ayoungpascallover

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Eight: The Blazer

Warnings: 🔞 smut warning, yes we finally got there. Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

For you, I would cross the line, I would waste my time, I would lose my mind. They say, "She's gone too far this time"

It starts with him knocking gently on your bedroom door.

You’re in the middle of scrolling aimlessly, wearing nothing but a robe and a silk headband you forgot to take off after washing your face. The knock isn’t loud, but it’s deliberate. You know his rhythm by now - that same, composed restraint that somehow makes everything feel more intimate.

You swing the door open halfway. “Yeah?”

Harry leans casually against the frame, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone like he was just about to text you instead.

He’s in a black T-shirt and dark trousers, clean-shaven, hair a little damp like he just stepped out of the shower. Unbothered. Effortless. Dangerous.

“You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone light.

You raise a brow. “Other than existing in your spare room rent-free?”

His mouth twitches. “Thought I’d take you to dinner. If you wanted.”

You blink. “Like… actual dinner?”

“I meant a bar fight and a kebab van,” he deadpans.

You smile, despite yourself. “Where?”

“Somewhere low-lit. Music, good food, no one trying to sell us anything.” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your robe, then back up, pointed but polite. “Thought it might be nice to get out someone where normal for a change. Unless you’ve got plans.”

You hesitate. You don’t. But that’s not the point.

“This is just dinner?” you ask.

He nods. “No pressure. No work. Just you and me.”

You pretend to consider, even though your heart already said yes. “Sure, I can do dinner. ”

******

An hour later, he’s waiting by the door, checking his watch. He’s added a dark blazer over his T-shirt, and changed his shoes. You feel his gaze before he speaks.

The dress you wear is one of the simpler ones from the boutique - elegant, but not flashy. Soft black silk, thin straps, delicate across the collarbone. It sways when you walk. You didn’t choose it to impress him, not really. But part of you wonders if he’ll notice.

You move slowly down the steps. “Is this okay?”

His gaze lifts when he hears your heels, and then pauses. There’s a flicker of something. Appreciation, maybe. Or surprise. You can’t quite read it. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you cross the room with that stillness of his, the kind that always makes you feel slightly breathless, like he sees more than he’s letting on.

“You look...” he begins, then shakes his head slightly, and settles on, “Nice choice.”

You smile faintly. “You picked it.”

He lifts a brow. “I only paid for it.”

But when he opens the door for you and rests his hand at the small of your back to guide you out, it lingers half a second longer than it needs to.

*****

The restaurant is candlelit and quiet, tucked away in a side street near Tribeca. There’s no paparazzi, no flash, no hoards of billionaires and old money. Just polished wood tables, flickering glass votives, and the hum of conversation and jazz guitar.

You’re led to a corner table, partially hidden behind a column. It feels private in a way that’s intentional but not overbearing. Safe.

He lets you sit first. Lets you order first. Doesn’t correct your wine choice, doesn’t dominate the conversation. He just watches you, interested, relaxed, the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth when you make a dry joke about the bread being better than your ex’s personality.

“I find that’s true of most sourdough,” he murmurs, swirling his wine.

You laugh. It’s easy. Too easy, maybe.

He doesn’t reach for your hand. Doesn’t touch you when the waiter pours wine. But his eyes keep returning to your mouth when you speak, your collarbone when you shift, your knees when you cross them beneath the table.

There’s a comfort in his presence tonight like neither of you are pretending. The conversation is slow and honest. Not about business. Not about image. Not even about the contract.

Just music. Food. People-watching.

At one point he tells you a story about nearly getting expelled from school - something about a stolen Vespa and a fire alarm. His voice is drier than the martini he’s sipping, but there’s a trace of fondness in it. You can picture it: younger Harry, scruffy, sharper around the edges. Still a little dangerous, even back then.

“Were you always like this?” you ask, eyes narrowing slightly as you lean on your elbow.

“Like what?”

“Intense. Observant. Kind of terrifying.” That earns you a slow smile.

“No,” he says simply. “That came later.”

You don’t ask what made it happen.

******

Over the main course, grilled sea bass for you, rare steak for him and the conversation turns unexpectedly light.

You mention how you once tried to learn French and gave up halfway because your tutor was too attractive. He gives you a flat look across his wine glass.

“Is that how it works with you? You get distracted by good bone structure and abandon all ambition?”

You lean back in your chair, unbothered.

“Only when the bone structure’s worth it,” you say, meeting his gaze over the rim of your own glass.

You lift your glass and glance at him over the rim. “Can I ask something?”

His brow rises. “Yeah.”

“What was your ex like?” Harry pauses.

You didn’t mean it to come out that way, so casual but you hold his gaze anyway. He leans back a little, arms resting loosely on the counter behind him.

“Lucy?” he says after a beat. You nod not expecting an answer. Not a real one. But he gives it anyway.

“She was... smart. A strategist. No illusions.” A faint smile flickers at his mouth, more memory than fondness. “We were good on paper.”

“But not in person?” His eyes lift to yours.

“No.”

You don't press. Instead, you say, “I always wonder what people leave behind in breakups. The stuff no one else sees.”

Harry looks at you for a long moment, quiet. Then, finally, he says, “She said I cared more about control than connection. That I didn’t let people close.” A small breath. “And she was right. I liked being needed more than being known.”

You blink. “That’s… honest.” He smiles faintly.

“You asked.”

“I guess I’m just not used to men who talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they’ve thought about it.” Harry shrugs.

“Maybe I’ve had to.” You don't say anything to that. Just take another sip. There’s a heaviness in the air now, not uncomfortable, but weighty. Meaningful. He studies you again.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Anyone serious?” You let out a short laugh.

“God, no. You think men date girls like me?”

His eyes darken a little. “I think they want to.”

You hum, gaze falling to your mug. “Wanting isn’t the same as staying.”

That lands somewhere between you both. Harry doesn’t push further.

By the time dessert is offered, you’re both sitting a little closer. Not touching. But the air between you is warm now. Easy. You shake your head when the waiter appears with the menu.

“Too full.”

“Coffee?” Harry asks, already glancing at the waiter.

You nod. “Always.”

The waiter disappears. Harry leans back slightly in his chair, studying you in that unreadable way he has.

“What?” you ask, suddenly aware of how soft your voice sounds in this place.

“Nothing,” he says. Then: “You’re different when you’re not trying.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’m trying most of the time?”

“I think you’ve had to,” he says. “Tonight... it doesn’t feel like work.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just study him. Most men like to see only what you show them, the curated version, the practiced smile, the performance.

Harry, on the other hand, seems to watch for what’s underneath.

It’s disarming. And you don’t know what to do with it.

You wait until the coffees arrives before you ask it, timing it so the clink of spoons and the low hum of conversation soften the edges of the question.

“I've been meaning to ask. Why wasn’t sex in the contract?” you say, casual on the surface, but watching him closely. “Very unusual for a man of your stature to not want a woman in his bed that he is paying for."

Harry pushed back his cup and for a moment, he looks at you as if weighing whether to laugh it off or answer honestly.

“Because I didn’t want that to be what you thought I was buying,” he says at last, his voice low, deliberate. “I wanted your presence, your attention… without you wondering what it might cost you later.”

You tilt your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. “And here I thought you just had saintly self-control.”

The corner of his mouth curves, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Don’t mistake restraint for disinterest.”

The line lands heavier than you expect, settling between you along with the unspoken things neither of you dares to chase just yet.

******

Outside, the night is warm and quiet.

He offers his jacket when he sees your arms are bare, and you let him drape it over your shoulders. It smells like him, bergamot and something smoky, and it makes your stomach twist in the most inconvenient way.

On the walk back to the car, there’s a moment.

You pause at the curb as Luca pulls up. Harry lingers behind you, and you feel the brush of his hand on your lower back, not possessive, not overt. Just steady.

You glance at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks for dinner. I had a really good time." you murmur.

His voice is quiet. “Any time.”

And the way he says it, soft, sincere, like he means every syllable, makes something inside you flicker dangerously close to wanting.

*****

The car ride is quiet, but not awkward. You rest your head against the window, the city blurring past, your hands folded neatly in your lap. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to fill the silence. There’s something in that restraint that makes your chest ache.

When the lift doors open into the penthouse, he lets you step out first. You toe off your heels by the door, your feet aching. He watches you do it.

Usually, this is the part where things turn, where the evening shifts toward the bedroom or the door or some awkward negotiation of roles. But Harry doesn’t move toward you.

The city is quiet beyond the glass, the skyline flickering in reflections across the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside the penthouse, the air is dim and hushed. The kind of quiet that makes you whisper without knowing why.

You’re barefoot now, wineglass still in hand, standing near the window with the lights behind you. Harry’s across the room, jacket long since discarded, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms. The top two buttons undone. No tie.

He watches you as you sip.

“You always this quiet after dinner?” you ask softly.

“Only when I’m thinking.”

You glance over your shoulder. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks over, slow and steady, until he’s standing beside you. Not touching, not even close enough for that but near enough that you can feel the heat of him. The energy, low and humming between you.

He lifts his glass. “That you surprise me,” he says.

You look up at him. His face is unreadable again, except for the faint crease at the edge of his brow, something thoughtful, something unsettled.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” he says, after a beat. “It’s not.”

A quiet settles. You can feel the air shift.

And then, very slowly, he reaches out, just two fingers, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. Not possessive. Not practiced. Just… tender.

Your breath catches.

He notices. His hand lingers for a second longer than it should, fingertips grazing your jaw, and your eyes meet his.

There’s a flicker, something unsaid that flickers like a match.

You tilt your face slightly toward his. Not a move. Not an invitation. Just enough that your lips are close now. A breath apart.

He leans in.

You think he’s going to do it.

And for a split second, you want him to.

But he stops.

Right there.

His nose almost brushing yours, his voice low, rougher than before. “If I kiss you right now…”

You wait, heart thudding. “What?”

“I won’t stop there.”

Your pulse stumbles. Silence. You can’t breathe.

And then, he takes a breath, blinks once, and leans back. Withdraws his hand. His jaw tightens.

“I’ll say goodnight,” he murmurs, stepping away. “Before I forget why I shouldn't.”

You’re left alone by the window. Wineglass warm in your hand. Cheeks flushed. Mouth parted.

And it takes longer than you’d like for your heart to settle.

*****

You close the bedroom door behind you with a soft click.

The hallway still echoes with the ghost of his voice -"If I kiss you right now..." and it replays in your head like a song you can’t turn off. That low, deliberate tone. The pause. The way he looked at you like he wanted to break every rule he’d written. And every rule you had created.

You lean against the door and exhale. Your wineglass is still warm in your hand, your fingers loose around the stem.

God, what was that?

You have been with men before. Rich men. Powerful men. Men who expect, who assume, who take. You know how to play the game. Know how to read their body language, when they’re bluffing, when they’re bluffing themselves.

But Harry…

He didn’t touch you like you were his. He didn’t kiss you just because he could.

He pulled back.

I won’t stop there.

The words twist in your stomach. Not fear. Not nerves. Just heat - low and unexpected. You hadn’t even planned to flirt tonight. This wasn’t one of those outings. No show to put on. No flashbulbs, no high-slit dresses, no lipstick like armour.

Just dinner.

You push away from the door and sets the wineglass down on the side table. Shrugs off the black blazer he's given you to wear after dinner. It smells like him now - warm cedar and something deeper, expensive, but not try-hard.

You catche a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room. Bare shoulders. Sleep shorts. Hair down.

There’s something disarmed about you tonight.

You don't like it.

No...you do. That’s the problem.

With Harry, you keep losing your balance. One moment your fully in control, smiling sweetly while he watches you from across a crowded room. The next, your standing by a window with his hand on your face and the air thick with something that doesn’t feel transactional at all.

You brush your fingertips over your cheek where he touched you. It’s still warm.

Maybe it was nothing. A moment. Men like him probably collect moments and forget them by morning.

But the way he looked at you...

You shake your head.

This isn’t that kind of story. You don't get caught. You can’t afford to.

You climb into bed, but the sheets feel too cold and your thoughts too loud. Your body still humming from how close he’d been. From how close you'd got to tipping into something dangerous.

From the fact that he could have kissed you - and didn’t.

And that not kissing you somehow felt even more intimate.

*****

You stare at the hallway for a full thirty seconds before moving.

Your bare feet are silent on the polished floors, your heartbeat anything but. The silk of your sleep shorts whispers against your skin, and your arms folded across the oversized blazer you still hasn’t returned. His blazer. Your knuckles brush the edge of the lapel as you walk, stupid how grounding it feels, how steady.

You don't know why you're doing this.

That’s a lie.

You do.

You're not sure what you want, exactly. But it’s definitely not lying awake in a cold bed while your brain replays the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes when he said, "I won’t stop there."

Your hand lifts before you can think too hard. One soft knock.

You nearly walk away right after.

But then you hear the low creak of floorboards, the muffled shift of movement. The door opens slowly, only a little at first. And then fully.

Harry stands there, shirtless, in black drawstring trousers. Barefoot. His hair mussed in a way you have never seen, looser, softer. He blinks once, adjusting to the hallway light, and then looks at you properly.

Still quiet. No surprise. Just him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you say lightly, your voice smaller than you expected. “Too quiet.”

His gaze lingers on your face, then drops to the blazer. His blazer. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough from sleep. “You want to come in?”

He looks at her a second longer, not just at her, but into her, like he’s weighing the exact meaning of why she’s here, now, like this.

You hesitate. Not because you're unsure but because this is you. The girl who always knows what you're doing. The one who’s paid to be five steps ahead, to own a room, a man, a night. You don't knock on doors. Not unless you're paid too.

But you nod.

He steps aside. You brush past him and into the warmth of his room.

It smells faintly like cedar and laundry and something darker, lived-in. There’s a glass of water by his nightstand, a few papers on the desk in the corner. Everything is neat, except for the tousled bed and the way your presence seems to warp the air around them.

Harry leans against the edge of the windowsill, arms crossed. Watching you. Not like a man sizing up an opportunity. Like someone trying not to cross a line he drew himself.

You turn to him. “Harry.”

“You okay?” he asks, voice still soft, careful.

“I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Something in his expression shifts. Not lust. Not smugness. Just… understanding.

His tone is almost teasing when he says, “I take it you’re not here for a midnight strategy meeting.”

You smile faintly, a flicker of relief easing the tension that had been coiling inside you. "Not unless it involves pillows," you say softly, trying to keep the mood light.

But before you can even catch your breath, he’s already in front of you, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

His eyes darken, sharp and searching. "What are you really here for?"

You feel the weight of that question, more than just words, more than curiosity. It’s a challenge, an invitation, a promise all rolled into one.

You meet his gaze, steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

"I came because I needed to be close," you whisper, voice low. "Close to something real."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, the guarded man slips away, replaced by someone raw and vulnerable.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

"And now that you’re here," he murmurs, voice husky, "what do you want to do with that?"

The air between you crackles, electric, tense, ready to ignite.

You take a small step closer, heart pounding, breath shallow, and the space between you disappears.

He closes the distance, his breath warm against your skin as his hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your jaw. Every nerve in your body ignites under his touch, the tension building with a delicious intensity.

Your eyes flicker shut for a moment, savoring the charged silence between you, before you lean into his palm, needing the reassurance of his touch.

His lips find yours, soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. Then the kiss deepens, slow and consuming, like a flame growing steadily, threatening to engulf you both.

Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, matching the rapid rhythm building in your own veins.

When he pulls back just enough to whisper, “Tell me what you want,” his voice is rough, edged with desire and something more vulnerable.

You meet his gaze, breathless but steady. “I want to stop pretending,” you confess, “even if just for tonight.”

He smiles, a slow, genuine curve that lights up his eyes. “You sure?”

"Certain."

His hands explore your body with reverence, tracing every curve and hollow, igniting every nerve ending. The world outside ceases to exist, there’s only this moment, this connection, raw and electric.

As he guides you toward the bed, the anticipation coils tighter, every touch a promise, every glance a silent vow.

When your lips meet again, it’s with the full weight of all the things left unsaid, all the emotions barely held back.

Tonight, you’re no longer just an arrangement. You’re something more.

It’s nothing like you imagined.

It’s more.

Hot. Unsteady. All control gone. His lips are rough with need, one hand cupping your jaw like he needs to feel your shape to believe you are real. You melt into him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, kissing him back like your whole body’s been waiting for this exact moment.

He groans against your mouth, pulling back just slightly.

“Tell me to stop,” he says hoarsely.

You breathe against his lips. “Don’t you dare.”

His mouth crashes back into yours.

The urgency is clumsy, breathless, a collision of desire and hesitation. His mouth finds yours again, rough and demanding, swallowing every gasp you manage to catch. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the press of his body against yours.

You don’t make it to the bed right away, not at first. Your back finds the wall beside the door, his hand bunching the hem of your shirt as your knee slips between his legs.

Slowly, the frenzy begins to ease. His hands trail from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter with a possessive firmness. His lips descend to your neck, teeth grazing lightly before sucking a mark that leaves you shivering. His fingers slip beneath your shirt, fingertips burning trails across your skin, seeking every sensitive spot.

Your breath hitches as his hand finds the curve of your breast, palm heavy and warm. His thumb circles your nipple, coaxing it hard beneath his touch, while his other hand slips lower, brushing against the waistband of your underwear. The friction between your bodies is electric, sending waves of heat pooling deeper.

He presses against you harder now, his length straining urgently, teasing the seam of your underwear. Your hips rock forward instinctively, desperate for more. His hand moves boldly, sliding your panties aside, fingers teasing your wetness through the slick heat that’s already pooled. You let out a low moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he explores you slowly, deliberately.

The wall no longer feels cold, it’s the heat of your bodies clashing that fills the space. His mouth returns to yours, tongue slipping past your lips, claiming you with hunger and tenderness all at once.

When he finally lowers you from the wall, guiding you toward the bed, every touch is charged with intent.

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the buttons on your shirt, fingers brushing against his as he helps guide them free. Each button undone feels like a small surrender, a permission granted to the space growing between you. The fabric parts slowly, sliding off your shoulders to reveal the smooth skin beneath, exposed and vulnerable under the dim glow of the room.

He watches you intently, eyes dark and hungry, but there’s a tenderness there too, like he’s memorizing every inch. Your hands trace over his bare chest trying to remember every touch.

His lips follow the bare expanse of your collarbone, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down to your breasts. You arch into him instinctively, hands sliding behind his back to peel his trousers away.

When the fabric falls away, you take a moment to drink in the sight of him, strong, exposed, the curves and lines you’ve been craving now tangible beneath your hands.

He leans in again, lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s deep and slow, filled with reverence and hunger both. Your hands explore his back, tracing the muscles that tense beneath your touch, while his hands roam your curves, mapping the soft planes of your body.

Every moment stretches out, slow and deliberate, as you shed the last of your reservations, piece by piece until there is nothing left but the heat between you, the rhythm of your bodies beginning to move as one.

His fingers slide slowly, teasing your skin as he parts your underwear, the heat between you rising with every inch. You breathe out a soft, shaky sigh, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“God, you’re already so wet,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice low and thick with desire.

You arch your back, lips parting as his tongue flicks over your skin, slow and deliberate, drawing a moan you can’t hold back.

“Harry...” you whisper, voice trembling, “Please...”

He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes burning with need. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” you admit, heart pounding. “I want all of you.”

His smile is a wicked promise as he moves upward, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hands roam your body, fingers tracing every curve, every sensitive spot, making your skin flush.

His fingers slip inside you slowly, carefully, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, voice husky.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from moaning louder. “Yes... more...”

He responds with a steady rhythm, thrusting slow and deep, hands gripping your hips, holding you close.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he breathes, voice rough, lost in the moment.

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the heat of his skin under your fingertips. “Don’t stop.”

His fingers part you gently, sliding inside with deliberate care, every inch coaxed in slowly, letting you adjust to the delicious fullness. You bite your lip, a low moan escaping as the stretch melts into steady, exquisite pressure.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with need. His thumb circles your clit lightly, sending jolts of heat spiraling through your body.

You arch your back, pressing into his touch, breath hitching. “More,” you whisper, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He obliges, curling his fingers inside you, hitting the spots that make your knees tremble. His mouth finds yours in a fierce kiss, tongue swirling, matching the rhythm of his fingers teasing you relentlessly.

His other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he slides deeper, slower, each movement deliberate, worshipful. “You’re so wet for me,” he groans, voice husky.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for every inch. His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting softly, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

His fingers flick expertly at your clit, each stroke building the pressure until you’re trembling, gasping beneath him.

“Harry,” you cry, hips bucking, “I’m so close."

He matches your pace, thrusting slowly inside you while his fingers circle your clit, driving you higher and higher.

With a strangled moan, you shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through your body as your muscles clench around him. He holds you through it, steady and sure, before following with a deep groan of his own, filling you completely.

His lips trail down your neck, across your collarbone, until they reach the curve of your breast, kissing and teasing until your breath quickens. Then, slowly, deliberately, his mouth travels lower - down your stomach, across your hipbones - each touch feather-light, sending shivers racing through your skin.

You gasp softly as his warm breath brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, fingers parting you gently, exposing the place that’s already glistening with desire.

"I've got to taste you baby."

His tongue flicks out, tasting you with slow, deliberate strokes that make your whole body tighten with anticipation. He circles your most sensitive spot, teasing the flat of his tongue over your folds, coaxing a low, involuntary moan from deep inside your chest.

“Tell me how you want it,” he murmurs, voice husky and thick with need.

You tremble, hips arching upward. “Slow... and steady,” you whisper, voice barely audible but full of want.

He obeys, tongue swirling in lazy circles, flicking and tracing, his lips sucking softly before moving to nibble gently along your sensitive flesh.

Your fingers grip the sheets as pleasure coils tighter, building with every skilled movement. He slips a finger inside you, matching the rhythm of his tongue, sending shockwaves through your body.

“Jesus Harry,” you moan, voice shaky, “Don’t stop.”

His hands grip your hips, anchoring you, as he intensifies the rhythm - tongue teasing, flicking, pressing just right until you’re gasping and trembling, riding the edge of release.

With a final, deliberate flick, he sends you tumbling over the edge again, your body convulsing with pleasure as he holds you steady, lips soft against your skin.

As you come down from the waves, his eyes find yours, full of warmth and something unspoken, connection, trust, and raw desire.

You trail your fingers along the curve of his hips, your eyes dark with want as you slowly lean down, lips grazing the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. Your breath fans over him, teasing, inviting.

Your tongue flicks out, soft and warm, just as you begin to explore, ready to take him fully into your mouth.

But before you can, his hand presses gently but firmly against the back of your head, stopping you mid-motion.

His eyes meet yours, intense, calm, holding an unspoken command. “Not yet,” he murmurs, voice low and steady.

You pause, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding not from rejection, but from the weight of his control. The way he’s holding you back isn’t denial; it’s something else entirely.

He cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheek with slow tenderness. “I want you. All of you. No rush,” he says, voice thick with need.

You look up at him, a slow smile curling your lips as the tension between you shifts. There’s trust here, in his restraint, in the way he’s telling you that he wants this moment to be right, not rushed.

You lean back just enough to meet his gaze fully, the heat between you simmering, deliciously suspended.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice soft but full of promise.

He pulls you up into a kiss, slow, deep, filled with everything he’s been holding back. His hands travel your body with reverence, reminding you that this night is about more than just urgency.

The unspoken tension lingers, thick and sweet, as you both settle into the slow burn, savoring every breath, every touch, every moment together.

He deepens the kiss, hands sliding from your waist down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as his lips never break contact with yours. Your breath hitches, heart pounding wildly against his chest. You press closer, feeling the steady heat radiating from him, every nerve alive with anticipation.

His mouth trails down your jaw to your neck, leaving hot, demanding kisses that make you shiver. Your hands roam his back, memorizing the firm muscles beneath your touch.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his voice is low, thick with desire. “Tonight is about you. Every inch of you.”

You nod, eyes heavy-lidded, your body already aching for more.

He settles you gently onto the bed, lips following your every movement, hands exploring with reverence and urgency. His touch is both commanding and tender, a perfect balance that leaves you breathless.

Slow and deliberate, he takes his time undoing the last barriers between you, every second a promise.

As he finally enters you, the sensation overwhelms every nerve ending, a perfect blend of tenderness and raw, urgent passion that steals your breath. The slow, full stretch gives way to a deep, steady pressure that fills you completely, making your muscles clench instinctively around him.

His hands grip your hips with possessive strength, anchoring you as he sets a deliberate rhythm, thrusting deep and slow, allowing every inch of connection to register, every gasp and shiver to fuel him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough and low.

Your breath hitches, a soft moan escaping your lips as he begins to pick up the pace, hips rolling with increasing urgency. The slick glide of skin against skin, the slick heat pooling between you, wraps you in a haze of sensation.

He leans down, mouth capturing yours in a fierce kiss, tongue dancing with yours as his hands roam, one trailing down your side, fingers teasing your clit with light, circular strokes that send jolts of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” he growls, breath hot against your skin.

