait for me?” He asked. 

You let a small smile line your lips. “You know I won’t.” 

Harry chuckled, pulling away from you as he stood from your bed. “That’s fair.” 

“You wouldn’t wait for me,” you argued. 

“I know,” he said quietly. “Will I see you when I get back?” 

You nodded. “You know where I live and you know where I work, Harry.” 

He nodded and bent down to kiss the crown of your head once more. “Thanks,” he whispered. “For tonight.” 

“I know you’d do the same if I was in your position.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I would.” 

You laid back in bed and turned on your side face him, arm tucking underneath your arm. “Have a fun trip to Iceland.” 

Harry scoffed. “I’ll try.” 

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone while you’re there.” 

“Doubt it.” He walked towards the door and turned back to look over you at his shoulder. “Good night.” 

“Night, Harry,” you smiled. “Turn the light off on your way out.” 

He chuckled to himself and nodded. He left your apartment that night feeling a bit more relieved, but the pain of rejection still lingered. Harry ended up boarding his plane that following morning, sending you a quick text that he was leaving. 

He stared at his phone and couldn’t help the smile on his lips. It was a simple text, nothing that showed you were interested in something more, which was the kind of relationship you both already established. 

You forgot to turn the light off, he read your message repeatedly before shutting his phone off. 

Maybe leaving to Iceland would be for the best. 

Harry had come back to Iceland two months ago. Nothing changed. He went back to work like he didn’t just get his heart broken and he still visited you almost every night to get his mind off of it. 

You didn’t mind though. Sex with Harry had always been different than with other men. You weren’t sure if it was because he knew what you liked or if it was because he knew every spot on your body that would bring you closer to the edge, but it was easy with him. 

He never stayed the night too. 

That had been one of the rules you both established and even if there had been some nights where you had no choice but to stay, you always slept in different rooms. 

Never together. 

Because that meant also crossing a boundary that neither of you wanted to cross. 

But tonight, Harry was nervous. He planned to show up at your apartment, just like he did last night, but for a different reason to see you. 

All day, his parents had been hounding him about Lucy, about how he wasn’t getting any younger and that their hope to see him married likely wasn’t ever going to happen. 

It started distracting him from his work too because they got in his head. Late to meetings all day, staring out the window of his office when he should be looking over reports.

His mother even came into his office and said she had some friends whose daughters could be good for him. He shook his head and just blurted it out. He didn’t mean to, truthfully, he didn’t, but he was tired. It was already bad enough that he had his own standards that having his parents go on about it just made it worse. 

“I’m already seeing someone,” Harry told her. “And I’m bringing her to the Maldives.” 

His mother’s eyes lit up. “What?” 

“Yeah, I—I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.” 

“You’re taking a woman to our family trip for an entire week to celebrate me and your dad’s anniversary?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.” 

“Must be serious then,” she grinned. “It isn’t Lucy, is it?” 

“No,” he sighed. 

Then, Harry said your name. 

“The photographer?” 

“Yes,” he answered.

His mother’s grin grew. “Perfect.” 

“Perfect?” 

“I always knew there was something between the two of you,” she winked. 

Harry cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure what she was referring to because even when you did come to work at certain events, you both tried to keep your distance. Sure, you’d have conversations with him, but never to the extent that anyone could see there was something more. 

“Did you?” 

She nodded. “I see the way you look at her sometimes. It lingers.” 

His brow furrowed. Harry didn’t know what his mother was saying and it wasn’t something that he could tell you either. “Anyway, can we just stop with the trying to set me up and everything?” 

“Well, if we’d have known that you were already with someone, we wouldn’t have hounded you all day,” she chuckled, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “We just want you happy, Harry.” 

“I know, ma,” he mumbled. “And I am,” he lied.” 

“Good. Your dad’s gonna be so excited to hear that you’re dating her.” She smiled, pulling away. “I’ll let you get back to work.” 

When his mother left his office, Harry sighed and grabbed his phone. Sent you a quick text, asking to see you tonight, before he continued working. He thought by lying to his mother about his relationship status would help him focus, but instead it just distracted him even further. 

Harry stepped into your apartment so casually once the door opened. He kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his blazer before moving to your living room to sit on your sofa. He moved around your place so effortlessly, like this had become his second home. 

“Your text was… ominous,” you pointed out first, moving to sit next to him with your legs tucked underneath you and your body facing his. 

“Don’t be mad,” he said. 

“Uh oh,” you replied. “That usually means I’m going to get mad if you start with that.” 

Harry sighed. 

You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the concern and exhaustion written across his features. “What is it, Harry?” 

“You’re coming with me to the Maldives,” he answered. 

“Okay…” you said, brows furrowed in confusion. “For what?”

“For my parents’ 50th anniversary trip.” 

“Oh, did they want me to work while I’m there?” You asked. 

“No.” 

“Right, so then…”

“You’re going to pretend to be my girlfriend,” he blurted out. 

“What?” 

“I panicked. I was just tired of hearing my parents go on and on about Lucy and how I should be like my brother, settling down already, and it just came out.” 

“Harry—”

“I’ll pay you,” he interrupted. 

“Well, that’s a fucking insult.” 

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t—” Harry shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked down at his feet. 

“Listen, I know we don’t really talk much… I mean, we don’t do much talking when we’re together anyway, but,” you sighed. “I know you’d do this for me if I was in your position.” 

He turned his head to look at you. Hope filled his dark brown eyes. You could see him relax now. “I would,” he whispered. 

“How long’s the trip?” 

