IF YOU WERE MINE || CEO Harry x Reader
characters count: 7682
summary: your husband opens your marriage, while his best friend Harry is determined to steal you
masterlist || part 1:
Harry’s POV:
“So I decided to open our marriage.” I almost choke on my champagne as your husband shamelessly brags about it with a smirk to all our investors. Tom and I practically grew up together. We both came from wealthy families, and our parents have been friends forever, so it was already decided for us before we were born — like the rest of our lives. We went to the same kindergarten, the same school, the same university, and took over our fathers’ companies.
But we’ve changed — and Tom, not for the better. He’s one of those people you stay friends with because you have a long history, not because you want to. If I met him now, there’s no way I’d become friends with someone like that. Honestly, I would’ve cut him off if it weren’t for you. I don’t know how it happened; I don’t know what he did to deserve an angel like you.
I can’t even count how many times I’ve wondered and imagined myself in his place. I would take proper care of you. I would show you what you deserve. Hell, I would worship you. You’re incredibly beautiful, caring, kind, witty, and smart — God, you’re smart. I remember how many times you literally saved his company from bankruptcy, yet he never offered you a position or invested in your own business. But I did.
That caused us to spend more time together, but still, you never told me about this. You don’t like it, do you? Who would like having their husband rail other women and then brag about it to people from his work? God, he’s embarrassing you.
“Is it a one-way thing?” My voice cuts through all the filthy comments of these middle-aged balding men.
“No, of course not. She’s welcome to do it as well. But you know how she is — always loyal.” That sly smirk on Tom’s face makes my hand curl into a fist. Oh, y/n, sometimes I wish you were more vicious.
I nod as my eyes dart around, looking for you. There you are, politely smiling and shaking the hand of some rich guy — another deal in your pocket. You look so radiant in that dress, and I shamelessly make my way to you.
“Can I steal you for a second?” I whisper in your ear as I lean in from behind.
“I’m all done here, H,” you smile and turn to me.
“Great,” I smile softly. “Another deal?”
“There’s never too many investors,” you wink, and I can feel my knees getting weak.
“Atta girl,” I chuckle softly. “Do you know that your husband is bragging about your open marriage to everyone?” I watch your cheeks turn pink. Of course you didn’t — what a wanker. “So I was just wondering, since your relationship is now open, would you consider going on a date with me?”
Just say yes, and I’ll show you how you should be treated. After that, I know you won’t be able to go back to him or anyone else — because nobody will treat you as well as I will. Do I intend to steal you from your husband? Make you exclusively mine? God, yes. You were supposed to be my wife from the start, and now I’ll fix it.
Your lips part slightly, like the question took the air out of you, and for a second—just a second—the polished grace you always wear like armor slips. I see you. The real you. Not Tom’s quiet trophy wife, not the brilliant negotiator charming investors, but the woman who once told me she hated champagne but drank it anyway because it was “expected.”
You look up at me, blinking slowly, as if you’re measuring the weight of what I just asked. Your voice, when it comes, is quiet—but not uncertain.
“You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more.” My voice is steady, low, only for you. “I meant every word. You deserve someone who doesn’t just admire your loyalty, but returns it. Someone who doesn’t make a joke out of you in front of a room full of men with gold watches and empty morals.”
You look down for a moment, and I swear I see your lashes tremble.
“It’s not easy,” you whisper. “Walking away from a marriage with a man you knew over a decade, even when it no longer fits.”
“I know,” I say, gently. “But you wouldn’t be walking alone.”
You let out a soft breath that’s not quite a sigh, not quite relief. “Tom didn’t even tell me he’d… announced it. I only found out last week. A phone notification. Can you believe that?” You laugh, but it’s brittle, hollow. “He didn’t even bother to look me in the eye.”
I clench my jaw. “That’s because he knows he couldn’t face yours.”
Your eyes find mine again. The pink in your cheeks has faded into something stronger now—resolve.
“And if I said yes?”
I smile, slow and real, every nerve in my body lighting up.
“Then I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. No champagne. Just us. And no pretending.” I lean a little closer, my voice dropping. “And if you let me… I’ll start showing you what it’s like to be loved properly.”
There’s a flicker in your gaze, something that feels dangerously like hope. And then—God help me—you nod.
“Okay.”
Just one word. But it’s everything.
From across the room, Tom raises his glass to you like a man who still thinks he’s in control of the game. But he’s already lost.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
We leave the gala early.
Not dramatically—no slammed doors or shattered glasses—but quietly. Elegantly. You slip your hand into mine like it’s always belonged there, like this was inevitable. And maybe it was. Maybe everything in our lives has been leading up to this exact moment: you and me, walking out together while the rest of the world isn’t paying attention.
Tom doesn’t even notice. Too busy laughing at his own jokes, surrounded by men who clap each other on the back and call it ambition. I don’t look back. Neither do you.
The ride to your place is silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy—with everything we haven’t said. Your dress brushes against my arm, and every time the car takes a corner, your shoulder leans just slightly into mine.
You unlock the door, and I follow you in.
It still smells like him here—his expensive cologne, his taste in leather furniture, the soulless art he insists is “investment-worthy.” But as you kick off your heels and toss your clutch on the console table, something changes. The energy shifts. You walk barefoot through the hallway, not as someone’s wife, not as a socialite or business pawn, but as you.
Raw. Real. Ready.
You pause at the foot of the stairs and turn to me. “Are you still serious?”
“I wasn’t making a move,” I say. “I was making a promise.”
That stops you for a second. And then you nod slowly, eyes glimmering with something that’s not sadness anymore. Maybe it’s freedom. Or maybe it’s the first spark of something new.
You hold out your hand.
“Then come upstairs.”
It’s not sex—not tonight. Not yet.
You change into something soft. I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves like I’m preparing for something sacred. And maybe I am. You let your head fall against my shoulder as we sit on the couch in the guest room—yours, not his—and talk.
About everything.
The things you wanted and never got. The things you dreamed of and had to bury. The ache of being seen but never understood.
And I listen. I hold your hand. I offer nothing but truth.
“I would’ve chosen you a thousand times,” I whisper. “Even if you came without the company, the elegance, the money. Even if you came to me messy, angry, torn—I’d still take you.”
You look at me with eyes that are both shattered and shining. “I don’t want to belong to anyone.”
“I don’t want you to,” I say. “I want to stand beside you. That’s all.”
A long silence settles between us, but it feels like peace. Your head leans against my chest. You breathe in. And when you exhale, it’s like you’re finally letting go of a weight you’ve carried alone for far too long.
Tomorrow will be complicated.
But tonight? Tonight, you sleep in my arms, safe for the first time in years. And for the first time in my life, I know exactly what I’m fighting for.
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