You arch into him, gasping against his mouth as the dual sensations overwhelm you, the stretch inside, the teasing outside, building toward a crescendo.

“Faster,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“Fuck, you’re mine,” he groans, his pace growing more demanding, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

Your hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as your body trembles, hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm. The tension coils tighter, muscles tightening, breath catching in your throat.

With a strangled cry, you shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through your body as your muscles clamp down on him, every nerve on fire.

After a few deep, steady thrusts, he slows, his breath heavy and warm against your neck. You feel his hands on your hips, steadying you, and an unspoken invitation to take the lead.

You shift, sliding your hands down his chest as you rise, your knees pressing on either side of his hips. His eyes darken with desire, watching every movement as you settle onto him, your body molding perfectly against his.

You lean forward, lips brushing his collarbone, then trailing slow kisses along his jawline. His hands roam your back, fingers digging in lightly, grounding you as you begin to move.

You set the pace, slow at first, hips rolling in a seductive rhythm that sends a delicious burn deep inside. You watch his face, mesmerized by the way his eyes close, lips parted, breath catching with every stroke.

“Fuck, you look incredible,” he breathes, voice rough with need.

You smile against his skin, picking up the pace just a little, hips grinding, riding him with a steady, controlled sway that makes his hands tighten on your hips.

“You feel so good wrapped around me like this,” he groans, voice thick.

You lean down to capture his mouth in a fierce kiss, tongue tangling with his as your hips roll faster, each movement igniting a fire that blazes hotter between you.

The world narrows to the slick glide of skin on skin, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, breath mingling, heartbeats racing.

When you finally lean back, resting your hands on his chest, your gaze locks with his, full of heat and promise.

His breath catches, and he groans low in your ear, fingers digging into your hips to keep you steady. “Fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.”

You lean down, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss, tongues dancing in perfect sync. The taste of him is intoxicating, salty, warm, urgent.

Your body moves with a confidence you didn’t know you had, each grind and roll a statement, a claim. You feel him respond, his hips thrusting up to meet yours, the friction building between you both unbearable.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly.

Your muscles clench, pleasure spiraling out of control as you ride the wave, moans spilling freely, filling the room. His hands roam your body, every touch sending shivers down your spine.

When the climax finally crashes over you, it’s like fire bursting through every nerve ending, raw, fierce, beautiful. You collapse against him, breathless, your skin slick with sweat.

He follows soon after, his groan deep and guttural as he spills inside you, holding you close, skin slick and glistening in the soft light.

“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice thick.

You collapse into his arms, breathless and sated, the quiet afterglow wrapping around you both like a warm blanket.

---------------------------------------------------------

We finally got there and I hope it was worth the wait. I've been dying to get this chapter out! I won't lie, these next few chapters will be 🔥

Taglist: @katssecretdiary @pedrosgrogus @bunny-pancake @littlewitchgirly @sesdeuxyeux @notyourlovemonkey

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Seven: The Lawyer

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

A one track mind, you can't be saved, oblivion is all you crave

It’s late morning when you find her, already halfway through her cappuccino, seated at a quiet table in the back corner of a tucked-away café on Prince Street. No sunglasses, no showiness. Just Katie in a navy trench, hair scraped into a low ponytail, looking at you like she knows something you don’t.

You slide into the seat opposite her, your coat still half-buttoned, a little cold, a little restless.

She looks up slowly from her phone. “Hey, trouble.”

You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite land.

Katie puts the phone down and narrows her eyes slightly. “You look… twitchy.”

“I’m not twitchy.”

“You’re absolutely twitchy,” she says, leaning back in her chair.

You cross your arms. “Can we just talk?”

“Of course. But coffee first.”

You flag down a waiter, order something strong. She waits until he walks away before she says, more carefully this time:

“So. The kiss.”

Your stomach tightens.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you say too quickly.

“Mm. Except it was.”

You glance at her, and she holds your gaze like she’s trying to peel something back.

“You kissed him. Properly. That wasn’t performance. That wasn’t scripted.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Katie sighs and softens. “You don’t need to lie to me. You think I don’t know what this is like? The lines start to blur. Especially with a man like that. Charming. Generous. Intense.”

“It was at the auction. Everyone was watching. His ex was there, some whispers started, and he was spiraling. I just....handled it.”

You let your nails dig lightly into the hem of your sleeve.

Katie leans back, arms folded. “Jesus. You’re not his emotional support animal. You’re the girl in the dress. On his arm. That’s all.”

You look away. “Don’t.”

Katie tilts her head. “I’m not judging you. I’m reminding you.”

You stay silent.

“I can tell when your head’s not in it.” She leans in. “You’ve got that look.” You blink.

“What look?”

“The ‘I can fix him’ look.” She lowers her voice. “I saw it back when you thought you were going to move to Paris with that trust fund baby who wanted to turn you into a trophy wife-slash-nanny when you first started out.”

“That was different.”

Katie snorts.

“They’re all different. Until they’re not.”

You sip your drink, letting the burn distract you from the knot in your chest.

“It’s not like that with Harry.”

Katie gives you a long, loaded stare.

“I know the chemistry’s insane. I know he makes you feel good. Powerful. Wanted. But none of that changes the deal.”

“I know,” you say quietly.

She leans forward slightly. “Do you? Because this is how it starts. You stop seeing it as a role and start thinking it's real. You start doing things that aren’t in the contract. Like kissing him. Like caring.”

You breathe in through your nose, steady and slow. “It wasn’t like that.”

“But you wanted it to be,” Katie says gently.

And there it is.

“You don’t have to fall for it to blow up in your face.” She taps her nails against the table. “Let me guess. You’re pulling back now. Trying to reassert control. Remind him this is just an arrangement.”

You shake your head. “He’s… complicated. But I’m not falling. I’m not that stupid.”

You don’t answer. Your coffee arrives, and you focus on unwrapping the sugar packet like it’s suddenly the most complicated thing in the world.

“I told him I’m not here to fix him. That I’m the girl on his arm for thirty days, nothing more.”

Katie exhales. “Good. Say it. Believe it.”

“I’m saying this as your friend,” she says softly. “He’s allowed to blur the lines. He’s the one paying. But you? You have to stay sharp. You can enjoy it. You can play the part. But don’t lose yourself in it.”

You nod, once. But your chest is tight.

Katie watches you for another beat, then says, “You don’t owe him anything outside the terms. Not care. Not softness. And definitely not pieces of yourself.”

You force a smile. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I’ll give you a better one next time you don’t kiss your client like he belongs to you.”

You shake your head but your lips twitch. You glance down at your phone, screen dark. No new messages from him.

“I think he’s the one falling,” you say, almost to yourself.

Katie pauses. “And that scares you?”

You meet her eyes. “No. It pisses me off.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s supposed to be my game.”

Katie doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke this time.

“That’s the problem, babe. The minute it becomes a game, someone always loses.”

*****

The door opened without a knock, as always.

Richard Delaney strode in like he owned the place, legal pad in one hand, tie slightly loosened, reading glasses perched on his head. He barely glanced at the skyline before settling into the chair across from Harry’s desk.

“You look like hell,” he said, flipping to a fresh page.

Harry didn’t glance up. “Hello to you too.”

Him and Harry had known each other for longer than they could remember. A working day hadn't gone by without Richard being available.

“I assume there’s coffee in your bloodstream and something existential on your mind, judging by how you haven’t touched the briefs I sent over.”

Harry exhaled slowly, rubbing a thumb along the edge of a folder. “I’ve been looking at them.”

“You’ve been looking through them,” Richard corrected. “There’s a difference. And I know the difference because you usually annotate the margins like a deranged professor.”

Harry gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ve had a long week.”

Richard leaned back, expression casual but curious. “You’ve been distracted since last week. Want to tell me why?”

Harry didn’t answer. He turned to his laptop, not typing, just touching the keys.

“Let me guess,” Richard said, drumming his fingers once. “It’s not the Price deal. It’s not the city planning board, because that would make you angry, not distracted.”

He tilted his head. “So who is she?”

Harry’s jaw twitched, just slightly. That was all the confirmation Richard needed.

“Ah,” Richard said, tapping his pen against the pad with a little smirk. “She.”

“There’s no she,” Harry said flatly. Too flatly.

“Of course there isn’t,” Richard said, in the same tone a man might use when indulging a friend’s lie. “Except she’s clearly taken up prime real estate in your head. Which is new.”

Harry didn’t respond, just focused on the open tab in front of him, which wasn’t a contract or an architectural model. It was an event invite. Ashcroft Foundation Gala. Tomorrow night.

“I assume you’re going to the gala?” Richard asked, leaning forward. “You’re on the shortlist of names they’re plastering all over the program. Might be good optics.”

Harry nodded once. “I’ll be there.”

“With a guest?” Richard added casually, though there was a trace of curiosity behind it.

Harry looked at him then, not cold, but unreadable.

“Maybe.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Well, whoever she is… she’s got your head turned. Try not to let it cost you your edge.”

He stood, adjusting his cuffs. “You’re a shark, Harry. Sharks don’t drift.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His mind had already gone somewhere else, a glimpse of you in that Dior dress, the echo of your laugh, the taste of that kiss that still lingered like a secret no one else could touch.

Richard paused at the door.

“See you tomorrow. Tux sharp, face sharper.”

And then he was gone.

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring out at the skyline that suddenly felt a little too still.

*****

He’s already home when you let yourself in.

You hear the soft clink of a glass before you see him, seated on the edge of the sectional, sleeves rolled up, a tumbler in his hand. The late afternoon light spills gold across the penthouse, catching against the curve of his jaw, the dark glint of his watch.

He looks up at you. There’s something unreadable in his expression.

“Hey.”

You close the door behind you gently, setting your bag down without rushing. “Hey.”

He waits for more, a smile, maybe a small touch of his arm, a warmth he’s gotten used to.

You give him nothing but poise.

You walk past him to the bar cart, fingers ghosting over the glassware, and pour yourself something neat. No need for fuss. You feel his eyes on you the entire time.

“You okay?” he asks finally.

You turn, lifting the drink slightly in your hand. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He studies you, trying to work out the shift. You’re wearing something simple but sharp, black wide-leg trousers, a soft silk top, hair pulled back. Your posture is easy, confident. You know exactly what you’re doing. And he knows you know.

“I was going to check in,” he says, slowly. “After the other night.”

You take a sip. “There’s no need.”

His brow lifts slightly. “No?”

“It was just a moment, Harry. Don’t worry about it.”

You hold his gaze as you say it, not cold, just cool. Like the memory of his mouth on yours doesn’t still flicker across your thoughts when you're alone. Like the heat in your spine when he touched your waist was forgettable.

He leans back a little, letting the silence sit between you. “It didn’t seem like nothing.”

You smile politely. “You seemed like you needed reassurance. I gave it.”

“Right.” His jaw flexes. “Professionalism.”

“Exactly.”

He nods once, then again. But you can tell it’s not sitting right. Not because he disagrees but because he can’t read you anymore. And Harry Castillo always reads the room.

“I’ve been in this job long enough,” you continue, still holding his eyes, “to know what’s mine and what’s not.”

A flicker of something behind his eyes. Frustration? Amusement? A hint of bruised ego?

You take another sip of your drink and sit down, not next to him, but in the chair opposite. Crossing one leg over the other.

“So,” you say lightly, “did you need anything tonight, or am I free?”

He watches you for a long beat. Then sets his glass down.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Okay.” You pause, then add, “Well, if something comes to you, let me know. Otherwise, I might take a bath and read for a bit.”

Your tone is breezy. Easy. But the air between you feels tighter now. Charged.

You stand and smooth your hand over your hip, giving him a small, polite nod, the kind you’ve seen high-powered women give in lobbies and hotel bars.

“Enjoy your evening, Harry.”

And then you walk out, your heels clicking quietly down the hall.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still staring at the space you left behind, wondering when exactly the power dynamic flipped.

And how he didn’t see it coming.

*****

It was the following night that another gala needed your presence.

The ballroom is gold-drenched and glowing, strung with lights like stars suspended from the ceiling. Somewhere behind you, champagne is being poured. Silver clinks on glass. The low thrum of a string quartet weaves through the air, elegant and moody.

But Harry can’t hear any of it.

Not when you’re standing in front of him like that.. That red silk dress clinging to every curve like it had been made for the sole purpose of unraveling him.

His gaze lingers too long. He knows it. But he doesn’t care.

The fabric shimmers as you move, molten and unapologetic. Your shoulders are bare, your collarbones kissed with light. There’s something wicked in the way you smile like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

He exhales once, low and measured, and then places a hand gently on the small of your back.

The contact is nothing, really. Barely appropriate.

And yet.

Your skin is warm under his palm. Alive.

You glance up at him through your lashes, sly and impossibly composed. “You keep looking at me like that.”

“You look stunning,” Harry says, low and certain.

You don’t flutter or blush. You hold his gaze like you’re used to men saying things like that..but coming from Harry, it was different. It was meaningful.

Still, something flickers in your expression. Just the briefest pause in your poise.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”

He lets out a soft laugh under his breath. “It’s not enough.”

Your brow lifts, amused.

“The dress is perfect,” he clarifies, voice dipped in something darker now. “But you… you make it lethal.”

You tilt your head. “Lethal, Mr. Castillo?”

“You knew what you were doing when you put that on,” he says, stepping in just enough that the world becomes very small - just you, him, and the heat humming in between. “And don’t pretend otherwise.”

You turn back toward the ballroom with a satisfied little smile, but your hand brushes over his as it rests on your back - a barely-there touch that lingers longer than it should.

“Would it be so bad if I did it for your eyes only?” Part of you means it. The other half of you regrets saying it out loud. You can practically hear Katie screaming in your head.

His chest tightens. His hand flexes. You’ve always been a master of control, of steering tension with the lightest touch. But tonight, there’s something else in your voice. A hint of truth wrapped in flirtation.

He lowers his mouth near your ear, his breath warm. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You glance back at him, over your shoulder, silk and light and sin in human form.

“And what a beautiful way to go.” You see him simply smirk.

“Come meet someone,” he murmurs into your ear.

You glance up at him, warm and flushed, hair slightly mussed from movement and laughter. “Am I being paraded?”

His lips twitch with amusement. “You’re being introduced. Very different.”

You follow him through the glittering room, weaving past tables of heavy donors, the unmistakable scent of wealth, oak-aged whiskey, silk, money, thick in the air. As Harry leads you toward the corner of the room where a tall man in a dark navy tux stands nursing a scotch, you gather yourself, lifting your chin slightly.

“Richard,” Harry says, “I’d like you to meet...”

The man interrupts, sharp-eyed and smiling. “So this is the one keeping him distracted lately.”

You blink, caught slightly off guard.

Harry’s hand doesn’t leave your back.

Richard offers his hand. “Richard Langford. I’m Harry’s attorney. And sometimes, his conscience.”

You shake his hand. “That must be exhausting.”

To your surprise, Richard laughs. “God, yes.”

Harry gives you a sidelong look - half impressed, half warning like he didn’t expect you to meet Richard with that kind of ease. Or maybe he did. Maybe he’s just enjoying the show.

“She’s quick,” Richard remarks, taking another sip. “Watch out, Harry.”

“She usually is,” Harry replies smoothly, and though his tone is light, you feel the weight of something in it. A subtle protectiveness. Or pride.

“I’ve seen the two of you in a few photos recently,” Richard continues, more casual now, “but I didn’t expect to see you both....”

Your eyes flick to Harry before answering. “Well, I didn’t expect to be invited. That’s new too.”

Richard’s brow arches slightly. “And what are you exactly? PR? Distraction? Something more dangerous?” he looked you up and down as if to find the clues of what you really are.

Harry clears his throat lightly. "She works in events.”

You notice his lips pressing together as he looked at you and then glances at Harry again, and whatever silent conversation passes between them, you can’t quite decode it.

But Harry’s stance shifts, just slightly, closer to you.

“She's with me,” he says simply.

It’s not a declaration, not something grand. But it’s firm. Quiet. Final.

Richard nods once. “Well then.” He raises his glass. “Here’s to that.”

You don’t raise your glass - you’re not holding one. But you nod politely, and when Harry subtly guides you away a moment later, you feel his breath near your ear again.

“Sorry about him.”

“He’s not sorry,” you reply, glancing over your shoulder. Richard’s already talking to someone else.

“No,” Harry admits. “But I am. You handled him.”

You walk together in silence for a moment, your heels clicking against polished marble.

“He’s loyal to you,” you say eventually. “But suspicious of me.”

Harry nods. “It’s his job to be both.”

You glance up at him. “And what’s your job?”

That earns you a slow smile.

“To stop myself from doing something I can’t take back.”

There’s an honesty in that you didn’t expect.

You stop walking, turning to face him. “Then don’t.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts to your eyes again, restrained, aching.

You don’t kiss him. You don’t move.

You just stand there, surrounded by candlelight and murmuring voices and a city glowing behind glass.

And for a moment, it feels like the world has shrunk to this exact breath - too close, too soon, too late - all at once.

*****

A jazz quartet has just given way to a live band that turns the air molten, heat thrumming from the floorboards as the tempo kicks up.

You’re already out there. In heels that hurt a little and a gown that fits like a promise you haven’t made yet.

The moment the beat shifted, your drink had gone down, your hand had caught one of the other younger girls Harry had introduced you to and then you'd pulled away entirely, twirling out alone, laughing into the lights.

You feel weightless for the first time in days. Maybe weeks. Maybe since that kiss. And you’re not thinking about Harry. Not directly. But your body is facing his. He’s across the room. Leaning against a column, drink in hand, black suit and white shirt, the tie long discarded. Watching.

He hasn’t said anything about the kiss since the other night. Neither have you. And maybe that’s why his gaze feels like it’s pressing down your spine now - silent, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

You throw your head back, let your arms rise, eyes fluttering closed for one brief second. The music surges and you don’t care who’s watching. But you know he is. And that’s when it happens.

He moves.

You don’t see it at first, just feel it, a change in the energy. The static of being seen replaced with something magnetic. The kind of gravity you don’t fight.

When you blink, he’s in front of you. No jacket. Shirt sleeves rolled. Tie nowhere in sight.

“Didn’t think you danced,” you murmur, a little breathless as you slow your rhythm just enough to let him fall into step with you.

“I don’t,” he says, low in your ear. “But I didn’t like the look that guy was giving you.”

You glance back over your shoulder, a teasing smile curving your mouth.

“Jealous?”

“Just observant.” His hand finds your waist, not possessive, not demanding, just there. Solid. Warm. Right. You tilt your head, amused but flattered.

“I can handle it.”

“I know.” He pauses, then his eyes drop, dragging slowly down your body and back up again. “But I wanted to be the one looking at you like that."

The words hit harder than they should. You exhale softly, unsure if it’s the champagne or the heat of his palm anchoring you. The band moves into a slower tempo, bluesy and thick with brass. You should step away. Thank him for the dance and leave it at that. But you don’t.

You let him draw you closer. Your arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your nails practical grazing the back of his neck. Your perfume mixing with his cologne.

It’s not scandalous. Not inappropriate. But it’s… intimate.

Your fingers graze his shoulder. His hand settles low on your back. There’s not a whisper of space between your bodies now. Your thighs almost touch. Your heartbeat is an echo chamber.

“This doesn’t feel like part of the job,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His smile is faint. Lopsided. Something private.

“It isn’t.”

He spins you slowly, once, like he’s done this before even though you know he hasn’t, and when you fall back into him, he holds you a little tighter.

You don’t look around the room. You don’t care who’s watching. The lights are too low. The music too loud. The moment too sharp.

You’re not pretending. Not tonight.You catch him looking at your mouth. But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

*****

The car ride back is quiet.

You sit angled toward the window, the blur of city lights streaking gold and white across the glass. Your legs are crossed, hands folded in your lap like you're trying to keep them from doing something reckless. Harry’s beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, his gaze fixed ahead.

Neither of you bring up what he said at the event. That’s the part I’m starting to worry about.

It’s been replaying in your head since he said it - half accusation, half confession.

When the car pulls into the underground garage, you’re the first to step out. The air down here is cooler, still laced with the smell of concrete and clean oil. Harry follows a step behind, his silence stretching.

The elevator ride up is worse.

You stand at opposite ends, but you can feel him watching you in the mirrored walls. Like he wants to say something. Or maybe wants you to say something first. The air between you hums.

Inside the penthouse, the lights come on low. The city sprawls outside like a lit-up stage, a thousand windows blinking into the dark.

You walk toward the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water mostly to do something. Your heels click against the marble as you move. You still haven’t changed out of your dress. The silk clings to you, cooling slowly against your skin. You can feel where your back is still damp with sweat from dancing.

Harry steps in, loosening the buttons of his tux jacket.

Then, you accidentally jolt your glass a little too hard against the tap. Water splashes. A cold arc lands right across your chest, soaking the neckline of your dress instantly.

“Shit,” you hiss, instinctively stepping back, the silk turning dark and translucent in the center.

Before you can do anything, Harry moves.

He crosses the kitchen in a few strides, already tugging off his jacket. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even blink. He tosses the jacket onto a stool and reaches for the collar of his shirt, pulling it loose from his trousers.

“Here,” he says, voice low. He peels it off, smooth and sure, and holds it out to you. “Put this on.”

You freeze. For a second, the shirt is just a bundle of warm cotton in his hand. You stare at it, then up at him.

He looks solid like this. Broad. Bare-armed now in his white undershirt, chest rising slowly with his breath. You're breath catching in your throat

You take the shirt.. reluctantly. Your fingers brush his. Just that. But your whole body tenses like you’ve been struck.

“Thanks,” you murmur, and head for the hallway.

Inside your bedroom, you unfasten the soaked dress with unsteady fingers. Let it drop to your feet. You towel off quickly, heart still kicking up behind your ribs, and slide into his shirt. It’s too big, of course. The sleeves swallow your hands and the hem hits midthigh. But it smells like him - cologne and clean linen and something quietly male underneath.

You glance at yourself in the mirror.

It’s not sexy, not exactly. It’s something else. Intimate. Undone. Like a version of you he shouldn’t be seeing.

And yet...

You walk back into the kitchen barefoot.

Harry is still where you left him, nursing a fresh glass of scotch. A T-shirt now replacing his missing shirt. His gaze lifts when you enter, and...God - the way he looks at you in that moment could unmake you. His eyes drag over you, lingering on your bare legs, your damp hair, the way his shirt gapes slightly at your collarbone.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just leans back against the counter and exhales through his nose, quiet and restrained.

You pad across the kitchen slowly and lean on the island opposite him.

“I think I’m keeping this,” you say, gesturing to the shirt.

He smirks. “Not how borrowing works.”

“Then stop handing things to me so freely.”

Something shifts behind his eyes.

“I didn’t think about it,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

That finally gets a reaction.

You nod. “Right. Just like the kiss.”

His jaw tenses. He puts the glass down slowly, saying your name.

“No, it’s fine,” you interrupt, holding up your hands. “We don’t have to talk about it. We’re pretending, remember?”

He steps forward, around the island, closing the space between you. Not touching - God, not touching but close enough that you feel his warmth.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, low and deliberate. “Not with you.”

You look up at him. The words knock something loose inside you.

But you don’t say anything. You just stand there in his shirt, barefoot in his kitchen, heart hammering like it doesn’t know the rules anymore.

The silence grows heavy again. But this time, it doesn’t feel empty. It feels thick. Like something is about to give.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

Harry stands in front of you, close enough now that you’d only need to lean the tiniest bit to brush against him. Your bare knee almost touches the sharp crease of his trousers. His shirt, now yours for the night, hangs open at the collar, and you swear you can feel the warmth of his gaze against your skin more than the fabric itself.

You swallow. The moment stretches. Feels like you’re teetering on the edge of something again.

But then, he blinks.

Just once.

And with a quiet breath, Harry shifts. Not away but just enough. He doesn’t break eye contact. He just… softens it.

His hand lifts, not to touch you, but to reach around you to the counter behind. His fingers brush a folded linen tea towel. He offers it to you gently.

“There’s still a little water on you,” he says. His voice is calm. Steady. Measured in that way he gets when he’s fighting something off.

You glance down. Just a drop, clinging at the base of your throat where the shirt hangs open. You hadn’t even noticed it.

You take the towel from his hand, your fingers grazing his for one fleeting second. Again, too much.

You dab at the drop and toss the towel aside. He watches, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to fix it,” you say softly, glancing up at him. “The dress. I would’ve figured it out.”

Harry exhales through his nose, like it costs him something not to smile.

“I know,” he says. “That’s not why I did it.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“I didn’t like seeing you uncomfortable. That’s all.”

That’s all.

As if it’s ever just that with him.

You nod once. Almost grateful. Almost resentful of how tender he can be when he wants to be. When you need him not to be.

Another pause.

He starts to turn away, then stops. His eyes flick down once more, over your legs, the hem of his shirt, then back to your face. How could he sleep with that image burned onto his retina.