“One week.” 

You nodded, contemplating on what that trip would look like. One week with Harry and his family, pretending to be someone special to him. You knew there was a part of you that knew it’d be easy to slip into that role, but you kept thinking about how it’d change after that one week was over. 

“Okay,” you nodded. “I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend. When do we leave?” 

“This weekend.” 

“I don’t know if I have any appropriate clothing for the Maldives.” 

“I’ll give you my card.” 

“Wow, already being the best boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you teased. 

The corner of his lips lifted. He felt himself relax. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” He asked. 

You nodded and reached out to rest a hand over his. “It’s one week at the Maldives. I think it’s perfectly okay.” 

“And being my girlfriend?” 

“We’re already sleeping together, so it’s not like we have to tiptoe around that.” 

He nodded. 

“But we do need to establish some kind of rules and get our story straight too. They’ll probably ask us how we got together, what our favorite things are about each other… all of that couple stuff.” 

“Right,” Harry said. “That makes sense.”

“And we also need to talk about what happens after.” 

“After?” 

“Yes,” you said. “After.” 

“Okay,” he nodded. 

“Let me get us some drinks. I don’t think this night is gonna end with you on top of me,” you teased, standing from the couch. 

Harry looked up at you and grabbed your wrist, standing too, and gently tugging you to him. With his free hand, he reached up to cup your cheek as he leaned in to lightly peck your lips. 

“Thank you for doing this,” he whispered. 

“I’m getting a free trip and a new wardrobe,” you teased, smiling against his lips. “But anything for you, Harry.” 

Then, you walked away to go into your kitchen. Harry watched you slowly and bit his lower lip. He did feel a bit more at ease, but now he couldn’t help but ponder on your words and the words his mother said too. 

Anything for you, Harry. 

I see the way you look at her sometimes. It lingers. 

It was late and both of you already three drinks in by the time you both decided it was time to lay out the ground rules for the trip. You were laying on your side on the couch and Harry was seated on the floor, tie loosened around his neck and sleeves folded to his elbows. 

“Sex,” you said first. “We can definitely have sex.” 

Harry chuckled. “It’s always sex with you, isn’t it?” 

“You’re good at it,” you winked. “Are you really going to say sex isn’t allowed for the entire week that we’re there? I’m guessing we’re also sharing a room?” 

“Yeah,” he answered. 

“Exactly.” 

He smiled. “Well, sex was a given anyway.” 

“Right, right,” you teased. “What’s the story for how we got together?” 

Harry bit his lower lip. He looked over at you and let his eyes take in every inch of your frame before settling back onto your face. “Maybe we can go with it happened after one of your shoots for company. I was helping you clean up and it just… it happened.” 

“Hmm,” you pondered. “Not good enough.”

“What?” 

“It’s not good enough. You’ve never stayed back to help me before. I don’t think it’d seem realistic.” 

“Fine,” he said. “What about…” Harry leaned over to get closer to you, one arm resting on the couch as he reached up to cup your cheek. “What about we bumped into each other on the way to pick up coffee? It was after Lucy and we just… started talking.” 

“Ooh, I like that,” you smiled, leaning against his touch. “Then, I asked you out for dinner that same night.” 

“You did?” 

“Yes,” you answered. “Shows I like to take initiative. Besides, the men don’t always have to be the one to make the first move.” 

He grinned. “Okay, that’s good. So, we bumped into each other getting coffee, started talking, and you asked me out.” 

“Mhm, and then dinner was a disaster.” 

“You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be,” he laughed. 

“We can’t make it seem all perfect,” you reasoned. 

“Sure, right,” he said, thumb brushing along your cheek. “Dinner was a disaster… we waited so long for our food, they gave us the wrong dishes—”

“And it started raining while we were waiting for the valet!” You chimed in. 

Harry chuckled and dropped his hand. “You know, that actually sounds like something that would happen if we were to go out on an official date.” 

You sighed dramatically. “Exactly.” 

He sat up from the floor and moved to sit on the couch, placing your head on his lap. “So, how do we go from a disastrous first date to officially dating?” 

“I kissed you,” you answered simply. “Because despite everything working against us, we still had fun.” 

Harry smiled. “Romantic.” 

You turned on your back and looked at him, feeling his hand move back down to your cheek again. “That’s something you don’t know about me,” you teased. “I’m a hopeless romantic.” 

“Oh, I knew that about you,” he laughed. “But it’s cute. I like it.” 

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a romantic too.” 

“Good point.” 

“Okay, we have that established. How about during the trip?” 

“What about during the trip?” He asked. 

“Are we affectionate?” 

“Naturally, yes.” 

“Okay, fine with me.” 

“And after?” You asked. 

“Nothing should change,” he answered. “We make it through the week and then we come back and just… slip back into our normal routine.” 

You nodded. “Okay, good.” 

His eyes narrowed as he watched you move to sit up and face him. “What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing. I know that look on your face. What is it?” 

You sighed. “What happens if one of us… develops something for the other person?” 

Harry cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” 

“Me too, but we need to have some kind of plan in case it does.” 

“Fine,” he said. “If that happens, we talk to each other about it.” 

“And you’ll listen?” 

“Me?” He scoffed. 

“Fine, okay. We’ll both listen.” 

Harry nodded and then gently pulled you onto his lap, watching you place both legs at either side of him as he sat firmly on you. He moved his hands to your hips as he looked up at you, tilting his head. 

“One week,” he said quietly. 

“One week of pretending,” you nodded. 

