WHEN THE PHONE RINGS || Harry x OC
summary: Harry and Charlotte have always been rivals tied by their political families. When she’s suddenly kidnapped, her father panics, Harry’s father tries to manage it like a scandal, and Harry realizes he cares far more than he ever admitted — and refuses to let her disappear.
I knew you since we were kids. You were the daughter of the man who owned nearly a third of the country’s media landscape. Newspapers, radio, three major digital outlets. The kind of empire that could make or break an election overnight.
I was the son of a politician, the kind that needed all of his scandals buried so that voters could never find out where his dirty money came from.
We went to the same school, shared the same friend circle. You were better, always two steps ahead of me, smarter, wiser. Everything I did, you did three times better.
You were the daughter of power.
I was the son of damage control.
Whenever the newspapers called you promising, they called me promising if managed correctly.
Whenever teachers praised you, they warned me.
Your life always seemed perfect. You had everything: beauty, money, power. Your closet was stacked with designer, your friends always picked you first, your dad treated you like the most valuable asset.
My father spent more time on his campaigns or the women he slept with; he acted like acknowledging me and saying “good job” would cause him physical pain. My whole life I tried to prove myself to him, when all you had to do was bring good marks home. You never needed to jump out of your skin for your father to see you as his replacement. It was already set.
I never told you this, but for a long time, I resented you.
Not because you did anything wrong.
But because you made everything look effortless.
You walked into every room like it was built for you, like the world shifted itself to make space. Teachers adored you. Reporters adored you. Adults whispered about how you’d “change the landscape one day,” how your father was grooming you for greatness.
Meanwhile, I was the cautionary tale.
“Harry has potential,” they said, “but he needs discipline.”
“Harry is bright, but he’s unfocused.”
“Harry would succeed if he took life seriously.”
What they never understood is that I did take it seriously. I just didn’t have the freedom to fail the way you did. I didn’t have the safety net of being loved without conditions.
Your father bragged about you. Mine bragged about himself.
We spent most of our time together while our fathers played friends. The truth was, my family needed yours more.
Your father needed influence. Mine needed protection. And together, they needed the illusion of respectability.
So they paraded us around like a future power duo — two polished children dressed in clothes we didn’t choose, smiling for cameras we learned to fear before we even understood what fear truly was.
You slammed your book down on the desk beside mine. “Don’t talk to me.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I muttered.
“That’s not fair,” I whispered. “You can’t punish me for things I didn’t do yet.”
You shot me a look. “I know you. You’re always about to do something annoying.”
I leaned back in my chair, smirking despite myself. “You’re in a great mood today.”
“I wonder why,” you hissed. “Maybe because our fathers decided to parade us around again like show ponies.”
“Technically,” I whispered, “you’d be the pony. I’d be the—“
“—the donkey,” you cut in. “We know.”
I bit back a laugh, because God help me, irritating you was my favorite extracurricular.
The teacher started lecturing about the structure of Parliament, but neither of us was listening. We were too busy trading insults under our breaths like secret love letters.
“You can’t wear that tie tonight,” you whispered.
“It makes you look like you’re about to ask people to sign a petition in the mall.”
I nudged your ankle. “What should I wear then, oh great fashion oracle?”
You didn’t look at me, but I saw your lips twitch. “Something that doesn’t make me embarrassed to be seen next to you.”
My heart did that annoying skip thing it always did when you pretended you didn’t care but actually did.
“You mean,” I said softly, “something that makes us look… good together?”
You froze for half a second, such a small pause no one else would’ve noticed. But I did. I always did.
Then you kicked my shin under the desk.
“Ow, what was that for?”
“For twisting my words.”
“You said them,” I whispered.
“You interpreted them.”
“You’re impossible.”
You finally turned your head, meeting my eyes and there it was. That spark. That infuriating, addictive spark. The one that kept me awake at night when I pretended it didn’t.
“And you’re loud,” you shot back.
I smirked. “You like me loud.”
Your hand smacked my arm before you even thought about it.
The teacher snapped, “Mr. Styles. Miss Thorne. Stop talking.”
We just lowered our voices like conspirators.
You leaned closer, pretending to write something, your hair brushing my arm. “If you embarrass me tonight,” you whispered, “I will make your life hell.”