“You wear it well,” he murmurs, and then he walks past you, just like that.

His words trail after him like the echo of something that might have happened… if you’d both let it.

But neither of you do. Not yet.

--------------------------------------------------------

This was a bit of a filler before this story takes a steamy turn 👀 thanks for all the likes, reblogs and comments 🥰

Taglist: @katssecretdiary @pedrosgrogu @bunny-pancake @littlewitchgirly @sesdeuxyeux

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Six: The Auction

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

You treat your mouth as if it's Heaven's gate, the rest of you like you're the TSA, I wish I could go along, babe, don't get me wrong

You hear his footsteps before you see him.

He’s just finished a call .... that deep, low voice trailing off as you step out from the guest bedroom into the warm amber light of the penthouse. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because the second he sees you in that dress - the sheer Dior number you tried on days ago, the one he couldn’t even form words around - Harry Castillo stops mid-step like you’ve knocked the breath out of him.

His jaw tightens. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, before flicking away like he’s trying to be polite. Like he knows better.

“Too much?” you ask lightly, giving a small twirl, pretending you don’t see how he’s gripping the back of one of the dining chairs like he needs something to hold onto.

“It’s a charity gala,” he replies, clearing his throat. “You might bankrupt a few men.”

"Well that is in my job description."

You laugh but just as you’re about to step closer, one of the dress’s delicate straps slips from your shoulder.

The fabric dips. Skin flashes.

But Harry moves faster than your fingers can. He’s already there, one hand at your waist, the other reaching up to hook the strap and slide it gently back onto your shoulder. His touch is careful. Light. Like he’s fighting every instinct in his body to keep it that way.

Your breath catches.

You look up and he’s watching you far too closely.

Neither of you moves.

His fingers are still at your shoulder.

“You should wear things like this more often,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Only not around other men.”

You tilt your head. “Possessive, Mr. Castillo?”

His mouth curves, but his eyes don’t soften. If anything, they darken.

Something about you calling him that - Mr. Castillo - made something primal stir in him. Not quite a growl, but close.

Like he wanted to claim the title. Claim you.

“No,” he says quietly. “Practical.”

Then, like the moment never happened, he steps back. Straightens his cufflink and his bow tie. Gestures toward the door.

“Car’s downstairs.”

But his voice is lower than usual. Rougher. And when you walk past him, you can feel his gaze pressing between your shoulder blades the entire way to the elevator.

---

The elevator doors glide shut, trapping the silence between you and Harry.

You lean against the velvet lining of the car, the hem of your dress pooling around your thighs, your skin still tingling where his fingers lifted the strap.

He stands beside you with too much control, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, like he’s trying to focus on something far away. But the tension’s still there. You can feel it in the way he keeps shifting his weight. Like if he stands still for too long, he’ll do something reckless.

Down in the private car park, the black Mercedes is already waiting. Luca opens the door without a word.

Inside, the cabin is dark and quiet. Leather, low jazz, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to your senses. You slide in and cross your legs, watching him through the corner of your eye as he takes the seat beside you.

There’s space between you, but it feels irrelevant.

His thigh brushes yours once as the car pulls out, just a graze and it shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. You sit up straighter, suddenly aware of every inch of your skin.

You catch him watching you.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to the window. “Not a thing.”

But his fingers are tapping against his knee like he’s keeping time to a rhythm only he can hear.

You lean toward him slightly, just to test it. “You didn’t say if you liked the dress.”

“I didn’t think I should.”

You smile. “Why not?”

He finally turns to you. Slowly. “Because I’ve had a long day. And you’re wearing something that makes me forget my own name.”

The silence between you deepens.

You laugh, a little breathless. “That’s dramatic.”

He doesn’t smile. “That’s honest.”

And for the rest of the ride, neither of you speaks.

But his hand rests a little too close to yours on the seat, and he doesn’t move it when your fingers brush his again, once, then again, then stay.

*****

The ballroom is gold and glass and artifice.

Everyone looks like money and boredom. Women in gowns that sparkle too much. Men in suits that cost more than most people’s rent. Waiters floating past with champagne flutes and practiced smiles.

You’ve been to rooms like this before - too bright, too cold, too fake. All glassware and gallery lighting and beautiful people pretending they don’t care about being seen. Normally, you’d slip right into the rhythm: chin lifted, eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted just enough to suggest you’re thinking something deliciously wicked. But tonight, something feels different.

Harry stands beside you, tall and impossibly composed, a whiskey glass resting casually between his fingers. He’s in a tux that could make saints misbehave - crisp lapels, black bow tie, cufflinks like polished obsidian. But it’s not the tailoring that has your breath catching in your throat. It’s the way he wears it, with that same quiet control he always has. Like the room could collapse around him and he wouldn’t spill a drop.

He isn’t looking at you. Not exactly. His gaze is on the crowd - politicians, collectors, benefactors, and the kind of women who wear their diamonds like they earned them in blood. But you feel him all the same. The heat of him, inches from your skin. The brush of his thumb over your shoulder every so often, like he’s keeping track of you without needing to.

“You always this popular at these things?”

His mouth twitches. “Not usually.”

You glance at him, smile curved with just enough edge. “Is that modesty or boredom?”

He shifts slightly, leaning just a touch closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “It’s honesty. They’re all here to be seen. I’m here because of the board.”

“And me,” you say before you can stop yourself. Light. Breezy. But your tone gives you away.

His eyes flick to you. Still unreadable. Still maddeningly calm.

“You,” he says slowly, “are the only part I’m enjoying.”

A silence stretches between you, subtle and full of things that don’t belong to this room. For a second, it’s just the two of you. Not the table full of crystal. Not the murmurs. Not the charity. Just you, and Harry, and that taut thread humming between your bodies.

He’s not clinging. Not possessive. He doesn’t touch you unless he has to.

But he sees everything.

The eyes that follow you across the room. The way someone at the far table leans over to whisper to his friend when you pass. Harry doesn’t react, not with his face but his body tightens. Just slightly.

“They’re just curious,” you murmur, taking a sip of champagne. “New girl on the scene.”

“They don’t know what to do with you.”

You glance up. “You do?”

He doesn’t answer.

*****

The night was long. Longer than expected.

You’d been at Harry’s side for hours, playing the part, smiling at strangers, letting your body say taken without needing to touch him too much. You were good at this. But tonight, there was something sharper in the air. Something watching. Waiting.

And he was tense.

You could feel it in how quiet he’d gone. The way his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his tumbler, his jaw set tighter than usual, like he was bracing.

He hated nights like this, not because of the wealth or the attention. That didn’t faze him.

It was the questions. The assumptions. And most of all, the mentions of Lucy. It was like something was in the air tonight.

You saw it happen across the room, before the auction, a man with too much money and no sense of boundaries making a direct line toward Harry. His smile was thin, hands buried in the pockets of his suit like he didn’t need them.

You stayed close.

“Harry,” the man greeted, too familiar. “Didn’t expect to see you here… not without Lucy.”

There it was. Sharp, casual cruelty wrapped in silk.

Harry’s face didn’t change. But you had come to learn that stillness. It was his version of flinching.

The man glanced over at you next, eyes raking over you with all the subtlety of a scalpel from the corner of your eye. “And she must be...”

“She’s with me,” Harry said flatly. A line in the sand.

But it wasn’t enough.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Of course. I just didn’t realize you were...what’s the word....transitioning so quickly.”

That did it.

Harry's smile had frozen on his face. His fingers tightened around the tumbler of scotch. And then... silence.

After that, his mood shifted. He became colder, quieter. Professional.

You watched as something locked tight in his chest.

"Excuse me..." Harry muttered, walking away, causing you to follow two paces behind him to catch up as he made his way outside to the terrace that overlooked the Manhattan skyline.

You can feel the way people are still looking. Wondering. Whispering. About Lucy. About you. About what this is.

“They’re watching you,” you murmured, barely moving your lips as you stood beside him.

He doesn’t answer. Just swirls the amber in his glass, eyes scanning the skyline like it might give him an out.

You stepped closer, your arm brushing his lightly. He flinches, only just, and that’s enough.

You speak again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to keep pretending this doesn’t bother you.”

He turns finally. Looking at you. Really looking.

And you see it, the war behind his eyes. The fight between holding the line and letting something break.

“It’s fine,” he says, but it’s not. “I knew it would come up eventually.”

“So why does it still hurt?”

That gets him. His jaw tightens.

You reach for his drink, taking it from his hand and set it down on the ledge. He watches you, silent.

You lean in, just enough so that only he can hear.

“If you want them to stop wondering,” you say, low, daring, “maybe we give them something to talk about.”

He stared at you like you were flipping the ground beneath his feet. He says your name like a whisper.

“It’s part of the job,” you say, and it should sound cold, transactional but it doesn’t. It sounds like a challenge. Like a plea.

He hesitates.

So you do it.

You step into his space, pressing one hand to his chest like a question, and you lean in slow, eyes on his, lips just barely brushing his.

You give him every chance to pull away.

He doesn’t.

And before you know it, you rose to your toes and kissed him. Your lips meet, a breath of a kiss, not frantic or desperate, but weighted. Real.

He tastes like scotch and restraint. You taste like something dangerous and soft.

You expected him to freeze.

To flinch, or frown, or pull away. To remind you that you were on his arm for show, for optics, not for this.

Instead…

He kisses you back.

His hands find your waist like muscle memory, slow and certain. Not possessive. Not performative. Just there. Solid. Warm. Anchoring you to the moment.

His mouth is soft but sure against yours, and for a second, maybe longer, you forget you're surrounded by too many eyes. The pressure of his lips lingers, enough to draw a soft catch of breath from you. Enough that no one in the room is left guessing.

They’ve all turned to watch.

Because this isn’t a polite, red-carpet kiss. This isn’t a staged photo op.

It’s something else entirely.

And when you finally pull back, his eyes are wide. Something fractured. Something lit. Dark. Steady. Searching for something you’re not sure you want him to find.

“What are you doing?” he says, voice rough as he learns close to your ear.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, your heart secretly pounding.

“What you pay me for,” you say in a serious tone, leaning into his ear in return. So close he could smell your perfume.

But your hands are shaking.

And Harry? Harry can’t look away.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then slowly back to your eyes. “Right.”

A beat passed. Another.

“I didn’t know you’d do that,” he said.

You shrugged lightly. “Neither did I.”

But you hadn’t kissed him to prove anything.

You’d kissed him because in that moment, watching someone try to tear him down, watching him freeze under the weight of something unsaid, you’d wanted to give him something real.

Even if it was just for a second.

He exhaled, looked away briefly, then back again. The tension in his jaw had faded. Slightly.

But something else had taken its place.

A new kind of silence. Charged. Complicated. Wanting.

You didn’t move.

*****

The ballroom glittered with warm light, all golds and creams and flashes of silver as champagne glasses caught the glow of the chandeliers. You stood at Harry’s side, close but not too close, the memory of last night’s kiss still warm at the edges of your thoughts. You hadn’t talked about it. Not directly. Not yet.

And now, here, in front of a hundred strangers and a black-tie stage, you felt it again. More eyes on you than usual. Some whispers, a few questions, about Lucy, about Harry’s last gala date, about you. You felt the pressure building in the air between you both.

So you kissed him. Just once. Just enough to stop the noise.

And now you sit besides him as the auction rolls on, the velvet-draped room humming with soft applause and the clink of glasses. You're half-listening to the auctioneer’s polished voice, but most of your attention is drawn to the man beside you.

Harry.

He sits with that same unreadable calm, tuxedo still immaculate even hours into the evening, legs crossed, one hand resting on the stem of his glass. But it's his other hand that keeps stealing your focus, where it lingers on the back of your chair, his thumb occasionally brushing your bare shoulder.

It’s nothing overt. Nothing anyone else would notice.

But you feel every graze like a whisper against your skin. Slow. Intentional. Grounding.

You sip your champagne just to distract your hands, your thoughts, the warmth that keeps blooming low in your belly. You’re used to attention. Used to touch. But not like this. Not so… patient. So unspoken.

“Cold?” he murmurs, voice low, leaning just slightly toward you.

You glance up at him, eyes meeting for a second too long. “No,” you say, lips barely moving. “You?”

He just gives a small smile. “Not anymore.”

You try not to show it, but your breath catches. He sees it. Of course he sees it.

The auctioneer tapped the microphonei, calling the room to attention. “Lot thirty-four,” he announced, “is something very special, generously donated by the Larkstone Foundation. A private weekend for two at the Larkstone House .... an architect-designed modernist villa in the Catskills. Glass-walled, secluded, complete with a chef-prepared tasting menu, a private library, and lake access. No cell service, just clean air, stars, and silence.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. You glanced at Harry.

“Sounds like your idea of hell,” you said under your breath.

He didn’t look at you. Just swirled the scotch in his glass.

“No cell service,” he murmured. “Sounds like heaven.”

Bidding started at five thousand. Someone at the front raised a numbered paddle. Six. Seven. The numbers rose steadily, casual for the kind of crowd this was.

You nudged him slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re interested.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry—”

He raised his hand.

The auctioneer pointed. “Twelve thousand. Thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

You felt your throat tighten. Not at the number but at the way he said it. The quiet, certain lift of his arm. Like it wasn’t a question. Like it wasn’t for show.

The bidding went higher ....thirteen, fifteen, seventeen.

He didn’t stop. Not until twenty-three thousand.

The auctioneer grinned. “Sold to Mr. Castillo.”

You said nothing as the applause swelled politely around the room. Only when the moment passed, and people turned back to their conversations, did you lean closer and murmur, “You planning to go alone?”

He turned, gaze sweeping down to your bare shoulder, where your dress slipped slightly as you leaned in.

“Not particularly.”

You straightened, arms folded, trying to keep your voice light. “It’s just an overpriced AirBnB in the woods.”

“No,” he said quietly, watching you. “It’s a place you can breathe.”

The next lot was announced, but you barely heard it.

You should have said something. Anything like 'That's extra". Should’ve reminded him that this wasn’t part of the arrangement. That kisses and countryside getaways and the way he looked at you , none of that was in the contract.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

*****

The car hums beneath you like a sleeping thing.

You’re staring out the window, eyes tracing the shapes of streetlights and silhouettes, trying to regulate your breathing, trying to feel normal again. Professional. Unmoved.

But your lips still tingle.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You kissed him because people were watching. Because they were whispering about Lucy. Because it was strategic.

That’s what you tell yourself.

But the truth is, your pulse had already started racing the second he looked at you with that edge in his eyes. Like you’d unraveled him.

You shift your legs, folding your hands in your lap.

This is work.

That’s all it is.

It’s part of the arrangement.... a necessary illusion. Something to keep the narrative believable.

Only it didn’t feel like illusion. Not when his mouth softened against yours, or when his hand hovered at the small of your back like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

You didn’t imagine how he lingered, or the way he whispered your name just before pulling back like it startled him.

Your chest tightens.

You can’t fall for this. For him.

He’s not yours. You’re a role, one he’s paying for. A mask he’s chosen to wear to distract the world from whatever cracks exist in his real life.

You repeat the line to yourself like a mantra.

“This is just for work.”

And yet, the kiss replays in your mind on a loop. Not the crowd. Not the whispers. Just him.

Just how he kissed you back.

****

He shouldn’t have done it.

He knows that.

It was dangerous....crossing that line. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be.

You kissed him to prove something, to distract, to help him save face. He knows your game. You're good at it. Smooth, sharp, devastating.

But what he didn’t expect was the way it felt.

Your hand on his cheek. The weight of your body angled just slightly into his. The way your lips parted like you wanted more, but wouldn’t take it unless he did too.

He hasn’t touched a woman like that in… too long.

And not one who made his mind go completely quiet.

Now, sitting beside you in the car, he watches you staring out the window like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just shift the foundation of whatever this thing between you is.

He doesn’t speak.

Part of him wants to reach over, touch your hand, not to start anything, but to ask silently if you felt it too.

But he doesn’t.

He knows you’ll retreat. Turn this into theatre again. You’ll remind him, subtly or not, that your not his girlfriend, not his anything. That the kiss was part of the illusion.

And yet.

“You could be so much more,” he’d told you only a few nights ago.

Now he’s wondering if he could too. If what started as control .... a contract, a distraction.... is slowly slipping into something neither of you can manage.

He catches you stealing a glance at him in the glass.

You look away fast.

Too fast.

And his pulse answers that look in a way that tells him: it wasn’t just him.

You felt it too.

Even if you will pretend you didn’t.

*****

The door clicks shut behind you, muting the city.

You’re standing in the entryway of the penthouse, the weight of the night still clinging to your skin. He tosses his keys in the tray by the door like always. Shrugs off his jacket. But there’s something different in the air. Something thick. Unspoken.

You slip off your heels, toe by toe, trying to breathe normally. The dress rustles as you move, silk skimming against your thighs. You walk further in, letting the skyline wrap around you, lights glittering from the tall glass walls. Your reflection hovers beside his in the windows, your bare shoulders, his loosened tie.

He doesn’t say a word. Just watches you.

“Twenty-three thousand dollars,” you say. “For a weekend in the woods.”

“It’s tax deductible.”

You walk in like you belong because you do now. Your things are in the guest room. Your perfume clings to the hallway. You know where the mugs are without asking. He closes the door behind you, but you don’t move further in.

“Harry,” you say, turning to face him. “You didn’t buy a weekend. You made a point.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t look away. “Maybe I did.”

Your arms fold slowly. “Why?”

“Because I wanted it.”

You laugh, dry and low. “What exactly is it you think you’re going to get? A fantasy? A version of me off the clock?”

“No.” His voice is calm. Steady. “I know exactly what you are.”

You flinch before you can help it, not from the words, but the way he says your name like it’s something he keeps in his mouth when he’s alone. He takes a slow step toward you.

“And I know I can’t buy what’s not for sale.”

“Then why act like you can?” Another step.

“Because you kissed me. And then told me it was part of the job.”

You go still. His words land like something pulled from your chest, something you’d rather not look at too closely.

“I meant it,” you lie, because it’s easier than telling the truth. “Kissing you was a distraction. The room was watching. They needed a story. I gave them one.”

He nods once. “Right.”

But you can feel it, the way his eyes linger on your mouth now, like the ghost of that kiss is still there. Your whole body tightens, senses sharpened by memory. His breath, his hands. The way he didn’t touch you again for the rest of that night.

You should turn in. Head to your room. Draw the line again. Instead, you ask, “What are you going to do with the weekend?”

“I haven’t decided.” You tilt your head.

“You bought it without knowing who you’d take?”

“I knew.” He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t have to. You swallow. Look away.

“This is a transaction, Harry.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t get confused.”

“I’m not.” But when you look back, his gaze is soft. And tired. And something else. Something you can’t carry for him or return.

You try to say something, anything clever, but the air between you is charged, humming, like one spark would ignite it all. You cross your arms, a reflex. The strap of the dress slips again. Not much. Just enough.

He’s in front of you before you can react.

Fingers at your shoulder. Just the edge of his knuckle against your skin, lifting the strap delicately back into place. His eyes don’t move from yours.

You don’t breathe.

“Always falling off,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Maybe it wants to,” you whisper, and instantly regret saying it.

But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk.

Instead, he lingers. One hand still near your shoulder. The other now at his side, clenched.

“I should go to bed,” you say quietly. He nods.

“Goodnight." You turn. Walk down the hall.

Close the door gently behind you. But sleep doesn’t come easily. And neither of you knows what to do with a silence that sounds a lot like longing.

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Oh my gosh!? Your feedback has been amazing and set such a high expectation! I hope I can meet it! Playlist should be ready tomorrow 🥰

Taglist: @katssecretdiary

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Five: The Dinner

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

I wanna make you quiet, I wanna make you nervous, I wanna set you free but I'm too fucking jealous

It was just a normal Wednesday. For Harry anyway.

Dinner with a CEO Harry’s trying to buy out isn’t exactly your scene. Still, he’d said it plainly: I want you there. No explanation. No performance. Just the low, steady certainty he uses when he doesn’t expect to be questioned.

So here you are - in a black slip dress that skims the floor, hair swept up, the diamond studs he slipped in your rooom earlier sitting sharp against your skin. Subtle. Elegant. Strategic. Just like everything he does.

The restaurant is carved from marble and soft lighting, hidden behind velvet curtains with a view of nothing but skyline. Luca held the door for you. Harry’s hand hasn’t left your lower back since.

Eli Price arrives ten minutes late.

He’s sharp-suited, grey-haired, face like a disappointed headmaster. But it’s the man beside him who makes you straighten slightly. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Sharp jaw. Cool confidence. No tie, just an open shirt and a watch that probably costs as much as your yearly rent.

“Whose this?” Eli asks flatly, barely glancing at you.

Harry doesn’t even blink. He said your name as if it were a point. “She’s joining us.”

Eli grunts, already pulling out his chair. “Right. Of course.”

But the son, he steps forward, smiling as he extends a hand to you. “Leo,” he says. “Leo Price.”

You shake his hand. Firm grip. Warm smile. Dimples.

He doesn’t let go immediately. “Beautiful name by the way.”

“Thank you. It came with the face.”

That makes him laugh and you couldn't help but glance at Harry to see if he was watching.

Harry says nothing. Just lifts his scotch glass, but you feel the shift in him. A subtle tightening in the way he crosses his ankle over his knee. The way his gaze flicks to Leo’s hand still brushing yours before it finally drops away.

Eli doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s skip the small talk. You want my company, Harry. I want a clean exit. But I’m not about to let some hedge fund cowboy tear apart what I spent thirty years building.”

“Then don’t,” Harry replies smoothly. “Let me evolve it. Your board respects you but they want growth. And you’re not interested in taking it further.”

Leo chuckles, sipping his wine. “He means you’re old, Dad.”

Eli shoots him a look. “He means I’m smart enough to know when I’m done. That doesn’t mean I’m willing to sell to just anyone.”

Then, to you: “No offense, but bringing her along ... this is theatre. A distraction.”

Before you can answer, Harry’s voice cuts in, steel beneath silk. “She’s here because I trust her judgment.”

Eli leans back. “Judgment on what? Fabric swatches? What time Hermes opens? Bit young for you Harry don't you think.”

Leo glances between you all and mutters, “Jesus, Dad.”

You smile, polite, pointed. “I’m not here to pitch you a business plan. I’m here to have dinner. But you can keep making assumptions if it makes you feel in control.”

Harry lets out the barest exhale through his nose, a sound you now recognize as proud amusement.

Leo gives you an approving smirk. “She’s got teeth. I like that.”

Harry’s hand moves to your knee beneath the table. Light pressure. A grounding gesture. You glance at him, but his gaze stays on Eli.

Dinner continues. The food is exquisite and completely ignored. Conversation winds through strategy and valuation, restructuring and legacy. You mostly listen. But when you speak, it’s precise, enough to make Leo lean in and Eli take a second glance.

Harry’s tone is razor-sharp when it needs to be, persuasive when it counts. But he watches Leo too. Watches the way he asks you questions between bites. The way he laughs a little too easily. The way he lingers when pouring your wine.

He doesn’t say anything but you can feel it.

When dessert is declined and the table begins to clear, Leo glances at you once more.

“If you’re bored by corporate takeovers,” he says, “I know a few better ways to kill a Tuesday night.”

Harry straightens.

But you only smile, neutral, unreadable. “Thanks. I’m pretty good at killing time on my own.”

Leo looks like he’s about to respond, but Eli stands.

“Pleasure, Harry,” he says, not quite meaning it. “Let’s see what the board thinks.”

They leave, finally. You exhale.

Outside, as Luca pulls up, Harry opens the car door for you in silence.

Only when you’re in the backseat, city lights flickering past, does he speak.

“You handled that well.”

You glance at him. “Eli, or his son?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches you for a beat too long.

Then: “Both.”

You sit in silence for the first few blocks. The kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable, just thick with things not said. Harry has one arm resting along the leather backseat, the other absently tracing his thumb across the curve of his jaw. His expression is unreadable, but his mind’s working overtime. You can feel it.

You glance out the window, then back at him.

“So…” you say lightly. “How’d it go?”

His eyes flick toward you. “With Eli?”

You nod. “Mm-hmm.”

He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that usually comes with a scotch. “He’s a dinosaur. Smart. Controlling. Defensive.”

You smile faintly. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

That earns you the ghost of a smirk. “I’m not defensive.”

You cock your head. “No, just controlling and smart.”

He lets the comment sit.

You tap your nails against the window ledge before asking, “Do you actually want his company, or just the control of it?”

That gets his attention. His gaze shifts to yours, a little sharper now.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he says, “I want it because it has potential. The foundation is solid. The tech’s outdated but salvageable. But more than that...” He pauses, considering. “I don’t like watching something with that much value rot in the hands of someone who’s afraid to evolve.”

“Is that about the company or Eli?”

“Both.”

You watch him for a moment. “He doesn’t trust you.”

“No,” he agrees. “But he will.”

“Because you’ll convince him, or because you’ll go around him?”