“And if at anytime you feel uncomfortable, you tell me, okay?” Harry said, reaching up to cup your cheek. 

“You know I will.” You replied, leaning down as your hands ran through his dark curls. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Again.” 

You nodded and leaned in to brush your lips with his. “Guess you’ll just have to owe me.” 

He chuckled and gripped your hips before moving to lay you on your back on the couch, settling himself between your legs. “I can think of a few things to start with.” 

You squeaked out in surprise when his fingers moved along your sides, digging into them teasingly as you erupted in a fit of laughter. You tried to squirm away from him, but he was stronger than you. 

“Harry!” 

He laughed to himself and grabbed your hands, pinning them above your head as he stared down at you. “You tired?” 

You shook your head. Both your gazes darkened. “You know I’m not.” 

“Good,” he grinned, leaning down and pressing his lips firmly against your own. 

A Close Call cowboykylo69 on ao3 [rough sex]

Beg @amanitacowboy [edging]

Beyond My Skin, Deep In My Bones @djarins-wife [breeding kink, rough sex, spanking]

Bleed For Me series @saradika (mand’alor!vampire!din x f reader)

Beskar Doll series JustAGalWhoWrites on ao3 (brat tamer! Din x f reader)

Best Kept Secret Chapter Six: Torment series @lincolndjarin "din djarin is a little shit, helmet stays on" (bodyguard! Din x f reader)

Close Quarters cptnbvcks on ao3 (dom! Din x f reader)

Colosseum Capers @beefrobeefcal (Din x Dieter Bravo x f reader)

Darkness Trilogy series @queenofslowburn (demon! Din x witch! reader)

Despoliation Of The Flesh series @djarinmuse (possessed! Din) [dddne]

Din's Kitten @honeybunnyale ["darkish! fic"]

Deep Into The Wilderness mandoinevarro on ao3 [sex pollen]

Fifteen series @whocaresstillthelouvre (Din x cam girl reader au)

Grip mandoandyodito on ao3 [dry humping, wet dream]

Heresy @kewwrites (demon! Din x f reader) [dddne]

How To Touch @petalsinblood ["Din has nipple piercings"]

Hyperspace Nights series @jedijesi (rough Din! x f reader)

In A Perfect World, You Love Me @theidiotwhowritesthings [forced drug, hallucinations]

In The Dead Of Night @kedsandtubesocks (creature cowboy! Din x f reader)

Interlude: Burn in My Bloodstream @prolix-yuy (Din x f reader, Din x Xi'an)

Ignite @withmyloveasyourgarden [sex pollen]

Kinktober Day 2: Din Djarin - deep throating, rope play with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober Day 3: dark!din djarin x fem!reader @darkuselesssomebody [sex pollen, dddne]

Kinktober Day 11: Din Djarin October 11 – punishment, spanking with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober 14 – somnophilia with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober Day 23: Din Djarin October 23 – boot licking, cock worship with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Leading Blindly @pascalispretty (virgin! Din x sex worker f reader)

Limitless | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["t.w. : Dark fic, Smut (with a robot that looks like Dinny Din Din >:)), Breeding Kink, Angst, Din and reader are both insane for each other"]

Like A Moth To The Flame series @the-scandalorian (monster! Din x f reader)

Mand'alor Cabur nautilicious on ao3 (Din x Boba Fett)

Mandalorian's Mercy // bonus content: din's poc series @silver-pieces (alpha!Din x omega!cis!woman!reader)

Mutual @the-scandalorian (sex worker!Din x f reader)

Prisoner - Part 1 @almostempty (Din x f bounty hunter reader)

Quarry series AK_Vintage on ao3 (Din x f prisoner reader)

Riduur in Training @absurdthirst [sexual grooming, training]

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker mandoinevarro on ao3 [bondage, face fucking, etc.]

Rough Day series no-droids on ao3 ["Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a 'fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob' kind of day"]

Secrets @absurdthirst (virgin! Din x f reader)

Shadows @burntheedges (monster! Din x f reader)

Sorgan Girls Are Easy- Solo Din Djarin murder-wife-deactivated20250628

Silent Genesis @sp00kymulderr [light choking]

Take Me To Church series on ao3 @frannyzooey is reworking to republish on Tumblr ["set in a brothel in the 1800s in the Wild West", Threesome F/F/M]

Take Your Time @ghostofaboy (Din x Cobb Vanth)

That Time Again @orcasoul [fluff but periods]

The Apostate Ch 1 series murder-wife-deactivated20250628 (fallen angel! Din, later chapters x ofc)

The Might Of The Realm @604to647 [bath sex]

The Way To A Great Wide Somewhere @myownwholewildworld (beast! Din x f reader)

The Throne @absurdthirst [pregnancy kink, breeding kink]

The Visitor Part 1 @whocaresstillthelouvre (husband din x omc! Jedi Kalel x f reader)

The Storm @frannyzooey (Ezra x Frankie Morales x Din Djarin x f!reader)

This Is The Tea @yespolkadotkitty [sex pollen]

Tight @frannyzooey [“'I don’t want you to wear anything but this when you sleep in my bed, okay?'”]