You were so close I could smell your perfume, something expensive you pretended not to care about.
“Alright,” I breathed. “I won’t embarrass you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Promise?”
I swallowed. “…Yeah.”
You didn’t smile, not fully. But your eyes softened for just a moment.
Then you poked my ribs with your pen. “And don’t hover. You always hover.”
“You hover like you think someone’s going to steal me.”
Longer than I should have.
“Maybe I do,” I whispered.
You blinked, startled. Then you turned away, cheeks warm.
For the rest of the lesson, we didn’t speak.
But your foot stayed resting against mine under the desk.
You were our golden girl, until that evening…
I was studying for my exam when the knock came on the door. Then the sharp voice — my dad telling yours to calm down.
“James, you need to calm down.”
“Desmond, are you fucking listening? They got my girl… th-they told me they’ll kill her if I go to the police!” I’d never seen your father scared. I’d never heard him stutter in his life.
“Dad? What’s happening?” I asked, descending the stairs.
“Not now, Harry,” he brushed me off, like he always did.
“Dad, I—” he didn’t let me finish.
“Go to your fucking room!” he barked.
I’d been dismissed by my father more times than I could count.
But this time felt different.
His voice wasn’t annoyed.
And that terrified me in a way nothing else ever had.
From the hallway, I could see your father — usually the most composed man in any room, the man who treated crises like puzzles — pacing back and forth, hands trembling violently at his sides.
Like the ground had vanished beneath him.
“I told her to call me after the luncheon,” he said, voice cracking, “and she didn’t, and then—then those bastards—they put her on the phone, Desmond, they put my own daughter on the phone—and she couldn’t even—she couldn’t even speak—”
“She wasn’t talking?” my father asked, too calmly.
A calm that made me sick.
Even when you were furious.
Your voice was your weapon.
“No,” your father whispered. “She was crying. Trying to breathe. Could barely get a sound out.”
And suddenly I couldn’t feel my hands.
I stepped further down the stairs, ignoring my father’s snap of my name, ignoring everything except the ringing in my ears.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
Your father looked at me like he’d forgotten I existed.
My father looked at me like I was an inconvenience, nothing new.
“I said go to your room,” he barked again.
“Tell me what happened,” I insisted, my voice cracking in a way I hated.
I must have looked desperate, because your father, your cold, controlled, terrifying father — actually paused.
His eyes, red and frantic, locked onto mine.
“They took her,” he said hoarsely.
I had to grip the banister.
“Took her—where?” I asked, breath short.
“If I knew that,” he snapped, panic punching through every word, “she’d be home already, wouldn’t she?”
My father placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We don’t call the police. Not yet.”
“Desmond,” your father growled, “they said they’ll cut her up if I involve anyone—”
“So we handle it quietly,” my father said, the way he handled everything — scandals, affairs, political enemies. “No headlines. No leaks. This doesn’t leave this house.”
“This is my daughter, not a goddamn election scandal!”
“And if the press gets wind,” my father warned, “you’ll never get her back alive.”
Your father sank into a chair, burying his face in his shaking hands.
I’d never seen a powerful man unravel.
I’d never seen fear devour someone whole.
Then a single thought knifed its way through my panic:
Were you calling for help no one could hear?
The memory of your foot resting against mine under the desk that afternoon hit me so violently I felt sick.
I stepped fully into the room.
“What do they want?” I asked quietly.
Your father looked up at me, eyes wild. “Money. Leverage. Control. I don’t know—”
My father cut him off. “We don’t negotiate with criminals.”
“She’s my child!” your father roared.
“She’s a political target,” mine countered. “Which means you don’t panic. You don’t fold. You wait.”
Every fiber of me burned.
“She’s seventeen,” I said, voice shaking. “She’s not a political pawn.”
“Don’t be naïve, Harry,” my father snapped. “She has always been one.”
Your father looked like he might vomit.
I took a step toward him, lowering my voice. “Sir… please. Let me help.”
He blinked, stunned, as if the idea had never occurred to him that I cared about you. That anyone other than him ever could.
“You care about her,” he whispered.
My father looked between us, furious, but he couldn’t undo the truth hanging thick in the room.
I cared. More than I ever should have. More than I ever admitted. More than made sense.
And I knew one thing with terrifying certainty: I wasn’t going to let you disappear.
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