Harry’s quiet for a moment. “Whichever works.”

You smile, not because it’s funny, but because it’s so him.

“What about the son?” you ask, teasing lightly. “Leo?”

His jaw ticks.

You raise an eyebrow. “He was charming. Didn’t seem afraid of you."

“No,” Harry says flatly. “He seemed quite taken with you.”

You glance over, lips curling slightly. “I get that a lot. It’s kind of the job.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment, just to watch the way he reacts. His posture, his voice, the way his hand flexes slightly on the seat.

“Is that going to be a problem?"

He looks at you fully now. “Not for me.”

“And for them?”

“They’d be very stupid to assume your presence means I’m distracted.” His tone is cool, clipped. “Or that I’d let it affect a deal.”

You tilt your head. “So I’m a strategy?”

His gaze sharpens. “You’re the only part of that dinner I trusted.”

You pause. That wasn’t what you expected him to say.

He adds, quieter, “That doesn’t mean I’m not aware of how you’re perceived.”

You watch him, expression unreadable. “You think I’m a liability.”

“No.” He looks at you with that unwavering steadiness. “I think you’re underestimated. I know exactly what you’re capable of.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. The city glows beyond the window. Something unsettles slightly in your chest, not discomfort exactly. More like something shifting.

Eventually, you ask, “And if they don’t sell?”

His mouth lifts, slow, deliberate.

“Everyone sells eventually.”

*****

The coffee machine hums softly in the background, its sound swallowed by the vast quiet of the penthouse. You’re perched on one of the stools at the marble island, legs bare beneath an old T-shirt , the only thing you changed into after peeling off the dress from dinner. The air smells like espresso and the faint trace of his cologne lingering from the car ride.

Harry stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, coffee mug in hand. He looks like someone who’s used to solitude at this hour. Used to decisions made in the dark, in glass rooms and silence.

You wrap your hands around the warm mug and take a slow sip before breaking the quiet.

“So… Leo.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, unimpressed.

You grin behind your cup. “You didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

You let the words sit. Not defensive. Not insecure. Just factual.

“He was polite.”

“He was smirking.”

“Maybe he was just nervous.”

Harry turns, leans back against the counter, arms folded. “You think I’m being unreasonable.”

“I think,” you say slowly, “you’re used to people not looking at what’s yours.”

That draws a flash of something in his eyes, not annoyance exactly. Something a little more introspective.

“I’m not yours,” you add. Quiet, not cruel. Just the truth, left gently between you.

“I know,” he says. No hesitation. “Doesn’t mean I like watching someone pretend you could be theirs.”

You raise an eyebrow, swirling the mug between your palms. “Maybe he was just flirting.”

Harry’s eyes darken slightly. “And were you?”

You meet his gaze steadily. “No.”

That answer seems to settle something in him. Not that he didn’t believe it, more that he needed to hear it aloud. Not as ownership. As reassurance.

You glance toward the skyline. The windows stretch endlessly behind him, Manhattan glowing like a thousand restless thoughts.

“He was nice,” you say softly. “The kind of guy I would’ve fallen for a few years ago.”

Harry doesn’t move. “And now?”

You sip your coffee. “Now I know better than to mistake charm for substance.”

He watches you for a long moment. “You think I’m substance.”

“I think you’re steel under glass.” You shrug. “I think you’re terrifying when you want something. But you show up. You listen. You notice things.”

A small silence falls between you again. This one warmer. More charged.

He pushes off the counter and walks over, his bare feet silent on the floor. He stops in front of you and reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers graze your jaw, lingering just long enough to leave a print on your skin.

Then, softly: “You don’t have to be anything for me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to impress anyone.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

He nods once, like he believes you. Then his gaze drops, tshirt hanging loose on your frame, legs tucked under you on the stool. He takes in the image like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

You smirk. “You’re staring.”

He takes a sip of coffee, voice low. “You’re very hard not to."

Harry stays close, leaning his hip against the island now, nursing his coffee in one hand, watching you in that quiet, intense way he does when he’s choosing his next move carefully.

You tuck your knees up on the stool and let the silence stretch for a beat before you break it again.

“So,” you murmur, “was that your first time doing the whole… dinner with me and a potential acquisition thing?”

His brow arches. “You mean using you to soften the blow?”

“I was going to say distract the heir, but sure.” You grin into your mug.

A faint smirk touches his lips. “It worked.”

“He was cute.”

Harry levels you with a look, but there’s no jealousy in it now, just amusement. “Not your type.”

“How do you know what my type is?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Because you’re sitting here. Not still at that restaurant flirting with Eli’s son.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m just not into heirs.”

Harry's smile fades into something gentler. “What are you into?”

The question lands softly, but it opens a quiet space between you. You look down, trace your fingertip around the rim of your mug.

“People who see me,” you say after a moment. “Not just what I look like. Not just… what they want me to be."

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that holds weight instead of emptiness. Then Harry sets his cup down and mirrors your pose, arms resting on the counter.

“Have there been many?” he asks. “People like that.”

You shake your head once. “A few. But most of the time, it’s like I’m a mirror. They look at me and only see themselves reflected back.”

He watches you, jaw tight. You can tell it’s not pity, he doesn’t do that. It’s something sharper. Protective. Quietly furious on your behalf.

You add, softer: “They dress me up. Take me to parties. Smile like they own something. But I'm just… part of the image.”

“And me?” he asks, his voice low.

You glance up. “You keep saying I don’t belong to you.”

“Because you don’t,” he says carefully. “But that doesn’t mean I see you as decoration.”

You study him for a second. “You really don’t, do you?”

“No,” he says. “You challenge me. You see through me. I like that more than I probably should.”

The confession hangs in the air. It’s not romantic... not yet. It’s honest. Something raw in it.

You change the subject gently. “What about you?” you ask. “Who sees you?”

He’s quiet for a moment. You think maybe he won’t answer.

Then, voice low: “I’m not so sure anymore. I used to think it was Lucy.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, like if he focuses too much on you, he won’t be able to say the rest.

“I am surrounded by yes men. Men with big pockets. People who speak when they want something and even when they don’t, they talk just to hear their own voices. Lucy used to cut through that. Or I thought she did.”

There’s no venom in his tone. No real bitterness. Just a raw, steady ache. The kind that doesn’t fade, you just grow used to carrying it.

“I don’t think anyone really sees me. They see what I’m useful for. What I can solve. What I can fund, or build, or bury. They don’t see the man. Just the position.”

He finally looks at you then. Not guarded. Not trying to impress. Just there.

“It’s strange,” he adds, quieter now. “I pay you to be here. And somehow, you’re the only one who’s looked at me like I’m still human.”

That, you understand.

You nudge his ankle under the counter. “Well… maybe you don’t always have to be powerful.”

He looks up sharply.

You smile. “Not with me, I mean.”

*****

The air’s still humming from the night out. The echo of live music, bright lights, and your laughter is just beginning to fade. You and Harry continued to talk, perched on the wide windowsill, legs drawn up, your heels kicked somewhere across the room.

He’s a few feet away, pouring the last of the wine into your glass. Something about his posture is different tonight. Less guarded. Make it's the conversation.

You catch him watching you in the reflection of the glass.

“What?” you ask, a little smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve gone quiet.”

He doesn’t answer at first. He moves toward you slowly, glass in hand, and passes it to you. Fingers brush. Not quite an accident. Then, with a voice lower than before, heavier:

“Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“This. Being an escort.”

You blink. The question lands like the click of a lock turning. Not harsh, not judgmental, just curious. Sincere. Like it’s been simmering behind his eyes for a while now, waiting for the right moment to escape.

You consider brushing it off, making a joke. That’s always easier. But his gaze doesn’t move. He’s leaning against the edge of the window frame now, close enough that you can feel the warmth from his body.

“Do you want the honest answer?” you ask.

“That’s the only kind I want.”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass.

"Because it gave me control,” you say quietly. “At a time when I didn’t feel like I had any. Over money. My body. My time. It was survival at first. Then it just became… easier than trying to be something I didn’t have the map for. I hadn't succeeded in anything else in life but this.”

You look away, into the dark sprawl of the skyline. You hate how vulnerable it feels to say it like that. But you don’t stop.

“I’m good at it. I know how to read a room. I can make men feel seen. Desired. I know what they want before they say it out loud. I used to think that made me powerful.”

“And now?” he asks, voice quieter.

You shrug. “Now I’m not so sure.”

He watches you for a long beat. You think he might say something clever, something disarming to take the tension out of the air but he doesn’t. He just looks at you like he’s trying to see something beneath all that. Not what you sell. Not the version you perform. Just you.

“You ever think about stopping?”

You let out a dry laugh. “That’s the thing about golden cages. Even if the door’s open, you forget how to walk out.”

There’s a stretch of silence. Comfortable, somehow. Heavy with things unsaid. Then he speaks, barely above a whisper, “You don’t have to do that with me.”

Your eyes flick to his. “Do what?”

“Perform. Curate. Be what you think I want.”

It knocks the breath from your lungs more than it should.

You set your wine down, suddenly too aware of how close he is. You feel his eyes drop to your mouth, linger but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach. He’s letting you lead, as always. But this time, you don’t.

You just whisper, “I don’t know who I am when I’m not doing that,” and then push yourself gently off the sill.

His gaze follows you as you walk past him, quiet, composed, until you disappear behind the door of your guest room.

And only then do you let your breath shudder out.

----------------------------------------------------------

You asked for a playlist and I will deliver! Thinking 80's rock, some pop princess and some moodiness?

Taglist: @katssecretdiary

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Four: The Boutique

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

Pretty woman, I couldn't help but see, Pretty woman, that you look lovely as can be, are you lonely just like me?

You're halfway through your first coffee when he sets the card down on the marble counter.

Black. Sleek. Heavy in a way that screams limitless.

“Go shopping,” Harry says without looking up from his phone. “Use this.”

You glance at the Amex and then at him, cautious. “For what?”

“Everything,” he replies simply. “You’ll need options. The charity gala Thursday, the dinner with Eli next week, and the Met board thing. Formal, cocktail, and...whatever rich people wear to pretend they care about art.”

He says it like it’s an errand. Like he’s asking you to pick up milk.

But it’s not.

You nod slowly, unsure how to even begin choosing clothes for that life. You weren’t raised around Met boards and curated hors d'oeuvres. You’ve borrowed heels, you’ve faked your way through designer tags ... but now?

Now it’s real.

Harry finally looks at you, sharp but not unkind. “Take Luca. And if anyone gives you trouble-” he nods toward the card, “they won’t.”

You force a smile. “Right. Trouble. Of course not.”

*****

It’s only ten minutes into your first boutique when you feel it.

The shift.

You’ve worn expensive before, dressed up for older men, played the part of a girlfriend or muse or whatever story the night required. But this? This is different.

You’re alone. Not on a man’s arm. No whispered introductions, no hovering assistant murmuring “She’s with Mr So-and-So.”

Just you in a boutique off Fifth Avenue, with a card that means nothing to the woman eyeing your boots.

“Can I help you?” the sales assistant asks, voice clipped and eyebrows already making a decision about you.

You smile politely, lifting the hanger on a dark green silk gown. “Looking for something for a formal event.”

Her gaze flicks over you. “Price range?”

You offer the card subtly, casually, the way Harry does but she doesn’t even glance at it.

Instead, she murmurs something to the woman beside her, who tries to suppress a smirk.

They’ve seen you before. Or someone like you.

The ones who come in clinging to wealthy men. The ones who don’t last long.

“I think we’re fully booked for private appointments today,” she says, somehow both apologetic and patronising. “You’re welcome to browse, of course.”

You nod tightly. “Thanks.”

You leave five minutes later without touching another hanger.

The second store is worse.

A tailor eyes your figure like it’s a liability. “These silhouettes don’t tend to flatter…” he says, gesturing vaguely.

You don’t ask flatter what.

You walk out.

The third store won’t even buzz you in.

By the fourth rejection, you’re standing on the curb, sunglasses on, coat pulled tight even though the sun’s out. Luca’s waiting by the car, watching silently, hands folded neatly in front of him like he sees this sort of thing all the time.

Maybe he does.

You grip your phone, staring at Harry’s name in your messages.

You shouldn’t text him.

You’re supposed to be polished, poised. An investment, not a liability. The last thing you want is to look like a girl who can’t buy a damn dress without him holding her hand. That wasn't you.

But you also have three black-tie events on your calendar and nothing to wear and all the money in the world doesn’t matter when you’re treated like a thief with a sugar daddy’s card.

Your thumbs move before your pride can stop them.

Hi. Tried a few places. No luck. Not exactly… being served. I don’t think they were impressed I came alone.

You hover. Then send it.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Where are you now?

Your heart kicks up.

Before you can type a reply, Luca’s phone rings. He murmurs something to Harry, then turns to you.

“Mr Castillo wants to meet you at the next stop. He said to take you somewhere that actually deserves your time.”

You stare at the driver. Then down at your phone.

Harry’s text comes through:

Wait for me. I’ll fix it.

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not because he’s coming to save you but because you’re starting to realize he never saw you as the problem. The world did.

*****

The car pulls to a discreet stop outside a sandstone townhouse that doesn’t have a name, just one black awning and a small gold plaque too subtle to photograph.

You’re still turning that detail over when the passenger door opens and Harry steps in.

No jacket. Crisp white shirt rolled at the forearms. The same tie you helped him knot that morning. Still looks like he owns every room he enters.

He doesn’t greet you right away. Just looks at you. Face unreadable.

You shift in the seat, smoothing your coat across your thighs. “That was quick.”

“You didn’t call,” he says simply.

You shrug. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“That’s not your job. Bothering me.” He nods at the boutique outside. “That is.”

A small smile lifts the corner of your mouth, despite yourself.

He gets out of the car, opening the door for you. It felt different with him here. Lighter, somehow. Or heavier in all the right ways. Like you can breathe again and it hurts a little.

You’re on your feet before you know it, your arms brushing as he steps beside you.

“You don’t have to....”

“I want to,” he says quietly, cutting you off. “And frankly, I’m a little insulted you didn’t use the card properly.”

You blink at him. “I tried.”

“You texted.”

“That was me being restrained.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Next time, tell them who sent you.”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

That earns you a glance. Sharp. But not unkind.

“No,” he says. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause. He watches you for a moment longer than necessary. Then:

“Didn’t like the idea of you being treated like a stranger in my city.”

You swallow, heart thudding. Your city.

Then his voice drops, casual but deliberate. “They’ll be better here.”

Inside, everything is glass, velvet, silence. Not a boutique, a salon. The kind of place where they don’t display price tags because everyone here already knows.

A man in all black greets you both by name, which throws you because you never gave yours.

“Miss,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “Mr Castillo requested we close the space for your visit. Champagne? Coffee?”

Harry lifts a brow at you like your call.

You murmur, “Champagne.”

Harry smiles, pleased and gestures for the man to begin.

“Let her see everything,” he says. “And I mean everything.”

*****

They bring out everything.

Runway gowns still tagged and pinned. A tailor appears like magic. So do heels in your size, hair clips, jewels in soft velvet trays.

Harry sits on the edge of the leather sofa, jacket discarded, one arm draped casually over the back while you slip behind the screen.

You change. Slowly. Carefully. The first dress is a miss, too stiff, too shiny. The second… too predictable.

But the third…

It’s silk. Not red, not black but something liquid in between. The kind of tone that shifts with the light. It clings and falls just right. High slit. Low back. Bare shoulders. Like it was sewn onto your spine. It was you.

Poised. Dangerous. Cinematic.

When you step out, the room hushes.

Harry stands immediately.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch slightly by his side. His gaze skims from your throat down to your ankles and then, slowly, back up.

“That one,” he says.

“That one?” you echo, lifting a brow.

“You already knew before you walked out here.”

You give him a faint smile. “Wanted to see your reaction.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze sharp. “You got it.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you now like he’s holding himself still with effort. Like if he blinked, he’d miss you. Or say too much.

You take a step closer.

“So what’s the damage?” you ask. “Or am I still pretending not to know you paid off someone to get this here in ten minutes?”

Harry’s smirk is slow. Dangerous.

“I pay people to know what I want before I ask.”

“And what do you want, Mr. Castillo?” You don’t say it like a tease. You say it like a challenge.

His eyes darken.

You don’t move.

The air between you is tight. Charged. A crackle of something that feels like it might finally tip.

But he doesn’t answer.

He just turns slightly toward the assistant and says, “We’ll take it."

Then, to you, without missing a beat:

“Lunch?”

You nod. But your heart’s thudding in your ears. Not because of the dress, or the attention. But because… for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if this is still an arrangement.

“Mr. Castillo, we do have other dresses for her to try, if you have the time,” the assistant offered politely, glancing between them.

Harry felt his throat tighten, an unexpected flutter stirring deep in his chest. Should he call it a day and spare himself this exquisite torment, or stay and watch as you transformed, slipping into gown after gown like a goddess in her element?

The thought was both thrilling and torturous.

Harry cleared his throat, forcing a steady tone. “Yes, please. Let’s see what else you have.”

His eyes never left her as you moved gracefully between the racks, each dress accentuating a different side of you - strong, vulnerable, untouchable.

He told himself to stay composed, but inside, every moment felt like a battle between control and desire.

“Show me everything,” he murmured, almost to himself.

*****

Harry sat behind you, legs crossed, phone in his hand but not really looking at it. His gaze flicked up every few seconds, locked on the way the gown draped against you curves.

“I can feel you staring,” you said lightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

His mouth curved. “Can you blame me?”

The stylist smiled politely, oblivious or pretending to be, as she stepped back to study the silhouette. “Mr. Castillo, would you like her to try the sheer one next? The Dior?”

He blinked, straightened. “Yes. Sure. Let’s see it.”

You rolled your eyes with a teasing smirk and disappeared behind the folding screen, the soft swoosh of fabric marking your exit.

Moments later, you stepped out. It wasn’t sheer, exactly. But the dress was gossamer, layered, delicate. Skin-toned mesh beneath embroidery, and a long slit up the side. You looked otherworldly. And a little dangerous.

Harry stood. Just stood.

You raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”

His throat moved. “That wasn’t the word I had in mind.”

You turned toward the mirror, pretending to admire the beadwork, but watching him instead. The way he tugged at his cufflink. The way his eyes moved like he was cataloging every inch of you.

The stylist re-entered and began adjusting the hem again, but Harry didn’t sit. He stayed standing, his hand drifting up to his mouth.

“You alright?” you asked under your breath, the ghost of a grin on her lips. He met your eyes in the mirror, his voice low.

“I need a moment.” you tried not to smile too wide.

*****

He shut the door softly behind him, but it may as well have slammed. The image of you burned behind his eyes, all long legs, bare skin under whisper-thin fabric, and that expression. Calm. Unbothered. As if you had no idea what you’d just done to him.

He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched tight.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You were supposed to just try on a dress. He was supposed to sit there, give an approving nod, maybe a smooth compliment if you looked good. Not feel his heartbeat thunder against his ribs like some schoolboy with a crush.

But then you walked out in that Dior - translucent, elegant, fucking dangerous and his brain had short-circuited. The way the light hit you, the teasing hint of nipple beneath that mesh, the outline of your hips… Christ.

And it wasn’t just your body, it was you. The way you carried herself, like you owned the room. Like you didn’t need his opinion at all, but knew you had it anyway.

He braced both palms on the cool marble of the hallway console table, bowing his head, trying to will himself back to neutral.

You’re being reckless.

This was just a contract. Just company. But it didn’t feel like just anything anymore.

He laughed under his breath, bitter and breathless. He’d told himself he’d be fine, that this arrangement was contained. But he hadn't factored in you showing up in Dior looking like that and smiling like you didn’t know you already had him by the throat.

He needed a minute. Maybe several.

And he sure as hell needed to stop imagining what it would feel like to take that dress off you.

He took a minute before walking back in to see you shift slightly, hands pressed to your hips, the weight of the silk gown feeling heavier now that the assistant who was helping you has stepped away to fetch something.

Harry notices the hesitation flicker across your face.

“Need a hand?” he offers, stepping closer. You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man who usually gets this close, not this fast. But the zipper is stubbornly out of reach, and the quiet space feels suddenly smaller with just the two of you.

You nod almost imperceptibly. He moves behind you carefully, one hand resting lightly on your waist for balance. His fingers find the zipper tab at the small of your back. The metal is cool beneath his touch. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to pull it down.

The fabric parts inch by inch, the softness of the silk sliding against your skin, leaving your back exposed to the warm air and to his presence.

You catch your breath but keep still, feeling the weight of his touch, the closeness between you. His other hand grazes lightly along your side, steadying you.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. The zipper finally reaches the bottom, and he lets the dress fall slightly, his hands sliding down your hips to release the fabric fully.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s something unspoken there, an electric charge that hums between you.

“You made that easier than I expected,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. He smirks softly.

“That’s because I wasn’t expecting it to be such a privilege.”

The assistant returns then, but neither of you move immediately. For a moment, the air hangs thick with something more than silk and silkiness.

*****

Later, you sit on a velvet stool sipping your second glass of champagne while she boxes your selections, not just the red gown, the dior and two others Harry insisted on, plus a pair of heels so tall you suspect they double as weapons.

You lean toward him. “I’ve never had someone... do that before.”

“Do what?”

"Show up. Normally, clients.. They either send instructions, have something picked out already, or don’t give a damn what I wear, as long as I fit the image."

He studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Sounds like you’ve dealt with a lot of men who treat you like an accessory.”

He shrugs, voice low but steady. “I’m not one of them.”

There’s a quiet weight behind the words like a promise or a challenge.

You roll your eyes to lighten the mood. “Might spoil me.”

“You’re supposed to be spoiled.”

He says it evenly, like it’s a given. Like you deserve it - not because of what you can offer, not because of what’s written into any contract, but because he’s decided you’re worth showing up for.

You look at him then, really look and feel something tighten low in your chest.

You’re not supposed to fall for clients.

But something about him is different.

He doesn’t treat you like a transaction.

He treats you like something valuable.

Something his.

But then Harry’s phone rings.

He checks the screen, jaw ticking. “I need to take this. Five minutes.”

You nod, already used to this part. Business never sleeps. Especially not when you run empires.

“Use the time,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Pick out whatever else you need. For the events. Or not.”

He pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Get something you like.”

Then he’s gone.

You should feel dismissed. But you don’t. You feel… curious. You're rarely told to get something you like.

The assistant comes over cautiously, as if she’s not sure how far the tone’s shifted now that the man has left the room.

You smile at her. Not sweet. Not fake. Just… solid.

“I want to see the lingerie suite.”

She blinks. “Oh. Certainly. Right this way.”

You follow her down a short corridor and into a smaller, more intimate dressing space, lower lights, mirrors with soft-glow edges, a velvet armchair in the corner. The racks here are hung with silk and lace, all in pale creams and blacks and garnet tones that feel like something out of an old French film. Expensive. Timeless.

You skim your fingers across them.

This isn't for Harry. No sex remember? This is for you. Because you like the way a good piece fits, especially under a good dress. How it makes your shoulders square and your spine straighten. How a well-cut slip can feel more powerful than a ballgown.

You pick something simple, sheer, black, no unnecessary frills. Just enough to make your skin feel like it’s humming.

You’re halfway through adjusting the straps in front of the mirror when the door clicks.

You freeze.

And in the reflection, you see him - Harry, backlit in the doorway, mid-step, eyes dragging slowly up your figure.

He wasn’t supposed to be here yet.

But he is.

And he doesn’t move.

You don’t cover yourself. Don’t flinch. You just hold his gaze in the mirror and let the moment hang.

His throat works once.

“I thought you were....” he stops, the words catching on something.

“I was,” you say lightly. “But then I saw this and thought... why not?” Your tone is casual. Your expression isn’t. But God you were trying.

Neither is his.

You turn, slowly, to face him fully. No robe. No dressing gown. Just the thin black sheer lace clinging to your hips, your skin still flushed from the velvet of the slip sliding over it.

He exhales, not loudly. But enough for you to notice.

“I told you to pick something you liked,” he says, voice low.

“I did.”

Another beat.

“I’ll give you a minute to change,” he says after a moment, his voice tighter now. He starts to turn.

But then pauses. “Unless you want to wear it out.”

You arch a brow. “To lunch?”

He smiles faintly. “Not for lunch.”

You hold that silence between you like a flame.

Then you say, just loud enough to follow him as he finally steps out of the room, “It’s not in the contract, remember?”

He stops. Shoulders tense.

Then- “I remember.”

But he doesn’t look back this time.

And when you finally change and meet him outside, his gaze doesn’t drift below your collarbone. Not once.

But his jaw is set a little tighter.

And he doesn't take another call all afternoon.

*****

He hadn’t meant to walk in. Not like that.

He’d just stepped away to take a call, expecting you to still be in the dressing suite, maybe deciding between gowns or sulking a little over the earlier mess at the first boutique. He hadn’t expected to push open the private fitting room door and see you - back turned, spine arched slightly, slipping into something sheer and silk that clung like a secret.