Told Before and Told Again @kiwisbell [sex pollen, "fuck or die"]

Torment series @djarinmuse ["They are both trapped and their captor has dark plans for them"]

Unexpectedly Mated @absurdthirst (alpha!Din x f!omega!Reader) [knotting]

Unfettered @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, use of restraints, "sex-pollened!Mando gets scary"]

Unrestrained @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, alternate version of Unfettered - if the chains broke]

Untitled or response to ask "A din that hasnt seen tits since he was 25, let alone TOUCHED THEM" @here-briefly

Untitled or "inspired by time for a haircut, king" @djarinmuse [masturbation] (Din x GN reader)

Welcome Home | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["Dark-fic!...Jealous, Possessive, implied crazy Din"]

Whispers In The Dark 2.0 series @kewwrites (dark! Din x f reader) [dddne]

You Were Marked series @handspunyarns (Din x *reverse age gap* *plus-sized* *fem* *afab* O/C) [dddne]

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

I listened to My Din YT Playlist while making this and had the best time.

Disclaimer: I haven't read all of these yet, I'm just feeling the vibes. Thank you to the authors - I tried to tag only once but Tumblr's not cooperating - if you'd rather not have your work mentioned please let me know. Din won't mind ;-P

It was never going to be an ordinary day.

Harry knew that the moment the sweating executive across the table began rambling about everything except the answer to his very simple question.

“We invested ten million dollars into this project,” Harry says, his voice carrying the authority of a man who has built business empires out of nothing. “Where did it all go?”

The man stutters, fingers nervously adjusting his glasses.

It thins Harry’s patience, already razor-thin after two days of half-truths and expensive lunches that led nowhere.

His brother, Peter, smoothly steps in, guiding the conversation into friendlier territory until the cowardly businessman finally admits the investment was mismanaged—but promises they will generate the profit needed to repay them and move forward with the project.

“We’ll believe it when we see it. Our lawyers will be in touch.” Irritated by the endless bullshit, Harry rises from his seat without another word.

He strides out, leaving Peter behind to close the meeting with a touch more professionalism.

In the lobby, Harry scrolls through his phone, arranging his private flight back to Manhattan.

The entire trip has been a waste of time and resources. A reminder that most people only want to take advantage of his family’s money and name. 

They had suspected the money was being mishandled from the start. Harry had pushed to send the legal team and be done with it, but his brother had insisted on this face-to-face meeting just in case things weren’t what they seemed.

So much for that.

Peter appears a moment later, loosening his tie with a sigh. “I knew you were tense, but I didn’t think you’d let him see it.”

“He was wasting our time and I have a loaded schedule waiting for me stateside,” Harry mutters, falling into step beside him as they exit into the golden morning light.

The sun spills generously over the area, bathing the elegant streets in warmth and turning the sea beyond into a glittering expanse of sapphire. 

They slip on their expensive sunglasses as the valet brings around their luxury antique car.

“You know,” Peter adds casually “there’s a beautiful oceanfront resort not far from here. Private beach. Incredible views. You could stay a few more days.”

Harry lets out a short, dry chuckle. Is he serious? “And do what? Have a spa day? Get a massage?”

“Yes,” Peter grins. “Stop spreading yourself so thin and have some fun.”

Harry rolls his eyes, tongue pressing against his cheek.

Fun. The word tastes bitter.

The last time he let himself do just that, the woman he was seeing left him for her broke ex.

Ever since, he’s buried himself in his work, which isn’t necessarily too different from how involved he usually is.

However, with his mother’s retirement looming on the horizon, he intends to be more than ready to step into the role of Chief Executive Officer; which means he’s been picking up extra responsibilities within the company.

Security and control—those are things Harry Castillo understands, and he can’t let something as trivial as having fun distract him from the bigger picture of his career.

Their car glides to a smooth stop in front of them. The young valet hops out and Peter tips him generously before they both get in.

“All I’m saying is things are in good hands back home, so if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be,” he continues as he buckles his seatbelt. “Ever since Lucy—”

Harry shoots him a sideways glance, but his brother ignores it entirely.

“Ever since you came back from Iceland, you’ve been so rigid. It’d be good for you to loosen up and get out of your head before the promotion takes over your life.”

Harry rolls the window down, letting the warm sea breeze rush in, scented with summer itself.

The beautiful streets of Monte-Carlo unfold around them: whitewashed buildings draped in vibrant bougainvillea, shops and restaurants pulling in the morning crowd.

Since the breakup (mutual as it was) he has grown more guarded, more rigid, as Peter so eloquently put it.

Overworking himself during the day has kept him distracted enough, but at night in his penthouse, with a glass of chardonnay in hand, Lucy’s absence has carved out a hollow space inside him.

For the first time in his life, he feels truly heartbroken. It serves as a stark reminder that romance is a risk he no longer cares to take.

It’s easier to approach relationships like long-term investments rather than an actual, intimate connection.

They stop at an intersection. Peter nudges him, pointing toward the scenic coastline.

“Look at that view,” he whistles, adjusting his sunglasses. “Who wouldn’t want to get lost in that?”

The water sparkles under the sun. People lounge on the sand, others swim in the shallow water, and a few yachts drift lazily in the distance.

The beauty of it appeals to him more than expected. He supposes his brother has a point—the last few months have been nothing but long days filled with grueling business meetings and lonely city nights.

Maybe a few days of doing nothing in paradise won’t actually kill him.

His decision crystallizes in that moment.

“For once,” Harry says, a small smile tugging at his lips as Peter laughs in triumph, “you might be right. It is very beautiful here.”

“There are worse places to be.”

Harry hums in agreement, pulling out his phone and canceling his flight back to New York. 

You’ve been mostly inland for the past month—wandering misty green hills in Ireland, chasing history through the UK, and slowly making your way down to the stunning French Riviera.

It has been the kind of trip that rewires your soul.