Time didn’t stop but something in him did.

Not because he hadn’t seen a beautiful woman in lingerie before. He had, too many times, too casually. But this was different.

It wasn’t for him. That was the part that hit him hardest. You hadn’t chosen the pale ivory slip or the black lace for effect. It wasn’t a performance. You hadn’t called him in with a coy smile or a knowing look. You hadn’t even known he was watching.

And yet he was.

Rooted to the spot, watching the delicate line of your shoulder as you adjusted the strap, your hip tilting slightly under the curve of expensive silk. You looked powerful like that. Unaware and unapologetic. There was no performance, no artifice, just a woman reclaiming her own body in luxury she had earned the right to wear.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Because he knew women who wore lingerie like armor, like bait, like business. But you? You wore it like rebellion. And for a man like Harry - who could buy anything, control everything - that was intoxicating.

He cleared his throat before stepping back, before you saw the look on his face. Because it wasn’t in the contract. And this...this felt like crossing a line that neither of you had spoken aloud. Not yet.

But fuck, if the image didn’t brand itself behind his eyes like it would for the days that followed.

----------------------------------------------------------

You guys are amazing so I had to give you another one! I've been working on this one for the past few days so I hope you love it 🖤

Taglist: @katssecretdiary

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Three: The Penthouse

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

The Arrangement Masterlist

Begging on my knees, baby won't you please, run your fingers through my hair

Maya closed the office door behind her with the same quiet efficiency she used to negotiate eight-figure exits. She stood by the window, tablet in hand, already pulling up your preliminary schedule. Harry didn’t look up immediately. He was too busy remembering how the silk hung on your figure only last night.

“She’s in,” Maya said. “Pending contract review, of course.”

“She would be.” He leaned back against the edge of the table, arms folded. “She handled last night better than most investors I’ve brought to those things.”

“Handled,” Maya repeated, glancing up. “That what we’re calling it now?”

Harry didn’t rise to the bait.

Maya sighed and swiped to the calendar. “If you’re serious about keeping her for the full month, I’ll need to restructure the comms strategy. Two more red carpets confirmed. That charity thing at the Met just got approved. Maybe the event in Rome, so she’d need a passport and clearance. And she’ll need a media coach before the Schwarzman dinner.”

“She doesn’t need a coach.”

“She’ll be sitting next to a senator’s wife and the CEO of BlackField Capital,” Maya said flatly. “She needs polish.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. He walked to the window, looked out. Your hotel wasn’t far, a suite on his dime, but she hadn’t tried to extend it or ask for upgrades. She hadn’t asked for anything, actually.

“She’s smart,” he said. “I don’t want anyone trying to sand down her edges. That’s the appeal.”

Maya’s look was unreadable. “Sure it is.”

He turned back to her. “What’s the financial impact?”

Maya rattled it off like a ledger:

— $35K in wardrobe coordination

— $25K in first-class travel

— $18k in hotel accommodations

— Daily stipend: TBD

— Total estimate: $75–90K USD, depending on what she negotiates

“Round it to a hundred and call it goodwill,” Harry said.

“You want this listed under PR or personal expenses?”

He paused.

The question was a formality. But it wasn’t.

“Personal.”

Maya nodded once. “Fine. I’ll draw up the contract. Standard NDA?”

“No. Mutual,” Harry said. “And leave room for amendments.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think she’ll try to renegotiate?”

“I hope she does.”

A long pause. Maya finally set her tablet down.

“You do realize you’re breaking about five of your own rules.”

He smirked, Maya knew him too well. “Guess I’m due for a reinvention.”

“You sure this is a smart investment?”

Harry turned his gaze back to the window. The city glittered like it knew something.

“She’s not an investment,” he said quietly. “She’s a disruption.”

*****

You’re still in the hotel robe when the knock comes. Three crisp raps - not room service, not housekeeping. You open the door halfway, and of course it’s not Harry. It’s her.

Maya. Harry's assistant. Hair pulled back. Tailored navy coat. Holding a leather folder like it might detonate.

“I assume you’re expecting this,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invite.

You arch a brow. “You always deliver his contracts in person?”

“Just the interesting ones.”

She sets the folder on the coffee table and sits across from you, all business, but there’s something in her eyes, not quite distrust. Curiosity, maybe. Like she hasn’t decided if you’re a PR crisis or a long-term asset.

You sit too, tugging the robe tighter across your chest.

She opens the folder and slides it toward you.

“Four weeks,” Maya says. “One major event per week. Two smaller functions. Travel, accommodations, wardrobe, all covered. Daily stipend included. Media clause optional. NDA - mutual, per Mr. Castillo’s request.”

You flip to the last page. The number is… more than you expected. A lot more. More than you've ever been paid since working in 'the business'.

Your mouth goes dry, but you don’t let it show.

“And in return?” you ask.

“You act like his girlfriend,” Maya says. “Not a PA, not an escort. A girlfriend. At every event. In every room.”

You meet her gaze. “Including the bedroom?”

Maya's breath caught in her throat before responding. “That’s not covered in the contract.”

You can’t help it - you laugh.

It’s bold. Audacious. But the part that gets you isn’t the money, or the luxury. It’s the fact that he waited. He could’ve thrown this at you night one. Instead, he let you prove something.

“I want to amend it,” you say.

Maya tilts her head. “Of course, he said you would.”

You take a pen from the folder’s spine and slide the page back toward her.

“I want input on what I wear to events. Final approval. I’m not a doll.”

Maya studies you for a beat. “That’s doable.”

You pause. “Also, one night off a week. I don’t care what night.”

There’s something like respect in her expression now. Not warm, not soft - but real.

“I’ll get this updated,” she says, standing.

She heads to the door but stops before opening it.

“For what it’s worth…” she glances over her shoulder. “He doesn’t usually bend. Not for anyone.”

You don’t say anything.

But as the door clicks shut behind her, you finally exhale.

And sign the bottom of the page.

******

You’re used to money. Not the showy, influencer kind, but the kind that lets you slip into first class without looking around. The kind that gets doors opened, calls returned. But this - this is different.

This is old money. Quiet money. Power money.

When the elevator doors part and you step into Harry’s penthouse for the first time, it hits you. Not all at once - more like a slow, rolling wave. The space is sleek and expansive, but not cold. Minimalist, but intentional. You take a few careful steps inside, the hum of the city far below you muted by thick glass and altitude.

Everything smells expensive - cedar, leather, something musky and masculine that must be him. You tell yourself you’ve seen places like this. You’ve stayed in places like this.

But it’s not a hotel.

It’s his home.

And now, for the next thirty days, it’s yours too.

Your heels click on polished stone floors as you wander deeper. Sculptural lighting. Shadowy art. Coffee table books you could never bring yourself to actually read. You brush your fingers along a curved marble counter in the kitchen. You could live in just that room, you think.

Then the warm, ambient glow of recessed lighting softens the clean lines of the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the living area, offering a panoramic view of Manhattan, rain-speckled and humming. The city looks unreal from this height - cinematic.

"What do you think?” The voice curled around the corner like smoke, smooth, measured, familiar enough now that it sent a flicker down your spine.

You turned.

Harry stood there, one shoulder braced lightly against the wall, as if he hadn’t just caught you mid-spin in his impossibly vast living room. His hair was slightly tousled, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows. No tie, shirt undone at the collar, tailored trousers still crisp from the day. He looked like the closing scene of a cologne advert, if the man in it carried power like heat.

“I…” Your voice faltered. You hadn’t expected him to still be here, let alone watching. “It’s...huge.”

It was a stupid word, but your brain had gone soft. The ceilings soared. The windows glittered. His presence dwarfed all of it.

Harry pushed off the wall with a casual grace, walking toward you slowly, each step unhurried. “I thought you’d like the view.”

You glanced back at it, the skyline fractured into glowing glass shards across the horizon. Then looked at him again. “The view’s… intimidating.”

His mouth quirked. “You get used to it.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the skyline or himself.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I wanted to see you arrive.”

You weren’t prepared for the honesty of that. It lingered between you, quiet and undressed.

“I thought you’d be at a meeting. Or… dinner. Or something important.”

Men like him usually had somewhere better to be. Clients rarely lingered when it came to integrating you into their world, they preferred the illusion to be seamless. You were meant to appear only when summoned, like a tailored accessory that matched the room. A set piece in heels. They didn’t ask how you felt in the space, just assumed you’d adjust. You always did. Until now.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I made time.”

And there it was again, that line you couldn’t name that was seeping through in small moments. The space between what this was and what it was pretending not to be.

You shifted the handle of your suitcase in your hand, grasping for something to do. Something to say.

“I still don’t know where anything is.”

Harry nodded toward the hallway behind him. “Let me show you.”

Your heels echo against the hardwood as you pull your suitcase behind you.

“Your bedroom’s the last door on the left,” Harry says, voice low, calm. “I had it cleared out.”

The bedroom is huge, not a bedroom so much as a suite, wrapped in charcoal linens, smooth wood, and a plush off-white rug underfoot. The bed is king-sized, mattress high, the bedding layered and inviting in a way that shouldn’t be sexy, but is.

Behind you, Harry lingers in the doorway, hands in his pockets. Watching you, not intrusively, but thoughtfully. “If you want different pillows or a scent diffuser or whatever, Maya can get it sorted.”

“I’m not that high-maintenance.” you chuckled.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Silence stretches again, not uncomfortable, but newly tentative.

You unzip your suitcase slowly. “So… thirty days.”

“Thirty days,” he echoes.

“And we’re pretending I live here.”

He tilts his head, amused. “You do live here.”

You glance at him. “Right. Sure.”

A beat.

He steps further in, just a few paces. The lighting from the hallway catches against his dress shirt, dark navy, sleeves rolled to the forearm. The collar’s slightly open. There’s a watch on his wrist, subtle and sleek. His hair’s still damp from a shower. His jaw, freshly shaved.

He’s not trying to impress you. That’s the dangerous part.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“I can be.”

“There’s pasta in the kitchen. Real stuff. I made too much.”

You arch a brow. “You cook?” you cannot remember the last time a client cooked for you...or otherwise.

He gives you a lazy half-smile. “I have range.”

You follow him down the hall, barefoot now, your heels discarded at the side of the bed. It already feels too intimate - your shoes on his floor. Your voice echoing in this space that’s his.

The kitchen is just as gorgeous: matte black counters, brushed brass fixtures, a long island where a single bowl of spaghetti waits, steam still curling off the plate. Two glasses of red wine sit to the side, one slightly fuller than the other.

You raise an eyebrow. “Hope this isn’t part of the contract.”

He smirks. “It’s not. It’s… just dinner.”

You slide onto one of the stools and twirl the fork. “Well. It’s very girlfriend-y of me to accept," you joke.

“And what’s very boyfriend-y of me?” he asks, leaning against the counter, an eyebrow raised waiting for your answer.

You meet his eyes. “Feeding me. Opening your home.”

A pause.

His gaze sharpens, but doesn’t harden. “It’s a performance, remember.”

“Of course,” you say lightly. “I just happen to be a method actor.”

He laughs quietly - a sound you don’t expect. “That makes two of us.”

You eat in companionable silence, legs brushing under the counter now and then. You don't notice Harry watching you across the counter as your lips sit on the wine glass taking in the expensive red.

When you finished, Harry slid a slim black card across the marble countertop toward you. The weight of it felt heavier than plastic deserved.

“Keycard,” he said simply. “It opens the building, the penthouse, and the private parking garage.”

You picked it up, turning it over in your hand. The embossed logo gleamed under the soft light.

“Here,” he added, pulling a sleek, almost-new phone from his pocket. He pressed a few buttons and slid it toward you. “My number. Call or text anytime. No formalities.”

Your fingers brushed briefly as you took the phone, an electric jolt humming through your skin.

“And,” he said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a business card, “this is Luca. My driver. He’ll pick you up for any events, take you wherever you need. Reliable. Discreet.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes - dark, unreadable. It wasn’t just practical. It was a gesture. A line drawn.

“Got it,” you said quietly, slipping the card into your bag. Now it was real.

*****

You stand in the middle of it all, your suitcase by your feet, and slowly let the silence sink in.

You should unpack.

Instead, you perch on the edge of the bed, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan blinks back at you in amber and violet, a slow kaleidoscope of movement you can’t hear from this high up.

You press your hands to the bedspread, the fabric cool beneath your fingertips. A knock on the door makes you lift your head.

“Yeah?"

Harry’s voice is quiet on the other side. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say, matching his tone. “Thanks. I just need to call my friend, don't want her to worry.”

He doesn’t enter - doesn't push. Just stands there, leaning against the door, a pause, like he’s still deciding something.

“I had a toothbrush brought in for you,” he says. “And, uh… Maya mentioned you liked the lavender body wash. It’s in the shower.”

That strange warmth blooms in your chest again - inconvenient and insistent. You close your eyes for a second. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Silence again.

You hear him step away, then pause.

“I’ll be in my room,” he says finally. “If you need anything.”

The words hover - simple, ordinary. But something about the if you need anything clings to you long after his footsteps fade.

You strip slowly, peel off the long day. Your skin still smells faintly of perfume. You find the lavender wash in the shower and pour a little too much into your palm.

The water beats down and you stand there for longer than necessary, rinsing off the day, the decision, the sudden tightness behind your ribs.

You’re not here to fall in love.

You’re here for thirty days.

You’re here to play the part.

And yet…

You dry off, pull on silk shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and step back into the dim bedroom. The city lights cast soft shadows on the walls. The bed looks untouched.

You picked up your phone and dialed an ever familiar number.

"Where the hell have you been? I nearly had the NYPD and FBI looking for you!'

No hi, no hello. Typical Katie.

"I'm fine. I wanted to ring because… I need to tell you, I got a contract, so I’m going to be out for the next month," you say, voice casual, clipped like if you keep it businesslike, it won’t feel so strange saying it out loud.

There’s silence for a beat, then Katie lets out a dry laugh. "A month? Shit, babe, that sounds like the good kind of contract. What’s the deal...travel, parties, blowjobs on a yacht?"

You smirk, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "No yachts. Not yet, anyway. Just… full-time. One guy. Nice place."

"Let me guess - glass everywhere, private elevator, sheets with a thread count that could knock you out?"

"Basically," you say, glancing around the penthouse. It still doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, not even temporarily. The furniture is too sculptural. The air smells too clean. "It’s ridiculous."

"Is he hot, at least?"

You pause. "He’s… intense."

Katie laughs again, lower this time. "So that’s a yes."

You roll your eyes, but don’t argue. "He’s not like my usual. Corporate. Cold, kind of. But then he looks at me and it’s like..."

"Like you forgot how to breathe?"

You blink, then nod slowly. "...Yeah."

Katie exhales. You can hear her flick a lighter, probably leaning on the windowsill of her own flat, in that lazy robe she always answers the door in. "Sounds like trouble. You going soft on a client?"

"No." Too quick. Too defensive. "It’s just a job."

"Right. Sure. We all say that before we’re the ones catching feelings while pretending not to." She pauses. "Does he know what you usually do?"

You chew on your thumbnail. "Not everything. Doesn’t want… that. It’s more about appearances. Dinner. Events. I think he just wants someone to orbit him."

Katie snorts. "So you’re a very expensive moon."

"Shut up," you mutter, laughing despite yourself.

"Hey, I’m not judging. We’ve all done it, the slow burn ones, the lonely rich ones, the ones that swear they don’t want sex until they do." A beat. "Just keep your wits about you, okay? Men like that love the illusion, but they panic when they start believing it’s real. And if you do, make sure you charge him!"

You’re quiet. Her words land like little pins under your skin.

Katie softens, her voice dipping. "You call me if you need anything. Seriously. I don’t care if it’s three a.m. and you’re locked in a marble bathroom crying into a $90 face towel."

You smile, but your throat tightens. "Thanks."

"One last thing..."

"Mhm?"

"Tell me what the wardrobe’s like."

You grin. "Katie. It has a remote control."

She gasps. "I hate you."

You laugh as you hang up the phone, a small piece of normality making you feel at home.

You hesitate for a long moment before flicking off the lamp and slipping between the sheets.

You stare at the ceiling.

You wonder if he’s asleep yet.

You wonder what room is his.

You wonder if he’s wondering about you.

You turn on your side and bury your face in the pillow.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand.

Harry: “Night.”

You stare at the message for a long moment, then type out a reply.

You: “Night, boss.”

You hit send and immediately regret the cheek of it - but a second later, a typing bubble appears.

Harry: “We’ll work on that nickname.”

You smile into the dark.

Then, just as suddenly, your stomach twists.

You’re not supposed to like the way he talks to you. You’re not supposed to feel warm at the sound of his voice.

You’re not supposed to feel anything at all.

And yet, as the city flickers below and the luxury sheets cocoon you in comfort, you know sleep won’t come easily tonight.

Not in his home.

*****

Across the hall, Harry laid in bed, sleep not greeting him just yet.

You were here.

Really here.

Your shoes in the hallway, coat tossed carelessly over a chair, the faint floral scent of your perfume already lingering in the air. It unsettled him more than he expected.

He should’ve felt in control, the contract was signed, the terms clear. No surprises. Just an arrangement. Boundaries.

But you weren't a boundary. You were a breach.

You had wandered through his home earlier like you didn’t quite believe it was yours, not even temporarily. That had done something to him. That flicker of guarded wonder in your eyes. You weren't impressed by wealth; he’d vetted that early. You were used to it... but not this kind. Not his kind. He could tell.

And yet you hadn't flinched. You met his gaze when he handed you the key card, even smirked a little. Like you knew exactly what game you were playing.

Harry didn’t usually offer the key card personally. Or the private driver’s number. Or the burner phone with his number already saved at the top.

He told himself it was practical.

But deep down, he knew it was something else.

You're different. Not because of your looks - though, Jesus - but because of the way you carried your defiance like perfume. Quiet, heady, impossible to ignore. You didn’t chase power. You dared it.

And now you werr in his space. Putting fingerprints on his order. Stirring up something feral in the man who had built his life on control.

This was temporary. A business agreement.

He repeated it again.

Then why did it feel like a fuse had been lit?

******

You’re already up before he is.

You didn’t sleep much, too quiet, too dark, too clean so by the time the city began to hum beneath the penthouse windows, you gave up pretending and padded into the kitchen. You find tea, of course. Organic, overpriced, alphabetically arranged. There’s a box marked "H. Castillo" in perfect handwriting on the top shelf. You don’t touch that one.

You’re barefoot on marble, silk shorts, tshirt loose over your chest, nipples faintly visible in the chill of the room. You don’t care. You weren’t hired to be modest.

You’re mid-sip when you hear his voice behind you.

“Help yourself.”

You nearly spill the tea. You didn’t hear him come in. You turn to find him standing there, no jacket, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie in one hand. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. Barely put together, and somehow more dangerous for it.

“You really need to stop doing that,” you mutter, heart still skipping. “What if I’d been naked?”

He lifts a brow, steps closer like it’s nothing. “Then it would’ve been a far more interesting breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. He’s too calm. Too close.

“I assume you found everything.”

“I’ve been in bigger hotel suites,” you say, sipping again. “Just with worse coffee.”

“It’s not a hotel.”

“No. It’s a penthouse with a coffee machine that costs more than my first car.”

He watches you - not your face, not exactly. His gaze drifts to the faint line of your collarbone, the skin at the base of your throat. When his eyes find yours again, there’s something in them you can’t quite place. Calculating. Curious.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

The smile that touches his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sex isn’t in the contract.” The words careful and measured. A boundary drawn not just for you, but for himself.

Because even as he says it, his gaze betrays him. It skims, quickly, over the line of your thighs where your shorts sit. He forces himself to look away, jaw tightening, retreating behind the usual mask of restraint.

“I know.”

“Just making sure you’re aware.”

You pause. Tilt your head slightly. “So no sex. But breakfast flirting is complimentary?”

“Among other things.”

His voice is dry, but the air thickens.

You glance down he’s still holding the tie, the silk crushed slightly in his hand. Your fingers twitch before your brain even catches up.

“Want help with that?”

He doesn’t answer, just lifts the tie and hands it over. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, amusement, hesitation, heat but he doesn’t move when you step into his space.

You’re too aware of the fact that he smells good. Subtle, expensive. Like cedar and something crisp and private. His shirt is warm from his skin, and your knuckles brush his chest as you adjust the collar.

You haven’t done this in a while. Not since someone who didn’t pay you.

Your hands move automatically, muscle memory guiding the knot, trying not to tremble. Harry stood still, his sharp gaze fixed on you as your fingers moved deftly around his collar. There was a calm confidence in the way you handled the silk tie, precise and unhurried, as if this were routine for you, not the business of clients, but something more personal.

The scent of your shampoo, subtle and clean, reached him, making his pulse catch unexpectedly. He wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, this unsettled, especially not in his own penthouse.

His mind flickered between control and chaos. He reminded himself of the contract, the boundaries, the rules. This was business. Nothing more.

But as your hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary, tying the Windsor knot perfectly, he felt the pull of something unspoken, something dangerous, simmering beneath the surface.

He caught your eyes, steady and unreadable, and realized neither of you were quite willing to break the silence.

You focus on the fold, the loop, the pull. His breath is steady. Yours isn’t.

“There,” you say softly, smoothing it out. “Windsor. You look like someone about to fire half of Wall Street.”

He doesn’t thank you. Just watches you with that unreadable expression. Sharp. Tense.

You step back. Distance is safer.

“Try not to mess it up,” you say, grabbing your tea again. And then you leave him there, standing perfectly tied and totally silent, while your pulse refuses to slow.

He watches as you walk out of the room, the hem of your silk shorts riding dangerously high, grazing the curve of your thighs, threatening to reveal more with each step. It’s a vision that brands itself into his mind, one he knows damn well he’ll be replaying the moment he’s alone in the back seat of his car.

Harry swears under his breath.

This was never supposed to be complicated. But nothing about you, your sharp wit, your posture like armour, that maddening, deliberate softness you wear like a dare is simple.

You hadn’t looked back, not even once. Just walked out like you didn’t know what you were leaving in your wake.

But he knows you do.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

And for a man who prides himself on control, who built a world where everything has a place and price, the fact that he’s standing there in his own goddamn kitchen, still reeling from the ghost of your hands on his tie, feels like losing.

He tugs at the knot again, as if he can loosen the memory with it.

He can’t.

And somewhere, deep in his chest, a truth starts to thrum beneath the surface like a warning:

If she keeps this up, the contract won’t be the only thing he breaks.

Fuck.

_______________________________________________

I hope you are all enjoying this. I will also be doing an update on A Getaway Car tomorrow so keep your eyes peeled 👀 I feel like making a playlist for this fic what do you think?

Thanks for all the comments and reblogs 😘

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter Two: The Gala

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

The Arrangement Masterlist

You make it look like it's magic, cause I see nobody, nobody but you. - The Weeknd

You weren’t always an escort.

You grew up sharp and observant, the kind of girl who noticed the way people moved in a room, what they said when they thought no one was listening. You learned early that the world ran on power, money, and charm and if you didn’t have the first two, you’d better master the third.

Your childhood wasn’t violent or tragic, just… unstable. Your mother left early. Your dad worked three jobs, most of them inconsistent. You moved around a lot - schools, flats, cities - and learned to keep your head down while also knowing exactly when to raise it.

In your early twenties, you tried the usual routes: temp jobs, waitressing, even an attempt at drama school before tuition bills caught up with you. None of it stuck. But what did? Men. Their attention. Their need to be seen, understood, admired and yours to be safe, in control, and well-compensated for it.

You didn’t call it escorting at first. A friend introduced you to someone, who introduced you to someone else. At first it was dinners, overnights, companionship. Then contracts. Then regulars. You kept it clean. You never got messy. You never promised more than what was offered and you always delivered more than what was expected.

By the time you met Harry Castillo, you were five years into this life. Not new, but not jaded. Careful, not cold. You knew how to wear any room like a dress, how to read a man’s mood from across a table, how to soften your voice or sharpen it depending on what the moment demanded.

The suite at The Carlyle is too clean.

The kind of clean that feels deliberate, sterile. Like no one actually lives here, they just pass through, trailing cologne and credit limits behind them. You’ve been in hotel rooms like this before, but never for long. Never with someone else footing the bill.

You woke early. You always do.

Showered. Shaved. Tied your hair up with a silk ribbon you found in your overnight bag, not yours, clearly Harry’s assistant’s doing. Everything had been arranged: a sample-sized lingerie in pale neutral, a handwritten note next to the coffee machine.

The stylist will meet you at noon. Don’t let them underestimate you.— H

You read it twice.

Then you made your coffee and stared out the window like it was a screen showing someone else’s life.

And now it’s noon, and the doorbell rings exactly on time.

You open it barefoot, in a robe, because you want to see the look on whoever-it-is’s face.

The woman on the other side doesn’t flinch.

Late thirties, maybe early forties. Sleek black hair, blunt bangs, all cheekbones and dry wit just waiting to happen. She looks you up and down once, not with judgment, but with the precision of someone mentally scanning your measurements and filing them into categories like fit-and-flare, plunge neckline, color season: winter, obviously.

She says your name like a statement.

“That’s me.”

“Vivienne. I’ve been instructed to make you look like you were born into old money.”

You smile. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

She strides in without waiting for permission, snapping her fingers at the two assistants trailing behind her, one with racks of dresses, the other carrying shoe boxes and fabric swatches like sacred offerings.

You close the door.

“What kind of event is it?” you ask, folding your arms, staying barefoot just to keep some part of yourself grounded.

Vivienne glances over her tablet. “Harry didn’t say. Which tells me it’s important.”

“Gala?”

“Maybe.”

She gestures toward the rack. “We’re trying everything. Jewelry arrives in an hour. Hair and makeup after that. You’re on a very tight schedule to become effortlessly perfect.”

You raise an eyebrow with a small smirk. “No pressure.”

Vivienne looks up at you, something faintly like amusement in her eyes. “You’re not nervous.”

You shake your head. Maybe Vivienne wasn't informed of your occupation. “Should I be?”

“No,” she says slowly, “but I’ve dressed a lot of women for this world. You’re not like them.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“That depends. Are you here to play a part, or rewrite it?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

You pause. Then you say, “I guess we’ll find out.”

*****

Three hours later, you’re staring at a version of yourself you almost don’t recognize.

The gown is midnight blue, not black, not navy, midnight. Slippery silk that moves like water, cut very low in the back and tight enough at the waist to make your posture change. Your hair is swept into a clean knot at the nape of your neck. Diamond drops kiss your collarbone that probably costs more than your yearly rent. Your lips are soft, not bold. Your eyes are smoky.

You look expensive.

You look untouchable.

And when you step into the car waiting outside, a matte black Mercedes with nothing but a curt nod from the driver, you let yourself imagine for half a second that this is your real life.

That you’re someone who belongs at Harry Castillo’s side.

But you know better.

You're here to play a part.

And you're going to play it perfectly.

*****

He was checking his watch when the elevator doors opened.

Harry never paced. He managed time, like everything else - precisely, silently, efficiently. But tonight, standing in the hotel suite he’d reserved for their staging area, he caught himself halfway through a second glance at the clock.

Then you stepped in.

And time, for just a moment, stopped managing itself.

You didn’t announce herself. You didn’t glide or pose or wait for effect. You walked in like you belonged in a room like this, wearing a dress that didn’t just fit - it transformed.

Midnight blue. Sleek. Elegant. The kind of fabric that demanded attention without begging for it. It framed you like a secret you couldn’t afford to want, but did anyway.

You hair was up. Diamonds grazed your collarbone. The makeup was subtle, expensive, devastating.

Harry’s first thought was: This isn’t the woman I met last night.

And his second was: Yes, it is.

Because it wasn’t the gown or the heels or the discreet flash of skin that made his chest tighten. It was your eyes - sharp as ever, unwavering, meeting his like you were daring him to underestimate you now.

You tilted your head, noticing the slight gap his mouth had made as you walked in. “I clean up well.”

Understatement.

He didn’t speak at first. Just studied you.

It wasn’t about attraction - though it was there, inevitable and rising fast. It was the shift. The fact that you looked like someone the board would fawn over. Someone the press wouldn’t question. Someone Lucy would hate, instantly.

“You do,” he said finally, voice low.

Your mouth quirked. “Good. Because that stylist put me through three hours of fabric-induced identity crisis.”

You couldn’t help but take him in. The tuxedo tailored to perfection, his dark hair neatly swept back, those deep brown eyes steady and unreadable. He was handsome - undeniably so. More striking than most of your past clients, which was always a bonus in this line of work.

Harry stepped forward. Not close enough to touch, just enough to make it clear this was no longer hypothetical. This was real now. Public. Photographed. Whispered about.

He paused before he handed you a small velvet box.

“What’s this?” you asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Final touch.”

Inside was a bracelet, diamond-studded links, delicate, Cartier. Of course. It matched the earrings. Probably arranged by his assistant, Maya. Still, Harry had signed off on it.

You didn’t gasp or coo or pretend to be overwhelmed. You just looked at it, then up at him. “Do I get to keep it?”

He gave the smallest nod with a slight smirk. “Of course.”

You lifted your wrist, letting him fasten the clasp himself.

His fingers brushed your skin, warm, impossibly soft and for a flicker of a second, the air between you changed. Denser. Quieter.

You looked up at him, expression unreadable. His face closer to yours than expected.

“You’re staring,” you said lightly.

“I know.”

Another beat passed, one breath too long, before you looked away. You adjusted one earring, smoothed the skirt, and glanced toward the door.

“So… ready to show me off?” you asked, tone still teasing but there was something underneath it now. Something sharper.

Harry gave a slow, steady breath. Then he said, “You’ll steal the whole room.”

“Good,” you said, already walking toward the elevator. His gaze adverting towards the lower half of your back. “Just as we agreed.”

But as he followed you out, one hand at the small of your back, Harry couldn’t shake the thought that this was already slipping out of his control.

Remember Harry, this is an arrangement.

*****

The lights hit you before the air does.

Cool evening breeze, gold-lit steps, and then flash. Flash. Flash.

Cameras pop like firecrackers. Voices swirl. Someone calls Harry’s name, someone else guesses yours wrong.

“Mr. Castillo! Who’s the new face?”

“Is this one a replacement?”

“Over here, sir! Over here!”

You smile like you’ve been doing it all your life.

Not wide. Not fake. Just enough to register: I’m aware you’re looking, and I don’t care.

The silk clings to you as you climb the stairs one measured step at a time, midnight blue catching the light like a second skin. You feel Harry step in beside you. His hand finds the small of your back with clinical precision, like the move’s been practiced on dozens of women. Maybe it has.

But he doesn’t guide you. He doesn’t steer. He just keeps pace.

And that alone earns him a flicker of something like respect. Unlike past clients.

The red carpet is a corridor of curated attention - stylists lurking near velvet ropes, society wives scanning for scandal, assistants texting furiously to figure out who you are. You see it all.

You feel it all.

The way the first few glances slide over you - too young, too unfamiliar, too not Lucy. Then the moment the men’s eyes linger one second longer. The women catch up next, doing a double take, recalibrating. It’s not just that you look expensive - it’s that you look like you know something they don’t.

That’s what unnerves them.

That’s what excites them.

Inside, the ballroom is all chandeliers and whispered millions. Waiters float past with crystal flutes and shrimp skewers no one actually eats. A live quartet plays something polite in the background. The entire building smells like money and old power. You let it settle over you like mist.

You’ve been to places like this before. The chandeliers. The gowns. The murmurs that sound like compliments but feel like currency. You know how to walk into a room like this and play the part. You’ve done it a dozen times + high-end clients who wanted a pretty woman on their arm and silence on her lips.

You’ve worn dresses just as expensive. Smiled just as wide. Let strangers believe you were just another debutante or actress or heiress. No one ever asked. They didn’t want to know. That was the point. They didn’t want you. They wanted what you gave them - ease, illusion, the girlfriend experience minus the weight of real emotion. Men who barked details beforehand: her name is Vanessa, she doesn’t eat carbs, she’s shy about PDA but wild behind closed doors. They liked control. They liked knowing you were theirs - for the night, the event, the transaction.

Harry hasn’t said much since you stepped out of the car.

But he’s watching you.

He’s not obvious about it. Not the way men usually are. He tracks you the way a strategist watches the board, noting each calculated move, each flash of confidence. And he sees it, doesn’t he?

That you know how to read a room. That you’re better at this than most of the people born into it.

“Smile,” he murmurs at your side, voice low, smooth.

“I am,” you say without turning your head.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t correct you. You sense the smallest shift in his posture, something like amusement. Or maybe admiration.

A woman approaches. Older. Elegant in the kind of way that comes from decades of practiced stillness. Platinum hair. Thin smile. Diamond tennis bracelet the size of a down payment.

“Harry,” she says. “You didn’t tell us you were bringing someone.”

You turn just slightly. Enough to join the exchange. But not enough to overstep.

He introduces you. The woman blinks, takes you in all at once. Her smile doesn’t shift, but something behind her eyes sharpens.

“Lovely,” she says, to Harry, not you.

You hold her gaze anyway. “You look beautiful,” you say. And then — just enough tilt in your tone — “Have you and Harry known each other long?”

It lands. She falters for half a second, then excuses herself with a gracious nod.

Harry waits until she’s gone to murmur, “That was surgical.”

You sip your champagne. “She didn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like anyone.”

“She really didn’t like me.”

A pause. Then, low and dry, “That’s why I kept you.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your eyes scan the crowd. You don’t cling to Harry. You don’t chase attention. You just exist — composed, untouchable.

And when your gaze slides back to him, you catch something flicker across his face.

Not lust. Not pride.

Curiosity.

Something deeper than he wanted to show.

And suddenly, it isn’t just the cameras you’re performing for.

It’s him.

It doesn’t take long for people to start peeling away from the crowd to meet you.

Not out of kindness - curiosity is currency here. You’re something new. And novelty always draws a crowd.

The first few introductions blur. Names you don’t bother storing, men with firm handshakes and wives with cold smiles. You play polite. Charming, but not overeager. Let them ask the questions. Let them wonder. That’s the real power in a room like this — restraint.

Harry watches it all, quiet beside you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t perform. It’s almost like… he’s letting you work.

When the first woman pulls you aside, somewhere between the oysters and the obscenely expensive wine and you follow, curious.

She’s tall, early forties maybe, in a black column gown with a neckline that says divorced and thriving. Her voice is velvet and vodka-toned.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “how long have you and Harry been seeing each other?”

You lift a shoulder. “A little while.”

She gives a knowing smile, the kind women like her perfect after years of dinner parties and backhanded compliments. “You’re not the usual type.”

“Not blonde?”

“Not trained.”

You hold her gaze for just a beat too long. Then smile sweetly. “You think I need training to handle Harry?”

There’s a flicker of something, amusement, maybe. Maybe a warning.

Then she takes a sip of her drink and drifts off, bored or bruised or both.

You find Harry again at the edge of the ballroom, talking with a man in a suit that probably costs more than your childhood home. His hand finds your lower back as you approach, light, like a signal.

He introduces you. The man is… polite. Careful. Smiling just a little too hard when he looks at you.

When he steps away, Harry leans in.

“He thinks you’re an actress.”

You glance up at him. “Should I correct him?”

He considers. “No. Let them guess. It’s better that way.”

You sip your champagne, then ask quietly, “What did you tell them I am?”

His eyes slide to yours. “Nothing.”

“So they’re filling in the blanks.”

He nods once. “People like that. It’s safer for them than the truth.”

You watch the crowd, the way heads still turn subtly when you pass. You wonder how many here had Harry’s attention before you. How many will try to claim it after.

“Why me?” you ask, not coy but curious.

He doesn’t pretend not to understand.

After a moment, he says, “Because you walked into that lobby like you weren’t for sale.”

You turn to face him, brows raised. “I was for sale.”

His mouth curves slightly. “Exactly.”

There’s something electric in the quiet between you.

And then someone calls his name, an older man, gray at the temples, with a voice that demands attention. Harry gives you a subtle look: Come with me. You follow.

The man is a senator. You recognize him from the news. His wife, standing beside him, eyes you like you’re a landmine in designer heels.

The conversation is light, politics, charity, money disguised as civility. But under it, there’s something else: a test.

You keep up. You make a dry comment about a foundation’s tax loophole and the senator actually laughs. His wife does not.

When the couple walks away, Harry gives you a long, unreadable look.

“What?”

“I thought I’d have to step in.”

You arch a brow. “Disappointed?”

“No,” he says, after a pause. “Not at all.”

You leave soon after. His hand settles on your lower back again as the driver pulls the car around. You feel the weight of it differently now, not possessive. Not protective. But present. Like he sees you in a way he didn’t before.

As you slip into the car, he follows, silent.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then he says, voice quiet, “You wore the hell out of that dress.”

You let the compliment hang in the air for a beat, tilting your head just slightly, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of your gloss-worn mouth.

“Good,” you said coolly, eyes flicking over to him. “Means I’m earning my fee.”

But then, just for a second, your gaze softens, not in a way that undoes the armor, but enough to leave a crack.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” you add, voice low, velvet-laced. “To be the man with the woman everyone stared at tonight?”

You don't wait for his answer. Just turn toward the window, watching the city sparkle outside. But your tone lingers like perfume, expensive, intoxicating, and impossible to forget.

He’s watching you like he’s still trying to figure out what you are.

You want to smirk. To play it off. But your voice comes out softer than you meant:

“That’s part of the service, Mr. Castillo.”

The way his jaw tenses, ever so slightly, tells you he doesn’t love that answer.

“Is it?"

You tilt your head.

“It is tonight.”

He doesn’t push further. But something lingers in the air between you, not quite spoken, not quite deniable. A heat, a hum. A question neither of you wants to be first to ask.

His smile is slow. Real. The first one of the night.

Outside, the cameras flash again. His hand on your lower back, no different to the rest of the night.

*****

The door of the town car shuts with a soft click, muffling the city behind you. You slip off your heels, stretching your toes into the car floor like you’ve just survived a battlefield in stilettos.

Harry sits beside you, quiet, undoing the top button of his shirt like he’s peeling off the last layer of his public armor. You glance at him, just long enough to catch the way he’s watching you in return.

“You handled tonight better than I expected,” he says eventually.

You raise an eyebrow, lazily. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“I don’t give compliments,” he says. “I give evaluations.”

“Charming,” you murmur, folding your legs beneath you. “What’s the verdict then, boss?”

His mouth twitches, but not into a full smile. You’ve noticed that about him. He’s careful with softness. With warmth.

“You made people curious,” he says. “You made them look. Which is exactly what I needed.”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “So I earned my cut.”

He shifts, the leather creaking beneath him. “That’s not what I meant.”

You glance at him again. He’s not looking at you like a client. Not tonight. There’s something else in his gaze now, something assessing, but almost... fascinated.

“I have three more events this week,” he says. “And several next month. I’d prefer not to rotate through arm candy.”

You bite back a grin. “And here I thought variety was the spice of billionaire life.”

“I prefer consistency.” A pause. “Control.” He looks at you, his gaze drifting down then back up.

You let that word hang in the air. You’re not sure if it’s a warning or a test.

“So what are you proposing?” you ask, voice low. Not flirty. Curious. You lean back into the leather seat and wait.

“A month,” he says. “Thirty days. You accompany me to every event I choose. You’re on call, within reason. Exclusive. In return, you get a flat fee - plus wardrobe, accommodations, discretion.”

A breath of silence. Then...

“But I want you staying at mine. The hotel’s not going to work.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, more curious than annoyed. “Because?”

“Security, for one.” He shifts slightly, his gaze flicking to yours. “But also optics. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend. It’s easier to sell if you’re not catching cabs back to SoHo after midnight.”

You almost laugh. “You think I’m the type to sneak out in the middle of the night?”

His voice is soft. “I think you’re the type to keep your distance.”

You look out the window. The skyline is breaking open now, downtown glittering in the near distance. Your pulse picks up slightly.

“Living together, even temporarily,” you say. “That’s a whole other price tier.”

“It’s already accounted for,” he says without missing a beat.

You turn your head toward him again. “You always this decisive with business deals?”

He looks at you like you already know the answer.

"Only the ones I want to win.” You could help but chuckle.

“And discretion,” you repeat. “So I’m your dirty little secret?”

His jaw ticks. “No. You’re my guest. But people talk. I don’t need a tabloid circus.”

You study him in the dark. You could walk away right now. Say no, thank you, good luck with your billionaire loneliness. But something stops you.

Maybe it’s the way he said guest instead of possession. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long time, someone looked at you like you could be more than a transaction.

You cross your arms. “Double my usual rate.”

That gets a smile. Not smug. Amused. “That’s bold.”

“You’re not hiring a vase, Harry,” you say, coolly. “You’re hiring someone who won’t embarrass you in a room full of Harvard grads and hedge fund monsters. I proved that tonight.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

“Done,” he says instead. No hesitation.

You blink. “Just like that?”

“I don’t waste time negotiating when I’ve already decided I want something.”

You tap your nail against the leather armrest.

“But I want to be clear about something,” you add, turning toward him. “This isn’t a long con. You’re not paying for sex. That’s not what this is.”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “I know.”

“I give the experience, the illusion, the public-facing version. That’s what you’re buying.”

“And it’s a convincing one,” he says, almost too quiet.

You breathe in, slow. “But I’m not sleeping with you because there’s a contract. I don’t do that.”

“I didn’t assume you would.” You study him for a moment longer than you should, unsure if it’s the compliment or the implication that unsettles you more.

You nod once, letting that settle. It’s important, for both of you. You’ve had men who thought a few high heels and a dinner date came with guarantees. But Harry doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even blink.

A chill dances down your spine.

You extend your hand. “Then we have a deal.”

His fingers wrap around yours - warm, firm, grounding.

It’s not a client’s handshake.

It’s something else.

And for a dangerous moment, you wonder what exactly you’ve signed up for.

*****

The elevator dings softly as it opens to your hotel room.

You step in alone.

The driver offered to walk you up, but you waved him off. You needed the silence. The distance. Just a few floors of breath between the moment you shook Harry Castillo’s hand and the moment your own heart caught up with the decision.

Thirty days.

You told him it was about money. And it is. It always is. Rent. Debts. That phone call from your sister you ignored because you didn’t want to hear the need in her voice. You’ve been surviving so long, you’ve stopped asking what it would feel like to actually live.

But this?

This feels different.

You drop your clutch on the marble console table, toes curling into the rug. The dress is still hugging your body like it belongs to someone richer. Someone less real. Someone who’s never had to smile through being iced out of a fitting because the sales associate decided you weren’t “a good brand fit.”

You think about the way Harry looked at you tonight.

Not like you were decoration. Not like you were disposable.

No....he looked at you like you were useful. Tactical. A weapon sharpened into silk and diamonds.

And god help you, that felt good.

You move to the mirror and stare at yourself. The makeup is still flawless. Hair still glossy. But your eyes… they always give you away. Even now. Even after all the practice.

You sit at the edge of the bed, unzip your heels, and let yourself feel it.

Not relief.

Not fear.

But a strange, simmering anticipation.

You made him raise the offer. You saw him hesitate before he smiled. That wasn’t control. That was surprise. You pushed back, and he liked it.

You’re not sure if that’s a red flag or a green light.

You lie back on the bed, the cool sheets soft against your skin. One arm flung over your eyes, blocking out the chandelier’s dim glow.

What the hell did I just agree to?

Thirty days.

One man.

In his penthouse.

Unlimited possibility.

[ayoungpascallover]

Chapter One: The Client

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

The Arrangement Masterlist

An angel's smile is what you sell, you promised me heaven then put me through hell - Bon Jovi.

You’re not supposed to wait in the lobby.

Technically, you're meant to meet in the car or in the bar or at some anonymous hotel where no one asks for your last name and everyone pretends this is just coincidence. But this client’s assistant was specific - “He’ll meet you in the penthouse. Not before. Don’t be late.” So you took the private elevator like a ghost, let the doorman scan you like contraband, and now you’re perched on the arm of a velvet chair that probably costs more than your entire rent history combined.

You cross your legs slowly, deliberately. The slit in your dress falls open just enough to say yes, I know what I’m doing, but not enough to look desperate. You learned the balance years ago.

The lobby smells like money. Like eucalyptus, old scotch, and silence. The kind of quiet that comes with wealth so obscene it doesn’t need to prove itself anymore. You glance at your reflection in the dark glass of the window: red lips, long lashes, collarbones dusted in shimmer. You look expensive tonight and not just because of the dress.

Then you hear it, the soft chime of the elevator.

You don’t stand. You wait.

He steps out like he owns the whole building. Maybe he does. Tailored black tuxedo. Cufflinks that probably have a backstory. Hair slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration. Not young. Not old. Late forties, maybe. Sharp jaw, tired eyes. Handsome. Odd. They never usually are.

You know men like him or at least, you know the version they show the world.

You watch him clock you in an instant. You can almost feel it: his brain filing you under unexpected, then evaluating, then deciding not to react. He walks past you toward the private bar like you're just another piece of expensive furniture.

“Rough night?” you ask, just loud enough to land.

He stops.

Turns back.

He sees you. Not lounging. Not waiting. Posed. Composed. All long legs, a slit of red silk, and confidence that didn’t ask for permission. You looked like you belonged in a perfume ad or a scandal - somewhere curated, somewhere sharp.

He registered you in stages.

The dress first - off-the-shoulder, effortless. Then the mouth - painted red, curved like you knew something he didn’t. Then the eyes - watching him with the kind of calm that made him feel like he was the one being bought. You were young, late twenties he would pin you at. Not what he was looking for, but for what he was looking for, he wasn't going to be fussy.

And now he’s looking. Really looking. Assessing. You hold his gaze and smile - a half-smile, the kind that says I’m not nervous, but I am curious.

He doesn’t smile back. “That obvious?”

You shrug, shifting slightly on the chair. “You look like you just escaped a fundraiser and a firing squad.”

That earns a ghost of a smirk. He steps toward you. “Which one are you?”

You tilt your head. “Excuse me?”

“The fundraiser or the firing squad?”

“I’m the intermission,” you say smoothly. Then you uncross your legs and rise, slow, measured. You gave your name.

He watches you like he’s solving a riddle. “You don’t look like one.”

You arch a brow. “And what should I look like?”

He doesn’t answer. Just gestures toward the bar. “Drink?”

You nod. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

He pours two fingers of something that probably costs more than your weekly rate and hands it to you without ceremony. No toast. No fake charm.

The glass is heavy in your hand. So is the silence that follows.

“Harry Castillo,” he says eventually. Like it matters. Like you don’t already know exactly who he is.

You let the name hang there, then give a small, ironic smile. “Nice to meet you, Harry Castillo.”

You don’t ask him why he called. You never ask.

But part of you wonders.

Not why he hired you - men like him always want a distraction, a clean slate, something that won’t end up on Page Six. But why now. Why tonight. Why you.

He doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t leer. Doesn’t even pretend to flirt.

He just leans against the bar, whiskey in hand, and says, “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

You take a sip. Let it burn a little. “Start with the short.”

“I need someone on my arm tomorrow night, maybe the month. Galas. Dinners. PR damage control.”

You raise a brow. “A girlfriend experience.”

“A convincing one.”

You swirl the drink, pretending to consider. But you already know your answer.

“How convincing are we talking?” you ask.

He meets your gaze again. His eyes are dark, but not cold. Just... quiet. Like he’s been through enough not to waste energy.

“You wear what you want. Say what you want. Just look like you want to be there.” A pause. “And don’t lie to me.”

You smile at that. “What makes you think I’m a liar?”

He finishes his drink in one measured swallow.

“I don’t,” he says.

And for the first time tonight, you think this job might actually be interesting.

You don’t usually stay this long. Most clients like to pretend there’s a rush. They fumble through their introductions, rush the champagne, get to the point. You’re a service. A transaction. The longer it takes, the more it costs and the more real it starts to feel.

But this one… Harry Castillo… he doesn’t move like a man trying to fill a void. He moves like he’s protecting one.

You lean back against the marble edge of the bar, letting the silence stretch again. He’s watching you, still and composed, the kind of stillness that comes from years of controlling rooms, markets, people.

“So,” you say lightly, “you’re not looking for sex.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not looking to lie to myself.”

That earns him a faint smile from you - a real one. Honest. Dry.

“Good start,” you murmur. “But here’s the thing - if you want a girlfriend for longer than a night, you’ll need more than just heels and a pretty face.”

His brow lifts. “What do you charge for personality?”

You tap a finger against your glass. “Double.”

He almost - almost - smiles.

Then he steps closer, slow and unhurried, setting his empty glass down beside yours. You can smell his cologne now - something woodsy and clean, with a bite underneath.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” he says calmly, and it’s not an insult. It’s a statement of terms. “Not unless you want to.”

You tilt your head. “Is that your way of being noble?”

“No. It’s my way of not confusing boundaries.” A pause. “Mine. Or yours.”

You study him for a beat. It’s not the first time a man’s drawn a line. But it is the first time you believe one might actually stick to it.

“So this is what you want?” you ask. “A fake girlfriend. For a month. In public. Private dinners, parties, events.”

“I'll see how you do tomorrow night. Then we can discuss the rest later.”

“You want me to dress the part. Charm your board. Laugh at your jokes.”

“I don’t need you to laugh,” he says. “Just show up.”

You consider him - the directness, the tiredness he doesn’t bother hiding, the sliver of something under all that restraint. Loneliness, maybe. Or something older.

“I’ll need a wardrobe if we agree to more than one event” you say, casual.

“Fine.”

“And a stylist. Because if we’re playing pretend, I’m not showing up in knockoff Louboutins.”

He nods once.