Now you’re in Monaco, kicking off the coastal chapter of your long awaited summer escape. 

The views here are almost too beautiful to be real. Water stretches endlessly toward the horizon and pastel buildings cascade down the hills like something out of a painting.

You can’t wait to lose yourself in it.

Right now, you’re laying out on a plush lounger beside the resort’s infinity pool, bikini hugging your sun-warmed skin.

Headphones in, your favorite summer track pulses softly in your ears as a light sheen of sweat kisses your collarbones and thighs.

You’ve been out here for hours, lazily sipping mimosas until the world has taken on that perfect, fuzzy glow.

God, you haven’t felt truly peaceful in… well, longer than you care to admit. 

Between the endless hours at your interior design firm, the partnership with your husband and his brother that blurred every line between work and home, and the slow unraveling of your four-year marriage… you’d forgotten what it meant to put yourself first.

This trip is your rebellion. Your indulgence. Your chance to be gloriously selfish for once.

With a contented sigh, you slip one earbud out and push your sunglasses up to rest on top of your head. 

The bright Mediterranean light makes you squint as you lazily scan the pool area. It’s perfectly balanced—not too crowded, not too empty. 

Most guests cluster near the bar on the far side, laughter and conversation drifting across the water.

That’s when your gaze catches on him.

A handsome stranger is already watching you. Tall, dark curly hair, confident posture even while leaning against the bar.

His eyes are kind and intense at the same time. You don’t know how to feel about it.

You offer him a polite smile.

He returns it, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that sends a small spark of interest through you, before he turns back to the bartender.

The heat is starting to cling too heavily to your skin. You rise gracefully, stretching your arms overhead, letting the sun worship every inch of you for a moment.

You adjust the strings of your bathing suit, then pad around the edge of the pool and dive in with a smooth, clean entry.

The cool water is pure bliss. It swallows you whole, washing away the morning’s warmth as you glide beneath the surface.

When you break through, you push wet strands of hair from your face and smile to yourself, savoring the way the water caresses your skin.

You swim a few lazy laps, rediscovering the rhythm of your strokes. You haven’t swam properly in years.

Eventually, the craving for something sweeter pulls you toward the submerged swim-up bar.

You swim to the smooth ledge and settle onto one of the underwater stools, ordering once you get the bartender’s attention.

“Coconut mojito, please.”

The resort is everything Peter mentioned and more.

Harry checked in not much longer after that car ride with his brother, changing into swim trunks and a light button-down, heading down to the pool with no real plan except to sit in the sun and remind himself he’s still capable of relaxing.

He ordered a tequila sunrise at the bar, the sweet burn of it loosening the knot at the base of his neck.

That’s when he saw you, and he swore his heart stopped for just a split second. 

You were laying there completely oblivious, enjoying the early afternoon so at ease that Harry almost envied how serene you looked.

And the bathing suit you have on? He kept his gaze respectful, but the pull in his gut was immediate. 

Then you made eye contact, smiled at him, and that was enough to get the man’s resolve to crack just a little bit.

You’re absolutely gorgeous.

Harry didn’t approach you or anything like that, obviously, since he’s not here for complications. Just a few quiet days to breathe before diving back into the labyrinth of his family’s empire.

So he decided to lounge at the bar in the water, taking off his button down before getting in and making small talk with the man behind the tiled counter as he waited for his drink.

But now… here you are. Sliding onto the space right beside him, water droplets tracing shimmering paths down your shoulders.

He’s already three—no, four—tequila sunrises deep. Liquid courage has a way of making him disregard his stance on making a move.

“You can charge it to my room,” Harry intervenes smoothly when the bartender turns to prepare your drink.

You glance over, one eyebrow arching in pleasant surprise.

The light catches the small hoops in your ears and the layered necklaces resting against your collarbone. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

You flash him that same smile from earlier, the one that made his pulse jump.

Up close, you’re even more striking—curves accentuated by your bathing suit, skin glowing with a thin layer of sunscreen.

The bartender returns with your cocktail. You thank him softly, then lift your glass toward Harry in a cheerful toast.

He mirrors the motion. Your glasses clink under the bright blue sky.

“Mmm, delicious,” you murmur after the first sip.

Harry wonders if that's an invitation to indulge in small talk.

It is.

“Is that your go-to order?” he asks, turning slightly toward you, the cool water lapping gently at your waists.

“No,” you answer, leaning forward against the colorful bar top, your gold jewelry gleaming with every small movement. “I’m usually an espresso martini girl, but I’m trying to break out of my routines. What about you?”

You nod toward the vibrant orange drink in his hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Tequila sunrise,” he says with a small grin. “Not my usual either. But it felt right for this setting.”

You take another slow sip through the straw, the mint and lime bright on your tongue. “So what is your usual?”

“A rich bourbon on the rocks.” His eyes drift briefly to your lips as you hum in response, licking a stray drop from them.

The motion is innocent, but it sends heat curling through him.

“Here’s to trying new things,” you say, raising your glass again with a mischievous glint in your eye.

You clink once more, and this time Harry can’t look away.

With the way the afternoon sun paints everything in gold and rose and how the distant laughter of other guests provides ambient background noise—it all feels like the opening notes of something… delightful.

“Do you usually stare this hard,” you tease lightly, “or do I have something on my face?”

Harry feels the faintest blush creep up his neck—completely out of character for him. He’s usually quick with a charming retort or flirtatious compliment.

He blames the tequila… and you.

“Sorry,” he replies with a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just find you to be a very gorgeous woman. Your partner is a lucky person.”

You tense for the briefest second, but you brush it off with an easy giggle. “And what makes you think I have a partner?”

“A beautiful woman like yourself? Surely someone has already made their move.”

Your eyes narrow as you study him, reading the confident lines of his face, the expensive watch glinting on his wrist, the kind warmth in his deep brown eyes.

The way you’re looking at him sobers Harry up just enough to realize he might be coming on too strong.

“Well,” you finally break the small silence, leaning in a little closer. 

The scent of chlorine, coconut sunscreen, and something sweetly flora hits his nose and it makes him feel a little lightheaded. 

“Someone is making their move… and I think he thinks he’s bombing it entirely.” You can’t help but tease. “He isn’t, though. But he could buy me another drink if he really wants to make a good first impression.”

Harry blinks, momentarily stunned. Then realization hits like sunlight breaking through clouds—you’re flirting back.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face as he straightens his posture and flags the bartender with newfound confidence.

“Another round,” he tells the man, not taking his eyes off you. “And keep them coming.”

The rest of the afternoon stretches lazily, conversation flowing as easily as the drinks.

For the first time in months, Harry feels the walls he’s built around himself beginning to melt under the warmth of your presence.

And you—lost in the freedom of this trip and the magnetic pull of this charming stranger—start to wonder just how far this unexpected spark might take you.

Eventually, Harry suggests moving to a shaded cabana nearby, and you happily agree.

The two of you settle into the oversized daybed draped with crisp white linens. The sheer curtains flutter lazily in the sea breeze.

As you get more comfortable, friendly touches linger just a second longer than necessary—his fingers brushing yours when passing a drink, your knee grazing his thigh as you shift closer.

The chemistry is hard to ignore.

You lean back against the cushions, legs tucked beneath you, and swirl the straw in your drink with a teasing smile.

“You know, I thought all billionaires were supposed to be pretentious and complete assholes. So far, I’m not getting that from you. Like, at all.”

Harry chuckles, moving closer, his brown eyes catching the sunlight as he rests one arm along the back of the daybed.

“That would be an accurate assumption. We are pretentious and assholes.” He says, truthfully. “I just happen to be aware of it and know when it’s best to let those unfortunate characteristics shine.”

He gives your figure a suave once over. “Sitting here with a beautiful woman doesn’t seem like the best time to be pretentious or an asshole, does it?

You take a slow sip from your mojito, deliberately holding his gaze. “Smooth talker. Do you practice answers like that in the mirror, or do they come naturally like the private jet?”

“Naturally. Especially when you look at me with that sparkle in your eye and in a bikini that should come with its own warning label.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, but you don’t look away.

Instead, you bite your lip, tilting your head with a flirtatious look.

“Warning label, huh? Please. Nothing mischievous about me. I’m just here to soak up the sun and forget real life exists for a while. You, on the other hand...”

You reach out and lightly tap the center of his chest, right where his shirt would button if it were fully fastened.

“Might not be an asshole but you do have that whole ‘I negotiate with fate itself’ energy about you. I bet you even schedule spontaneous moments in your calendar.”

His grin dimples, a playful challenge sparkling in his eyes as he leans in a fraction. “Guilty, but I’ll have you know that I canceled my flight back home on a whim. That’s practically rebellious for me.”

You raise your glass in a toast. “To rebellion... and learning how to be at ease.”

He clinks your drink gently against his, the ice chiming like a secret promise.

“This might just be the best detour of my summer yet.”

The breeze stirs the cabana curtains again, wrapping the two of you in the sweet tension of a budding romance.

Eventually, the sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in rich strokes of tangerine and deep violet.

“What’s your name, by the way?” Harry asks, realizing only now you haven’t properly introduced yourself with how wrapped up you both have been in the easy conversations.

You giggle softly. “We really skipped right past that, didn’t we?”

“If my mother were here, she’d scold me for not introducing myself properly,” he extends a large, warm hand toward you. “I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” you repeat, letting the name roll off your tongue like you’re tasting it.

You slip your hand into his, noting how perfectly it fits, feeling the buzz from the sun and drinks and now his touch. 

“I’m…” You glance down at the small sun tattoo on your wrist before meeting his eyes again. “I’m Sol.”

“What a beautiful name.”

“I’ll make sure to thank my parents on your behalf.”

Harry’s laugh is genuine and rich, paired with an easy smile that softens the frown lines of his handsome face.

“Well, Sol, forgive me for being too forward… but I would love to take you out to dinner tonight.”

Whatever this is—he doesn’t want it to end when the sun sets. Contrary to how gloomy and pessimistic he’s been about romance as of late. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in delighted surprise. “Tonight? As in, tonight tonight?”

“Not sure what other tonight there is, but yes. Only if you’d like.”

You bite your lip, the white rum humming pleasantly through your veins as you weigh the invitation.

Harry is unlike anyone you’ve met in a long time. Charming without trying too hard, confident but not arrogant.

Talking to him feels dangerously easy.

Part of you whispers that you should keep this light, enjoy the afternoon and walk away with a perfect vacation memory to tell your girlfriends back home over brunch. 

After all, he’s returning to New York soon, and you’re only at the beginning of the second half of your summer escape and in the middle of a very messy separation. 

But those eyes… those deep, kind, captivating eyes are making it nearly impossible to say no.

With a pretty, tipsy smile, you nod. “I’d love that, Harry. How about we meet in the lobby at eight?”

He tries—and fails—to hide the spark of excitement in his expression. Glancing at the expensive watch on his wrist, he notes the current time.