You watch him watching you, calculating. There’s no desire in his eyes — not the kind you’re used to seeing. Just thought. Just intention.

“And no NDA?” you ask softly.

He finally blinks. “You want one?”

“I want to know if I’m being hired as a woman… or a risk.”

That pauses him. His voice, when it comes, is lower. “I don’t think you’re either.”

You take the final sip of your drink, slow, deliberate.

“Then I accept,” you say, and hold out your hand. “Full illusion. Your perfect lie. You'll want me for the month Harry, trust me.”

He doesn’t take your hand right away. He studies it, then finally wraps his own around yours. His grip is warm. Firm. Respectful.

And for the first time all night, you both know ... this is going to be a problem.

He didn’t walk you out.

That was the first thing he noticed.

He always did. It was polite. Expected. Something drilled into him during years of stiff boarding school manners and clean-cut PR polish. Even when things were messy, especially when they were messy, Harry knew how to end them gracefully.

But you had risen without prompting. Smoothed your dress with one fluid motion. And left.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No extra glance over the shoulder. No “what happens next?” — because you already knew. Or because you didn’t care.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

The door shut with a soft hiss, and the silence that followed was loud in a way only penthouses could be. He stood where you'd left him, beside the bar, his glass half full, his chest half empty.

You didn’t act like someone who’d been hired. You acted like someone who was choosing, choosing him, choosing this, choosing every word and pause and smirk with the control of someone who didn’t need a script to own a scene.

That dress. That voice. Those eyes that didn’t ask for permission.

He should’ve felt in control. He always did.

But the moment you walked in, everything had shifted half a degree to the left. Still manageable. Still clean. But… unfamiliar.

And Harry hated unfamiliar.

He leaned forward and braced his hands on the bar’s edge, watching the city glitter beneath the windows like it owed him something.

The arrangement was simple. A distraction. A stand-in. A convenient narrative: Look, he’s already moved on. You are younger. Gorgeous. Not a trace of Lucy.

You would do your job. Charm the right people. Smile at the photographers. Let the world believe he was unbothered, untouched, still winning.

And then you’d disappear.

That was the plan.

But he already knew something wasn’t clean about it. Not the way you looked at him, not soft, not sultry. Just sharp. Like you saw right through the expensive suit and the cold bourbon and the man who hadn’t slept well in three months.

You didn’t ask about Lucy.

You didn’t try to guess.

But somehow, you knew.

He exhaled, rolled his shoulders back, and reached for the small leather folder Maya had left for him on the counter - your contract, signed and dated. Full discretion. Rates itemized with painful efficiency.

It felt sterile. It was supposed to.

But all Harry could think about was the faint scent of her perfume, something warm, not sweet, still hanging in the air.

And the way you smiled when you said,

“Full illusion. Your perfect lie. You'll want me for the week Harry, trust me."

Maybe this wasn't a terrible idea after all.

----------------------------------------------------------

I couldn't help myself. As I was writing my other fix 'A Getaway Car' I had some ideas that I could put away so here you go! I hope you love this one, it's going to be very sexy! But slow burn! ✨

[ayoungpascallover]

The Arrangement - A Harry Castillo Fanfic Masterlist

She’s the lie he hired. He’s the truth she wasn’t ready for.

After a bitter breakup with Lucy, 50-year-old private equity billionaire, Harry Castillo, isn’t looking for love - he just needs someone beautiful, discreet, and uncomplicated to be on his arm for a high-profile week of events in New York. What he gets is you, an escort, 28 years old, with sharp wit, hidden depth, and zero interest in becoming someone’s fantasy girlfriend off the clock.

But Harry makes you an offer you can’t refuse: a week of luxury, five-star hotels, couture fittings, private jets, and a generous paycheck… in exchange for playing the part of his girlfriend at a string of galas, charity balls, and business dinners.

You aren't some downtrodden dreamer. You are funny, clever, and fiercely independent. You're doing this job to stay in control of your own life - not waiting for a saviour. And Harry isn’t trying to fix anyone; in fact, he’s the one who might be broken, and he doesn’t even realise it.

Warnings: 🔞 NSFW themes (slow burn but oh it burns), smut, Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour, deception, and dangerous amounts of eye contact, Contractual arrangements that spiral into genuine affection, Rich people problems + broken people pretending they’re not, Soft power games, Sharp banter + late-night vulnerability, Trust issues + protective instincts

Pretty Woman inspired but make it jaded

Chapter One - The Client

Chapter Two - The Gala

Chapter Three - The Penthouse

Chapter Four - The Boutique

Chapter Five - The Dinner

[ayoungpascallover]

𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒔

Read "Idealists" on Archive of Our Own here.

♫⋆｡Tags: 18+ Mature Content, Age gap, slow burn, PinV, Oral sex, jealousy, love triangle (Harry wins), pet names, possessive behaviour, masturbation, soulmates, domestic fluff, love confessions, new york city romcom vibes!

♫⋆｡Summary:

Harry lived his whole life being valued for what he had: possessions, money, status, charm, looks.

He gave generously, dressed impeccably, and dated strategically. But behind every relationship was a transaction, and behind every gift was the hope he might finally be enough.

After another quiet failure, fate caught up with him—in the form of a young cellist he met five years ago.

To her, he wasn’t a sum of assets or an entry in a ledger. He was simply Harry. And that was a revelation more powerful than any fortune.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist

Chapters uploaded on Tumblr will be updated here as we go along! Updates every weekend.

CHAPTER ONE: PRELUDE, IN THE RAIN CHAPTER TWO: THE REPRISE CHAPTER THREE: A NATURAL RHYTHM CHAPTER FOUR: NEW YEAR'S EVE JINGLE CHAPTER FIVE: HOMEMADE SERENADE CHAPTER SIX: THE BALLAD OF HARRY AND CATHERINE CHAPTER SEVEN: THE CRESCENDO CHAPTER EIGHT: CAESURA

[ayoungpascallover]

material girl

THIS CONTAINS MATERIALISTS SPOILERS!

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image, chapter has not been edited

─────

You were born in the penthouse suite of Lenox Hill Hospital, wrapped in lavender silk instead of muslin.

The first sound you heard was the laugh track of your mother’s favorite 1950s sitcom playing softly in the background as she recovered on morphine.

You grew up in a six-story limestone townhouse off Fifth Avenue, the kind with frescoed ceilings and staircases so wide they made women feel like swans. The house smelled like bergamot and old paper. Always.

Your last name meant something—meant everything—in film. Directors paused when they heard it. Festival organizers offered you rooms. Cinematographers tried not to blink. Your family didn’t just fund films, they curated the atmosphere in which they were watched. Museums asked for your grandfather’s reel collection like relics. Your father’s voice had been immortalized in Criterion commentary tracks. You were born into the lighting. You were born on set.

By the time you were five, you knew what a backlot was.

By ten, you’d learned how to tell when a director was faking their references.

You could cry on cue, not because you were trained—but because crying got you what you wanted. You were always told you looked like your mother, which you hated.

But you knew it was true.

Same feline cheekbones, same bloodless complexion, same way of arching an eyebrow so it felt like an accusation.

Your sister, younger by three years, had always been the darling of brunch tables. You were the one who drew headlines when you spilled wine on a Cannes jury member’s lap and didn’t apologize. You were called “feisty” by Vanity Fair and “difficult” by your aunt’s third husband.

You hadn’t worked a day in your life, not in the way people mean it. You’d attended Columbia briefly, then left because someone on the faculty looked at you wrong. You dated mostly artists—photographers who lived in lofts and sculptors who never returned your YSL coat. Occasionally a screenwriter, someone who claimed he was writing you into something. They never did.

But lately, it had begun to sour.

Parties were too loud. Everyone looked like someone you’d already met. Men your age were either married or trying to get you to invest in something blockchain-related. Your doorman had started to pity you. He looked at you like you were an orchid in the wrong light.

It didn’t help that the world had shifted.

The industry, the city, the people you once dismissed as temporary had begun to stick. There were new families at the Met Gala now, new surnames attached to legacy tables at Polo Bar. You knew the kind of men you wanted. You just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. Not really.

But elsewhere, in a different corner of the city, another life was ticking along with equal weight and silence.

Harry Castillo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse and read a memo he didn’t care about. The building was newer than yours, all glass and good taste. The kind of place where appliances whispered and marble was warm to the touch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray sweater that looked like it belonged in a film about grief. His hair was dark but threaded with silver, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes were the color of wet earth. There was something old-fashioned about the way he stood—shoulders slightly back, like he was ready to say something difficult but necessary.

Harry was born into money too, though it was newer and quieter than yours.

His mother founded the Castillo Group after taking an inheritance and multiplying it tenfold in under a decade. She built the firm with the kind of discipline normally reserved for surgeons. Harry's father and brother now worked under her. So did he. Not because he had to—but because it was what Castillos did.

Private equity didn’t thrill him, but it made sense.

And Harry liked things that made sense.

He liked structure. He liked the rhythms of quarterly reports and the smell of ink on legal pads. His world ran on spreadsheets and quiet dinners with men who owned things you’d never see.

He had recently ended things with Lucy Mason, a woman who had once been important to him. She was a professional matchmaker—poised, brilliant, and deeply concerned with emotional compatibility indexes.

He’d liked her. He’d tried to love her. But there had always been a small door inside his chest that wouldn’t open for her. Not all the way.

They ended things late at night.

It was civil, almost eerie in its neatness. She told him that if he ever wanted to try her service, he should.

“If you call the office,” she said. “They'll assign someone great for you.”

He nodded and never called. Not yet.

Back uptown, you were barefoot on the heated terrazzo floor of your kitchen, making a mess out of truffle honey and sourdough. Your sister was at the counter, scrolling through her phone like it was her real job. She looked too pleased. You didn’t trust her when she looked pleased.

“You’re not wearing those boots again, are you?” she asked, not looking up. “They’re very…divorcee.”

You ignored her. You’d been feeling unstable lately, a little trapped in the amber of your own life. You’d been googling people you once hated and found out they might have figured something out.

Before you.

You hated how that felt.

Your sister put down her phone. Too deliberately.

“So,” she said. “Promise not to get mad?”

You looked up. “No.”

She beamed. “Okay. Don’t freak out. But I might have filled out a little thing for you.”

You blinked. “What kind of thing.”

“It’s nothing. Just…a profile. For a matchmaking service. Very elite. Very low-profile. Super bespoke.”

You said nothing. You stared at her, hard enough that she briefly flinched.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she groaned. “But come on. You’ve dated everyone in Manhattan who’s not in rehab or under federal investigation. You need a reset. A new algorithm. Let the universe—or a very qualified stranger—take the wheel.”

You turned away, grabbed the spoon, stirred your espresso like it was someone’s fault.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my real name,” you said quietly.

She hesitated.

“I used your middle name,” she said brightly. “That counts, right?”

Outside, the city shuddered to life—cars moving like brushstrokes, old buildings watching from behind limestone brows.

You didn’t know it yet but Harry Castillo would open a drawer that night and find the business card Lucy once left behind. He’d hold it in his hand a little too long.

Today was for disbelief. For the kind of quiet before something tilts. For looking out at the city and wondering—against all logic—if maybe someone was already looking back.

You didn’t go out much that week.

Not in any performative way—no detoxes, no dramatic declarations to your group chat, just a slow unspooling of invitations you didn’t RSVP to.

A dinner at Lucien you skipped.

A gallery opening where someone’s assistant texted, They’re asking if you’re coming.

You weren’t.

You sat barefoot on the windowsill instead, eating cold papaya and watching the fog crawl up like it was trying to forget where it came from.

Your sister had gone quiet. Not in a guilty way—she’d never been wired for guilt—but in that annoying, practiced stillness she slipped into when she was waiting to be proven right. You could feel it in the one word texts. The silence that followed. The smug, hovering dot-dot-dot that never became a message.

You lasted about two weeks like that. Then your mother called.

Lunch, she said. Cipriani, obviously. She didn’t ask if it worked for you. She didn’t need to.

You arrived ten minutes late on principle. She was already seated, already picking mint from her cocktail, already tilting her cheek for a kiss she never quite gave.

Her hair was perfect.

It always was.

Still pulled into a chignon so tight it made her face look slightly unreal. Her scarf—Hermès, naturally—was twisted just so, like she'd stepped out of a 1970s Italian film and never aged past the good lighting.

“I ordered the risotto for the table,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been working out? Your stomach looks soft.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She waved you off, already bored. Her nails tapped her wine glass with deliberate disdain. You knew the rhythm by heart.

She asked how you’d been, and you told her the sanitized version—books you were pretending to read, your new pilates instructor with that Finnish accent, something about how you were considering showing up on dad's set in Los Angeles just to feel something.

She nodded politely through all of it, eyes scanning the room.

Then, as the waiter laid down the salmon, she struck.

“You know,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be chosen.”

You didn’t look up. You kept slicing bread. Slowly. Cleanly.

She kept going, of course.

“I worry you’ve built this little moat around yourself. And for what? So no one can disappoint you? That’s not strength, darling.”

“Are you seriously—”

“And don’t say you’re not lonely. Everyone’s lonely. It’s boring.”

You could feel your jaw set. That was the thing with her. She never said it cruelly. She said it like it was just another fact, like the weather or your blood type. Like cruelty wasn’t personal unless you let it be.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“No. You came because I asked you to.” She smiled over her wine. “And because no one else did.”

The silence that followed was sour and expensive. The kind that doesn’t get broken by apologies, only by checks and limousines and the distraction of someone else’s scandal.

You got into the back of your car with your stomach a tight little fist. You didn’t cry. Not there, not then. You weren’t that girl.

But that night, the email came.

From a stranger.

Subject line: Matchmaker Profile Review – Please Confirm Details.

At first, you thought it was spam. Then you saw your middle name typed like it belonged to someone else. The same photo your sister had forced you to take last year, standing on the terrace in a white dress that had made you feel like a ghost. It was you. You, in some unnervingly accurate bullet points. Preferences. Dealbreakers. Love languages.

You hovered over the trash icon. Didn’t click.

Not yet.

Harry sat in his bedroom in silence.

The penthouse—more glass than walls—was hushed, interrupted only by the occasional hum of temperature regulation or the sigh of traffic five stories down. He liked it that way. Controlled. Calibrated. No echoes of someone else’s taste.

He sat in the reading chair by the window, laptop balanced across his thighs, a page open with the pale gray header: Castillo, H — Matchmaker Profile Review Requested.

Rose—his matchmaker—had told him to look it over. See if anything felt off. “Even the smallest thing,” she’d said, with her clipped precision. “We don’t want anything distorting the signal.”

He didn’t believe in signals. Not really.

Still, he scrolled.

He scanned the words—edited, carefully neutral. No photos. He’d opted out. There were photos of everyone now. He didn’t want that. He liked the idea of someone reading first. Imagining. Filling in the edges wrong.

Then he saw it.

Height: 6’0

He paused.

It was true. Now.

But it wasn’t always.

He shifted in the chair, legs stiff. That familiar ache, dull and ghostlike, stirred beneath his skin.

It had been eight years.

Still, some mornings he swore he could feel the break. The phantom throb of it. The remembering.

He’d been thirty-seven when he did it. His brother had gone first, dragging him into the consultation like it was some secret rite. The doctor spoke with an accent and wore a Rolex that glinted like a challenge.

They broke the bones. Femurs. Tibias. Stretched them millimeter by millimeter over months. Metal rods inside the legs. Physical therapy that made grown men cry.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

Each.

They were lucky.

Rich boys.

They healed in penthouses with private nurses and blackout curtains. Harry read biographies of ruined men while his legs screamed.

He never told anyone. Not even Lucy. Until she found his scars while he was sleeping.

The scars were faint. A pair of pale, wicked lines running along the outside of each leg, like punctuation marks on a story he didn’t talk about. He saw them in the mirror sometimes and thought, What did I gain, really?

Six inches, yes.

But also… something unspoken. Some strange edge. A new way men listened when he spoke. The way women didn’t ask questions, just tilted their heads in approval, as if the air had shifted.

It wasn’t vanity. Not exactly.

It was about scale. About not disappearing in rooms where power stood tall.

Still, seeing it there, written down, made something in his throat tighten.

He shut the laptop and leaned back. The city glowed below him. Red tail lights inching up West Broadway. People moving, choosing, being chosen.

He reached down and rubbed his shin gently, as if to remind himself...this is yours.

You paid for this height.

You earned it in bone.

Meanwhile in another penthouse just a few blocks away...you were lying on your back, staring up at the crown molding, thinking about the things your mother said.

The idea that being chosen was something worth wanting.

You hated that it echoed.

You hated more that it almost sounded true.

Downstairs, your doorman signed for a package. Something sent from an office you’d never heard of. A folder sealed in black. Your name printed in serif.

You wouldn’t see it until morning.

But it was already in the building.

Already waiting.

When you woke, the light in your bedroom was soft and dull, filtered through gauzy curtains your mother had once called tragically optimistic. The air had that filtered morning silence that felt vaguely judgmental, like even your apartment was waiting to see what kind of person you were going to be today.

You padded barefoot across the terrazzo floor, still in last night’s silk camisole, your stomach a soft ache from too much wine or not enough food. You didn’t remember which.

And there it was.

A black envelope.

Just outside your penthouse door. Laid neatly on the marble like it belonged there. No branding. No return address. Only your middle name printed in thin serif font.

You stood there for a moment, coffee-less, suspicious, bare-legged in a building where people wore jewelry to take out the trash.

You thought...spam. PR. A strange flex from a failed suitor.

But then you saw the initials etched lightly on the back seal...R.S.

Your stomach curled slightly.

Your sister. That smug, beautiful demon.

You carried the envelope inside like it was cursed.

At the kitchen island, you made espresso and stared at it like it might blink. Your phone had seven unread messages and none of them mattered. You’d spent too many mornings like this—floating in your own life like it was someone else’s bathwater.

Eventually, you slid your finger under the flap.

Inside a slim folder. Matte cardstock. Minimalist. Heavy enough to feel expensive.

A letter on the front.

Your sister mentioned you were hesitant. I understand hesitation—it can be a sign of intelligence. But I also know a match when I see one. The following is not a pitch, nor a promise. It’s just a possibility. — Rose

You blinked. That was it. No company logo, no contact info. Just a name and a voice like the inside of a glass of wine—dry, elegant, a little smug.

You flipped the page.

There were bullet points. Controlled, curated, clinical. Every line written like it had been vetted by lawyers and therapists.

Age: 47

Height: 6'0

Marital Status: Never married

Children: None

Occupation: Private Equity (Partner, Family Firm)

Residency: Tribeca

Education: Ivy League (Economics)

Religion: Agnostic

Languages: English, Spanish

Temperament: Observant. Principled. 

Emotional Availability: High—when trust is earned.

Love Language: Acts of service. 

Looking for: The real thing.

You stared at it.

Private equity. Tribeca. Forty-seven. You groaned.

He sounded like the kind of man who corrected waitstaff and had a framed blueprint of a yacht in his office. The kind of man your mother would politely destroy with a single glance and a casually cruel remark about his tie.

But you kept reading.

There were notes. Margins full of them. From the matchmaker, apparently—this unseen curator pulling invisible strings.

"He listens more than he speaks. But when he speaks, everyone listens."

"Very tactile with people he trusts. Rare, but notable."

"He likes reading before bed. Not out of habit. Out of need."

"Wants children. Not urgently. But honestly."

You felt yourself bristle. Then soften. Then bristle again.

Because you knew men like this didn’t exist. Not really. And if they did, they didn’t submit themselves to algorithms. They didn’t hand over their inner lives to professional matchmakers in New York City. They didn’t wait around for women with baggage and beautifully designed boundaries.

But then—

Then there was the smaller envelope.

Sealed. Black wax. No flourish, just the words...

Only open if interested.

Which, of course, was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to open it.

So you did.

Inside, a deeper profile. Not his answers. Her notes.

No photo. Of course not.

But somehow, without seeing him, the image began to form anyway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man who dressed like he didn’t think about it—because someone else always had. Dark hair, graying in a way that made you think of salt, of restraint, of stories not told too soon. Eyes like wet bark. The kind of brown that held heat, not just color.

There was a line under Romantic Compatibility, written in Rose's careful script...

“He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now.”

Your stomach did a thing.

You hated that it did a thing.

You closed the file. Too fast. Like the words could see you, like they knew.

Who was this man?

You’d known hundreds of men. Dated enough to recognize types. Models. Trust fund poets. One devastating poet’s assistant. You could smell performative vulnerability from two rooms away. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Across the city, Rose sipped her espresso in a glass office with zero personal items. She tapped a pen against her tablet and refreshed her inbox.

Harry still hadn’t responded.

She didn’t blame him. He was slower than most. A man who considered decisions like he was building a bridge over water he hadn’t named yet.

So she’d done it herself.

She'd read your sister’s submission, then read between the lines.

Googled you. Googled your grandfather.

Saw the name in festival archives, on lost reels from the sixties. Watched the grainy interview with your mother in a Paris cinema.

Saw the haunted brilliance in your face, the face of a legacy you hadn’t asked for.

She knew then.

She knew.

It wasn’t about wealth or aesthetic parity—it was energy. Containment. Quiet power looking for a counterpart.

So she sent it.

Let the rich girl read. Let the serious man stall.

Let the city do the rest.

Back in your kitchen, you refilled your espresso. Opened the file again. Not because you believed in it. But because something in your chest had begun to hum.

You hadn’t seen his face.

But you couldn’t stop picturing it.

And when you went to bed that night, you didn’t throw away the folder like you had planned to do.

You didn’t talk to your sister about it either.

You just let it sit there, glowing in your building.

A match you hadn’t chosen.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

One that saw you anyway.

The next tine you blinked it had been six days since the envelope.

Time moves fast when you are stressing over a man who doesn't even know you exist. 

You hadn’t opened the envelope again. You’d slid it back into the matte folder and tucked the whole thing into the shallow drawer of your vanity—the one usually reserved for lipsticks in limited-edition packaging and love letters you never responded to.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just some expensive exercise in curated loneliness.

Like horoscopes for people with trust funds.

You’d stopped searching the internet.

There were too many men. Too many firms.

Every time you typed “New York private equity, 47, no kids,” the results made you want to burn your laptop. Sleek men in sleeker suits, blinking across LinkedIn headshots like a smug carousel. Half of them looked like the villain in a thriller, the other half like your ex’s father.

None of them looked like him—whoever he was.

And you told yourself you didn’t care.

You were busy, anyway.

Your grandmother had summoned the family.

She did this sometimes. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Only for matters. The kind that required linen blazers and polite expressions, and the ceremonial silence that came when she mentioned death like it was something chic and inevitable.

Your grandfather had passed five years ago in Italy, holding a cigarette and laughing at a joke you never heard. He’d left behind vaults of film, four ex-lovers at his funeral, and a will that could’ve passed for a screenplay. Your grandmother had been quiet since. Not sad, exactly—just...theatrical in a colder register. As if grief was a role she’d aged out of but still wanted to audition for.

She’d asked the family to meet with a firm. Something about reorganizing trusts. Future-proofing. “Estate things,” your mother had said vaguely while buttering toast with her rings on.

All you heard was...meetings.

So now you had one. A meeting with a private equity firm that sounded like a wine label. It was supposed to be “the best,” of course. It always was.

The name meant nothing to you.

Castillo Group.

Sounded clean. Impersonal. Like a gallery that only sold work in black and white.

You were barely listening when your sister explained the structure of the meeting.

“…and we’re meeting with one of the partners,” she said, scrolling through her phone while icing her jaw. “They assigned us someone directly. It’s serious, apparently. Gran wants to talk about legacy clauses.”

You made a vague sound of acknowledgement and stole a sip of her green juice.

She slapped your hand without looking up.

“Don’t be weird,” she said.

You weren’t weird. You were bored.

The week passed in lacquered hours.

Days filled with pilates, wine, group chats muted indefinitely.

You ignored texts from men you didn’t remember giving your number to.

You wore sunglasses indoors. You bought a vintage Schiaparelli coat you didn’t need. You stared out windows longer than was socially acceptable.

And still—

The man lingered.

The match. Him.

Not directly. Just in flashes. The way someone brushed your wrist on the subway. The way the barista called your name too softly. The memory of Rose’s notes, scribbled like a diary for someone else’s soul.

You didn’t even know his name.

So you stopped thinking about it.

You went to pilates instead.

It was one of those spaces that didn’t call itself a gym—more like a “wellness lab.” All eucalyptus mist and minimalist lighting. The front desk staff were beautiful in that beige, uncanny way, like they’d been grown in a vat labeled Miu Miu campaign.

Your friends were already on the reformers when you arrived.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Inez, legs in straps, gold hoops catching the morning light. “Thought maybe you’d died of aesthetic fatigue.”

You dropped your mat bag dramatically. “I almost did. Someone tried to pitch me a podcast on legacy healing at Dries.”

Sophia snorted and gestured for you to take the spot beside her.

“Guess who’s instructing today,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t have to guess long.