“That sounds perfect.”

With that, you get up to gather your things. Harry helps, also grabbing his belongings, and both of you walk back into the building together.

“I’m looking forward to dinner. Thanks for this afternoon… It was very fun.” 

Fun. There’s that word again. If Peter were here right now, he’d be saying I told you so in varying boastful ways.

“As am I. Thank you for indulging me.” 

You flash him another dazzling smile, and with that, both of you part ways.

You meet in the lobby at eight o’clock on the dot, the soft glow of chandeliers twinkling over the marble floors of the open area.

You’ve chosen a flowy summer dress in soft coral that makes your body look delectable, a fresh bikini hidden beneath for whatever the night might bring.

Keeping your makeup as natural yet accentuating as possible, you’ve made sure to apply your favorite lip gloss and sprayed just enough perfume to be that more alluring. 

Harry is waiting for you near the grand entrance, looking effortlessly handsome: a crisp light button-down rolled at the sleeves, tailored shorts, and his usually slicked-back curls now loose and fluffy.

In his hands rests a thoughtfully arranged bouquet of pink summer roses, delicate lilies, and cheerful daisies—perfectly color-coordinated as if he put meticulous care into choosing every bloom.

The sight of him makes your stomach flutter. Goodness, he really is so hot.

“You look incredible,” Harry compliments once he sees you, his warm brown eyes lighting up with obvious appreciation of how effortlessly gorgeous you look as he offers you the flowers.

You accept the bouquet with a genuine smile, inhaling the sweet floral scent. “These are beautiful, Harry. Thank you.”

He offers his arm like a true gentleman, and the two of you stroll down toward the private beach path, the distant sound of waves growing louder with every step.

“Where exactly are we going?” You can’t help but ask, taking in how beautiful the coastline looks at this time of night.

“It’s a surprise.”

He’s rented a secluded cove just for the two of you. When you arrive, your breath hitches in your throat.

A beautifully arranged beachside picnic waits under a canopy of sheer white fabric that billows gently in the breeze.

There’s plush cushions and a low table overflowing with vibrant summer fruits—ripe peaches, berries, slices of mango—alongside an elegant spread of fresh seafood, crusty bread, cheeses, and chilled wine. 

Lanterns flicker softly, casting gentle shadows across the sand as the waves foam against the shore.

“This is… possibly one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me,” you admit without thinking, a little breathless as he helps you settle onto the cushions.

Holy shit.

Harry’s smile is modest but pleased. “Good. That was the goal.”

The dinner unfolds like a scene from a romance movie. You talk for hours as stars pierce the clear night sky.

He tells you about growing up in New York, his love for the energy of the city but his quiet craving for serene moments like this. He’s glad his brother talked him into extending the trip.

You laugh at his dry humor, tease him about being a secret romantic, and flirt shamelessly in return. Your husband doesn’t cross your mind once.

When he asks about your life, you keep things intentionally vague: a few charming stories from your travels, your passion for design and beautiful spaces, but nothing that might pop this perfect bubble you’ve found yourself in.

Two bottles of expensive, crisp white wine disappear between shared bites of food.

It loosens your limbs, drawing you closer to him on the cushions.

Harry’s hand rests on your bare knee. It makes you shiver despite the breeze that flows by being warm.

Your head rests against his shoulder as the night turns more intimate.

He turns to you, his face inches from yours, eyes dark with want.

“Have you ever wanted to do something so impulsive,” he murmurs, gaze falling down to your glossy lips then back up to your eyes. “that it makes you wonder if you’re really as brave as you thought you were?”

You let out a soft sigh, the question hitting closer to home than he could ever possibly know. “Yes.”

He studies your features for a moment, then asks: “Can I kiss you?”

Instead of answering with words, you lean in and press your lips to his.

It starts tender but quickly ignites, all that pent-up longing you’ve both been carrying in your respective lives pours out between you.

You climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs as your flowy summer dress rides up around your hips. Harry’s hands instinctively settle on your waist, gripping you with a quiet groan of approval as you settle against him.

Your fingers thread through his curly hair, tugging lightly as the kiss deepens passionately. Harry responds with equal fervor, one hand sliding up your back while the other grips your thigh, pulling you flush against him.

Your bodies move together instinctively. Tongues dance, teasing and tasting wine and summer on each other’s lips.

You rock subtly in his lap, feeling his swelling erection against your inner thigh. It makes the pulsing at your core intensify. You don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this desired.

His hands roam freely now; tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over warm skin beneath the thin fabric of your dress, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edge of your tied bikini.

When you finally pull back, you repeat his earlier question back to him with a playful smirk. “Have you ever wanted to do something so impulsive…?”

You have him completely at the edge of his metaphorical seat, every nerve alive with anticipation.

His lips are swollen from your playful nips. “Yes.”

Without warning, you rise from the picnic setup with a wicked grin

You slip out of your dress, letting it pool at your feet and revealing the stunning silhouette of your body. 

His eyes widen in a mix of surprise and desire as you peel off your bikini top and toss it playfully at his chest, exposing your chest to him.

Harry’s mouth goes dry.

You kick away your bottoms and skip toward the moonlit ocean, your laughter ringing like music across the sand.

“C’mon! Don’t make me swim alone!”

He doesn’t hesitate long after that. Harry strips down and joins you in the warm, silky water. 

He can’t believe he’s doing this. Just this morning he was ready to sign off the idea of letting loose for good… and then you appeared and completely swept him off his feet.

Naked skin meets naked skin as the gentle waves lap around you both.

Harry presses his broad body against yours, hands sliding down the slick curve of your waist, gripping the soft swell of your hips, then gliding up to cup your breasts.

You moan softly, throwing your arms around his neck and angling yourself to kiss his lips.

A low groan vibrates from his chest and into your mouth as your hardened nipples brush against his skin with every sway.

One of his hands drifts lower, possessively squeezing the fullness of your ass, pulling you tighter so you can feel exactly how hard and ready he is for you.

And holy shit is he packing a very generous package. 

“As pleasurable as I imagine it would be, I can’t sleep with you tonight, Harry.”

He’s so dizzy with lust that it’s almost disorienting. “That’s fine. There are no expectations. However, I am only human…” He says in regard to the hard on he’s currently sporting.

“Trust me, I feel it too in my own way.” You bite your lip and pull away before things escalate.

You’re not sure you want to cross that line just yet—but he’s making it seem very, very enticing.

To keep things playful, you splash him with a cheeky wave of your hand then immediately try to wade away.

Harry is a lot quicker. His strong arm loops around your waist, pulling your slippery body back against his chest with an amused laugh.

While holding you firmly in place, he retaliates with a splash of his own, sending sparkling droplets cascading all over you.

You squeal with laughter as the two of you playfully wrestle in the waves, all tangled limbs and breathless giggles under the stars.

The walk back to the hotel feels like you’re floating.

Harry’s hand rests lightly at the small of your back as you stroll along the string-lit path. The night air is perfumed with sea salt and night-blooming jasmine.

You feel like you’re in a modern fairytale.

Every touch sends sparks up your arm, shared glances carrying the delicious weight of everything that just happened between you in such a short amount of time.

When you reach the lobby, you turn to face him, cheeks still warm.

“I had an amazing time tonight,” you tell him softly, meaning every word. “Truly. Thank you for everything.”

Harry steps closer, his brown curls more prominent now from the texture of the saltwater.

“Truth be told: I’m not ready for this night to end. I want to keep seeing you… if you’ll let me.” His voice drops, laced with quiet hope that you want to continue whatever the hell this is. “May I have your number? So we can stay in touch while you’re here?”

You hesitate for half a second—your real life flickering somewhere in the back of your mind—but the pull of this amazing man and the rejuvenated summer version of yourself tugs you from those thoughts.

You give him the number to your flip phone (the burner you bought specifically for this trip) and he programs it into his phone with a boyish grin that makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter like crazy. 

Then leans in and kisses you.

It’s sweet, feeling like the beginning of something far bigger than a fleeting summer fling… even if neither of you vocalizes it.

“Goodnight, Sol,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slip away from him, the bouquet of flowers cradled gently in your arms. You step into the waiting elevator and press the button for your floor, your eyes never leaving his until the mirrored doors glide shut between you.

Once you’re inside your room, you close the door behind you and let out a soft sigh as you slide down against the wood, knees literally weak.

Today was pure magic. The kind of day you’ll replay in your head for years.

You’re still smiling when you push yourself up, gently laying the flowers down on the console table, and heading toward the shower to rinse the salt from your skin.

That’s when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Your heart does a hopeful little flip, hoping that Harry has caved already and decided to call you.

Couldn’t even wait until tomorrow… you think to yourself playfully, reaching for the small device. 

But the number on the tiny screen isn’t his.

It’s your husband.

The smile fades instantly. You stare at the phone for a long moment, everything inside you screaming not to answer.

But old habits (guilt, history, the tangled business partnership) win out.

You flip it open.

“Hello,” you answer, your voice flatter than it’s been all day.

“Finally,” his familiar Texas drawl fills the line, tight with worry. “Ain’t heard from ya since you left for Ireland a month ago.”

There’s a heavy silence that follows before he speaks up again. “You okay? Where are you right now?”

“I’m fine.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, the dreamy afterglow of your day with Harry dissipating with every word.

More silence.

“We need to talk about this. I know I’ve been distant but… we built somethin’ real together and I know we can fix it.”

Old resentment bubbles up. “It took me leaving the country for you to finally come to that realization? We’ve been roommates who share a business for the last two years. Not husband and wife.”

He lets out the kind of heavy sigh that used to make you soften and let your guard down.

“I know I’ve let you down. I’ve been putting the job first—hell, putting everythin’ first except us. But I’m here now, trying. Everyone’s been on my ass too, sayin’ I’m an idiot for letting you go on this trip alone. Just… tell me where you are. I’ll fly out. We’ll figure this out together.”

Together. You scoff and close your eyes, the weight of years of trying—and failing—pressing down on you. 

You’ve already grieved this marriage in silence for too long. Important dates he missed, dinners eaten alone, the way intimacy had slowly faded into plain coexistence.

You’re exhausted from carrying the hope for both of you.

“It’s too late for that,” you admit steadily, despite the ache that lingers. “I’m not coming home yet. I need this time for me.”

The line goes quiet for another moment.

“I miss you.”

“I missed you too, but I’m done missing someone who’s right next to me. Don’t call me again for a while, Joel.”

You end the call before he can respond, the finality of it settling heavy in your chest.

Setting the phone down, you finally undress and step into the shower, standing under the hot spray of the waterfall feature.

As eucalyptus scented steam fills the space, your mind drifts back to warm brown eyes, curly hair, and the way Harry looked at you like you were the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

You allow yourself to sink fully into the possibility of what this summer—and this unexpected man—might blossom into.

A wistful, secret smile returns to your lips.

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