The instructor—Matteo—looked like a poem someone wrote after watching too many Prada ads. Italian. Arms covered in tattoos that didn’t need stories.

You tried not to notice. You failed.

Midway through class, he came over to adjust your form. His hands grazed your hips, featherlight, intentional. He said something low in your ear—“You hold tension here, no?”—and you didn’t even pretend not to smirk.

After class, he caught up with you by the locker rooms. Said your movement was better than anyone in that class. You laughed, genuinely. He asked if you wanted to get a drink sometime.

You paused. Tilted your head. Let the moment breathe.

And then, “You wouldn’t survive my family,” you said, brushing past him with the smile you reserved for temporary men.

Your friends howled when you told them.

“I give it two weeks before you sleep with him,” said Sophia, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Two days,” Inez countered. “Max.”

You shook your head. “He’s a rebound I haven’t even earned yet.”

You didn’t tell them about the envelope. You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. It wasn’t shame—just…a strange refusal to share something you didn’t understand.

The man. The notes. The way they settled under your skin like they belonged there.

Later that evening, your mother texted.

Confirming tomorrow’s appointment. 11 AM. Don’t wear that thing with the fringe.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you stood by your window, barefoot again, staring down at the city.

Somewhere out there was a man who might’ve been made for you.

And you were about to walk into his building.

Without even knowing it.

The next morning, the light came in soft again—but this time, you were ready for it.

You woke early. Not from an alarm, but from something subtler...the shifting silence of the city beyond your window, the almost imperceptible creak of your building adjusting to the day. There was a feeling in the air, taut and irritable, like silk snagged on a nail.

You didn’t hesitate.

Slipped out of bed, bare feet meeting cold terrazzo, body moving through the motions of your morning like choreography. Coffee first. Then the shower, where steam curled like memory and water hit your back in steady, punishing streams. Your playlist—jazz, something you played when you needed stability.

At your vanity, you moved with purpose.

Silk robe open at the shoulders. Skin dewy from serum. Hair twisted into a low chignon so severe your mother might approve. Your makeup was minimal. A little contour, a matte lip, the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones.

Then the dress.

Vintage Givenchy, the kind of black that absorbs your body. Sleeveless, high-necked, sculpted like you’d been poured into it. It flared just slightly at the hem. You added earrings your grandmother had once described as “impractical for daylight” which of course meant they were perfect.

You checked your reflection only once.

Perfect posture. Unbothered elegance.

Then, you descended.

At the lobby, your driver was already waiting.

Claude had been with your family since before you were born. He'd taught you how to parallel park in Montauk and once threatened paparazzi with a tire iron outside your prep school formal. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

You slid into the back seat, legs crossed at the knee, coat draped over one shoulder. He merged onto Fifth with surgical precision.

“Traffic?” you asked.

“Not terrible.”

You nodded. Looked out the window.

Then the camera flashes hit.

Paparazzi. Two of them—lurking just outside the florist’s on 74th, lying in wait like roaches with thousand-dollar lenses. You didn’t flinch. You turned slightly, letting them get your better side.

Later, someone would send you a tabloid screenshot with the headline...Heiress En Route to High-Stakes Family Meeting. Your hair would tried to be recreated on TikTok. Someone in the comments would say you looked like a bitch.

Everything is great.

You arrived fifteen minutes late.

Because of course you did.

Claude pulled up in front of the building, not caring about the no parking sign,

Castillo Group read on the glass. The entrance was flanked by planters so perfectly symmetrical it felt aggressive.

You didn’t wait for the concierge. You just walked in, heels clicking like punctuation, coat draped over your forearm, eyes scanning the marble-and-brushed-brass lobby like it might bore you.

The receptionist blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You were used to that.

You gave your name. She gave a floor number.

“Your family’s already up there.”

Of course they were.

The elevator was silent, mirrored. You caught your own reflection and didn’t look away. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t check your phone. When the doors opened, you walked out like you belonged there.

Upstairs, in a glass-walled conference room designed for bids and negotiations, Harry Castillo was already seated.

He didn’t see you at first. He was focused on your grandmother—who’d arrived ten minutes early and was now seated at the head of the table like a bored monarch.

Your mother was beside her, glancing at her nails like they might betray her. Your sister, chewing invisible gum, scrolling on her phone. Your father, thank God, smiled when Harry greeted him. Warmly, even.

Harry liked your father. Had met him briefly before—quietly magnetic, the kind of man who’d aged into his cynicism with charm.

The meeting was already in motion.

Legacy clauses. Trust restructuring. Long-term tax shelters.

Harry had learned long ago how to focus on the numbers without being distracted by the jewelry, the veiled insults, the family lore. Your grandmother referred to their fortune like it had been bestowed by Zeus himself.

Then the door opened.

And you entered.

Harry didn’t look up right away. He was mid-sentence, something about generational liquidity and stepped-up basis calculations. Then his eyes lifted.

And the sentence died in his mouth.

You walked in like the room had been built around your arrival. Back straight. Expression unreadable. Not arrogant—just certain.

Black dress. Earrings that shouldn’t have worked, but did. A face that held a thousand stories and dared you to ask for one. You didn’t apologize for being late. You didn’t even pretend to care.

You took the empty seat beside your father.

Harry watched you like a man trying not to be caught watching.

His colleagues—the senior associate, the analyst, even the usually-unflappable estate attorney—reacted like something seismic had shifted. A cough. A fidget. A clearing of the throat.

You didn’t notice.

Or you did—and chose not to respond.

Harry looked down at his notes.

You, he thought, were exactly what Rose had sent. Except he didn’t know that yet. Couldn’t know. Because the sleek black envelope was still unopened. Still sealed. Still sitting in his office under a stack of quarterly earnings reports.

And you?

You barely looked at him.

You were polite. Dismissive. Tired in a way that didn’t show on your face but echoed in the way you crossed your legs. You asked two questions—sharp, surgical. You answered one of your grandmother’s passive-aggressive remarks with a half-smile so lethal the paralegal accidentally knocked over his water glass.

Harry watched it all.

Took it in like a study.

You didn’t look like a woman who needed anything.

Which is why, when you leaned slightly toward your father and murmured something that made him laugh, Harry felt something strange stir behind his ribs.

You were nothing like Lucy.

You were...burnt edges and quiet glamour, the kind of presence that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. The kind of woman who didn’t smile to make others comfortable.

The meeting continued.

You didn’t speak much.

But when you did, it changed the tone.

You challenged who would earn the rights to certain films.

Asked about film archive clauses.

Corrected your mother without blinking.

And when Harry finally did address you—only once, to clarify a section on trust structure—you nodded.

“Understood,” you said.

No smile. No flirtation.

Just clarity.

And still—Harry felt it. That tilt. The quiet shift. The thing that lives in the breath between two people before they ever really speak.

When the meeting ended, your grandmother rose first.

She didn't thank anyone. She didn’t need to. Her rings did the talking.

Your mother followed. Your sister made a quip about the chairs being bad for her hips. Your father lingered, shaking hands, making small talk with the estate attorney about his late father-in-law's cinema.

You were the last to stand.

And Harry—Harry watched you go.

Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a glance. A flicker. But enough to feel something crack inside his well-constructed, well-curated sense of detachment.

He didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know his.

Not yet.

And the black envelope in his office remained untouched.

But the city was shifting.

And the string had already pulled tight.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t usually have this problem. His apartment—if it could still be called that—was engineered for silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows, blackout shades, temperature calibrated to lull any insomniac into submission. The kind of place where sound had to ask permission.

But still, he laid there, one arm behind his head, shirt off, the city beyond the glass blinking like a pulse.

You’d been in his head all day.

Since you walked into that conference room like it owed you something. Since you’d crossed your legs and tilted your chin and answered your grandmother like a diplomat with a dagger under her tongue.

He’d barely heard a word of the financial summary after that. The analyst had repeated himself twice.

He’d nodded. Pretended. Said all the right things. But your face had lingered—cool, sculptural, with eyes that didn’t wander. Like you didn’t need the room’s approval. Like the room had already lost its chance to impress you.

Which is exactly why he needed to get you out of his head.

He rose sometime past midnight. The floor was cold against his feet. He poured himself a glass of water and crossed to his office.

The space was minimalist, but not impersonal. Books lined the walls. A single photograph—his brother Peter’s wedding—sat framed in the corner of his desk.

He had been Peter’s best man. Smiling, tailored, solemn in that way that made women say he looked like someone who had stories and the discipline not to tell them.

Peter had married Charlotte—sharp, beautiful, meticulous. A match made by Adore Matchmaking, by Lucy herself. The agency Harry had never believed in.

But Rose...Rose had sent him something weeks ago. Something he hadn’t touched.

He got to his desk slowly. The envelope was still there. Black wax seal. No branding. Just two letters.

R.S.

No flourish. Just intent.

He cracked the seal. Slowly. Like it might burn.

Inside, a folder. Matte. Heavy. Clinical. His name written at the top in neat serif.

Castillo, H. — Match Profile Review

He almost laughed. Almost.

Then he flipped the page.

And saw your photo.

It hit him like a held breath.

You.

You, in a white dress, standing on a terrace that looked vaguely Roman, vaguely imagined. You weren’t smiling. Just watching something beyond the frame, your posture perfect, your mouth slightly parted like you were about to say something.

The city dimmed around him.

He set the photo down, too gently.

The rest came after—your name (middle only, smart), your background, the carefully-worded notes Rose had stitched together like myth.

He read the line about your grandfather and felt it click into place. The film family. The legacy. The reason everyone in the room had sat straighter when your father entered.

But it was you.

It had been you all along.

And you had no idea.

He sank into the leather chair, your photo still resting beside his wrist like something too sacred to touch again.

It felt impossible. Too neat. And yet—

He thought about that moment in the meeting. When your eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. When you barely spoke to him at all.

He’d assumed it was because you were used to men noticing you. That it was nothing.

But now he wondered...was it better that you didn’t know? Or worse?

He rubbed his hand absently along the outside of his thigh. Scar tissue.

The faint ridge where bone had once been broken, slowly stretched, made new.

If you ever saw it—if you ran your fingers down his legs in the dark, tracing those pale punctuation marks—would you recoil? Would you laugh? Would you ask why?

Would he tell you the truth?

That it wasn’t vanity. Not really. That it was something more primitive than that.

Survival.

He closed the folder. Not to hide it. Just to think.

Because suddenly the idea of seeing you again—of meeting you, really meeting you—felt unbearable and inevitable all at once.

He hadn’t believed in fate. Not until now.

He looked out at the city.

Somewhere, not far, you were probably asleep in a bed the size of a country, one arm flung over your eyes, dreaming of nothing because you refused to give the universe the satisfaction.

And he—

He leaned back in his chair, your name like an electric thread running behind his ribs.

He would see you again.

He knew it.

He just didn’t know when.

But he hoped—quietly, selfishly—that it would be soon.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal

[ayoungpascallover]

The other woman pt.1

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

Marcus' masterlist | next part

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders. 

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud. 

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands. 

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy. 

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor. 

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood. 

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts. 

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. 

A marriage ? 

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still. 

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender. 

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold. 

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken. 

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!” 

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose. 

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine. 

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment. 

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur. 

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable. 

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real. 

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all. 

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense. 

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair. 

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy. 

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march. 

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name. 

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments. 

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed. 

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white. 

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return. 

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to. 

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure. 

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down. 

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk. 

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him. 

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman. 

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched. 

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his. 

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen. 

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter. 

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes. 

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze. 

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his. 

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher. 

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his. 

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find. 

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired. 

That simple. 

That final. 

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured. 

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played. 

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Marcus’ masterlist | next part

[ayoungpascallover]

THE F*CK-IT LIST: Superbowl

rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)

chapter: 9.6k

story tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.

a/n: Hey folks, I'm sorry for the delay. Rreal life has been AWFUL and if you have a few bucks to toss me on ko-fi I'd really appreciate it.

As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going.

PSA: I don't know shit about football.

For those requesting to be tagged Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates I also post most of my work on A03.

F*ck-It List masterlist here

You shouldn't be mad at Joel. 

The two of you made this agreement when the list was created. That either one of you could pull out at any time. That there was no pressure on either side. 

So why are you so angry the following days after the talk in his office?

Yes, he was rude about it and yes you didn't feel like you had a chance to add anything to the conversation, but surely you shouldn't still be this upset days later? 

He's not worth my attention. 

Your dad sails by, murmuring a hello before heading into his office. He's been really busy lately, you barely saw him this week. You give a distracted wave before you lick a stamp and pop it resolutely on one of the many envelopes scattered atop your desk. 

"Good morning, lunch buddy."

Kathleen greets you with a warm smile, distracting you from your maudlin thoughts. She's wearing a pink cardigan today and it brings out the rose in her cheeks. 

"Good morning." 

"I wanted to tell you that I just loved that place we went to eat at the other day. I actually took my date and he loved the dragon rolls." 

"Your date?" 

Kathleen doesn't seem the type to go dating a lot so this surprises you and to your delight she blushes. "Yes."

"How long have you been seeing this guy?"

Kathleen licks her lips nervously, glancing around the room to make sure she's not overheard. She tilts forward, so close you can see the dark ring around her irises. 

"About six months." 

"What?" You nearly leap up from your rolling chair. "This isn't some random hookup?" 

Kathleen wrinkles her nose, shaking her head jerkily. "No no. I'm not that... I'm not that kind of woman." 

Something about the accusatory tone makes you internally wince. Not that kind of woman? Your smile dims a bit. 

"He's normally the one that plans all our dates," Kathleen continues. "So thank you for the suggestion."

"My pleasure," you reply. "If I find any other cool places I'll let you know." 

She thanks you again before telling you she and your father have been going through some of the client reviews and that perhaps you could help her brainstorm some ways for employee recognition. But you're not really listening; your mind is on what she said. 

Not that kind of woman. 

What's wrong with random hookups? What's wrong with chasing pleasure? Kathleen has a good twenty years on you but you'd never thought of her as repressed. 

"I thought we could meet up early next month to narrow down our event ideas," Kathleen says. "I loved so many of your options and I'm looking into vendor costs and things. I want to run the finalized ones by your dad before May." 

You glance at the desktop computer, eyes falling on a date next week. Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat.

"Are you okay?"

Kathleen has that open look that she sometimes wears when she's being extra empathetic. The kind reserved for crying staff or overworked interns. You wave it off before swallowing thickly. 

"How does the 2nd work for you?"   

Kathleen nods before telling you  she'll touch base later next week. You click off the computer, eyes traveling up to see Joel and Tess chatting across the room. Joel has a file tucked up under his arm, his body stiff as he listens to her. 

Tess on the other hand is all smiles, chatting animatedly. When her hand lands on his forearm mid-laugh you watch as he flinches. 

Joel's eyes scan the office, clearly uncomfortable. When his eyes sail your way you're already looking down at the remaining envelopes you need to address. 

Jacob sails by the two of them, giving you a wink as he nears. His figure is dashing, his suit fashionable and tailored. 

Tess is still chatting animatedly to Joel, pointing at something on her phone as Jacob comes to stand beside your desk. 

"You're picking the lunch spot today, yeah?"

"Mhm." You tap your finger on the desk, flashing your eyes to Jacob. "And maybe you can help me find someone new to mark more stuff off the list."

"What do you mean?"Jacob tilts his head slightly. "What do you need my help for? You have your sweet mystery man."

You nod, averting your gaze from Joel across the office. It's like you can feel him, heavy and oppressive. Jacob's smile dims as he scans your face. 

"I wanna branch out, try it with someone new," you finally say with forced levity. "I want to experience someone new."

Jacob gives you a hard look before leaning forward on your desk, his voice dropping. 

"Did something happen?"

You stare up at him before you have to drop your eyes to your cluttered desk.

There's so much that you want to tell Jacob, you want to admit how this has been going on with Joel, you want to ask his advice. But you know that you can't. 

"No, nothing. You told me to put myself out there so that's all I'm doing."

Jacob is tilting even closer to you, his voice soft. "Honey, are you sure?" 

You're still staring at the desk, terrified that if you make eye contact with Jacob it's all going to come spilling out. 

"We not giving you enough to do, Milne?"

Your head jerks up in time to see Jacob's eyes go round. He jerks to stand straight, twisting around to see a scowling Joel behind him. Joel's arms are crossed, biceps bulging through the flannel as he stares Jacob down. 

"Uh, no, no sir. I mean yes, sir. I have enough to do." 

"Then why are you up here distracting other employees?"

"He's not-" you begin, voice catching when Joel's dark eyes flit to yours, his expression darkening. 

Your face feels hot, your hands clammy. You shoot a look at Jacob but he's stricken, staring at Joel.  Jacob is always so cool and collected, seeing him so anxious makes you apprehensive. A click of heels makes its way to the three of you. 

"Joel, I forgot to ask, did the Wilson contract arrive yet?"

You watch as Tess comes up behind Joel, likely continuing the conversation they were just in. She sees your pinched face and Jacob's terrified one and her smile fades.  "I'm sorry, have I interrupted something?"

"Nope," Joel mutters, his gaze locked on Jacob's. "Just chattin' with my employee here."

"Oh." Tess smiles at Jacob reassuringly. 

"I was actually just on my way to finish the briefing for this afternoon," Jacob says with a squeak. "I'll see you later."

You give him a shallow nod, gaze drifting after him before sliding over to Joel who still stands there, only now his glare is directed at you. 

"Last time I checked we pay you to work, not flirt."

If you could melt into the floor right this second, you would. Tess is still standing there watching this exchange, making it all the more excruciating.

“We were just making lunch plans.”

“Do it on your own time.”

Tess blinks, taken aback. You shrink into your chair. 

"I-I apologize, Mister Miller."

Joel moves towards his door, not even bidding Tess a goodbye. She seems nonplussed by this, turning her smile your way.  Your face is throbbing, so hot that tears are springing to your eyes. You want to disappear from the face of the planet at this very moment.

"I was hoping you could help me with the coffee machine," Tess says with a chagrined smile. "It's so fancy and I have no clue how to make anything. I always get Starbucks." 

You go to acquiesce when a heavy hand lands on the back of your office chair, stopping you from moving back to exit. 

"S'not her job." 

Joel's voice is low and tinged with irritation. You can feel him hovering there behind you like some sentry. 

"Oh I didn't mean...." Tess goes pink in the face, attention drifting between you and Joel. "I just thought..."

You know Joel's only standing up to her request because he can't stand Tess. It's not a real form of respect, not really. You're a pawn in his pissing contest. Irritated at this you push your chair backwards roughly, rising quickly. He takes a step back, eyes on the back of your head while you smile at Tess. 

"I don't mind." 

You don't look behind you as you move from the desk, ignoring Joel entirely as you and Tess make you way to the large coffee room. 

Like the other spaces in the Mill Group, this room is beautifully designed with a floor to ceiling window overlooking the outdoors. 

Beautifully crafted tables and chairs sit with fresh flower centerpieces. The coffee bar is long with white speckled granite countertops. Customized Mill Group mugs sit next to baskets of fresh fruit, pastries and bags of snacks. 

You and test make your way to the shining metal coffee maker. It's wide and takes up a large portion of the counter. 

"Okay you just program it here," you say tapping the screen. "You said espresso right?"

Tess nods, brows furrowed. "Yeah. I did that and it didn't do anything." 

"You have to hit the cup size twice. I don't know why, it's really annoying," you explain as you hit the 6 oz number twice. 

Tess makes a sound of approval as the drink starts to pour into the mug. 

"Such an easy fix," Tess marvels behind you. "Thank you." 

"You'd think for how much this thing costs it'd bring your coffee to you." 

Tess gives a polite laugh, taking the mug from you with another thank you. You're about to walk off, shooting her a polite smile when she murmurs your name. 

"Does Joel always talk to you like that?"

"Like what?"

She taps her heel absently as she searches for the right word. "So... Harsh."

"Not often." You shrug. "Think he's just having a bad day."

"Does he ever make you feel unsafe?"

You drop the spoon to the counter with a clatter. "What?"

You're suddenly very aware that it's only you in Tess in this break room, very aware that this line of questioning seems to have come out of nowhere. Almost as if she tried to get you alone to talk about it on purpose. 

Joel is intense, even intimidating at times but you have a feeling that's not what Tess is referring to. You've definitely never felt unsafe with him.

"No." 

Your eyes flick to someone passing by the door, heading to the copier machine before you glance back at her. She's still wearing that mask of concern. Her knuckles blanching around the mug handle. 

"If he does anything to make you uncomfortable, will you promise to come to me?" 

You scan Tess' eyes and take in the clear blue concern reflected back at you. You don't know this woman but she senses something in you, a familiarity, clearly. It makes you uncomfortable as much as it does comforted. 

It seems motherly. 

The thought sours your stomach. The remembrance of your father's late night texts, his desire to have Tess involved in so much of the company despite Joel's obvious disapproval. Have you really just been overlooking the most obvious thing? Is it possible that Tess is your father's mystery woman? 

No. He wouldn't do that. 

But just the thought that your father might be engaging in a secret romance with Tess makes you cringe away from her.

"Joel is passionate about his job," you say firmly. "Yes, he can be intense sometimes. But he's never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable." 

Tess seems to falter at that, nodding and going to say something else when you give her a brief smile of a poorly concealed insincerity. 

"Anyway, I should probably get back to my desk, busy day ahead." 

"Right yeah," she not seeming to understand that she's overstepped in some way. "I'll see you at the Superbowl party." 

"See you then. Enjoy the coffee." 

///

"Okay, the betting pool is on, caterer should be here in an hour or so, drinks are chilled, margarita machines are working..."

Your father goes through his mental checklist walking around the parameter of your large living room. The theater sized screen displays the countdown to the super bowl in glorious HD. 

It looks silly in your old home. Too big for the wall even though your dad customized cabinetry put in on either side. He's tried to update this home the best he could and to be fair it has all the splashy decor and appliances of any model show home. 

He wanted to keep that familiarity for you and your brother, a landing place for you to return to. He thought just by keeping the home that he would do that, but he failed to understand that it was what was inside that mattered. 

Memories in front of your old fireplace, the ugly carpet that you puked on after drinking too much grape juice. The memories were built in the little details and he stripped those away in favor of modern conveniences. 

You don't fault him for it. Your mother's been gone for so many years and the previous decoration was much more her style; homey and warm. Your fathers’ is more sterile, more organized and geometric. 

You watch him scurrying from place to place, adjusting balloon arches and putting finalized touches on h. He’s nervous. You’ve never seen him nervous at one of these things before.

You are not a fan of the Superbowl at all, but you are a fan of the commercials. Plus Jacob will be coming which means you two can chat about your list and how to properly check off the remaining items.  

"Potato skins?" You ask with a grin as you move one of the balloon clusters over by the snack table. 

"You got it, Trix."

"Perfect," you say snagging a pretzel. "Those are my favorite." 

"Oh I know. Caterer is making extra." He gets a small smile on his face. "Your mama always loved them extra crispy."

Your dad mutters this to himself it seems, quiet and held close like a secret. He doesn't talk about your mom much, not in cruelty but because you think it hurts him too much. 

As if realizing what he's said your father claps his hands together, breaking the moment. 

"Okay the prize wall is set up in the back but I'm gonna make sure it's extra secured," your dad says to you, gathering several buckets full of darts and heading back there. 

Your dad's idea to make this party one to remember was to have a huge wall of balloons, all colors and sizes. Everyone who walks through the door will have a Superbowl player randomly assigned to them. 

Every time a player gets a point, the corresponding guest throw a dart. You think.... You kind of zoned out during your father explaining, bored out of your mind. 

The balloons are filled with pieces of paper with numbers that correlate to the expensive prizes sitting wrapped and numbered on the nearby table. It overflows with boxes, your father intent on everyone walking away with something exciting. 

"I'm gonna go relax a bit before everyone gets here," you call to him before sauntering to your bedroom where your phone is charging. 

You plop down at your desk, feeling melancholy. All the senior staff is going to come today (along with Jacob at your insistence to your dad) and you're not looking forward to navigating a sea of small talk. You get enough of that at work. Everyone is extra nice to the boss' kid. 

You begin tugging at the sleeve of your team jersey, your hair decorated with matching bows. You wanted to dress up for today, to make your dad happy. You wonder how much of your life has been spent in that pursuit.

You look at some of the sketches on the desk that you were working on last night, ideas on sustainability in the nearby buildings. You'd always loved the sustainable forest of Milan and dreamed of something similar here in Austin. 

Of course your dad would never want something like that. He's big on solid craftsmanship but he could give a fuck about the environment. 

The sketch is rough and the lines need some work but you were satisfied with it before bed. You think about the green architecture programs offered in Italy, the chance to work with people who are passionate about the same things. 

It's a two year advanced program thanks to your undergraduate studies and marks. It could be feasible with enough money but then you'd be abandoning your dad. 

A sort of weight presses into you, holding you down by your shoulders. You feel it leeching into your body and you physically shake. 

"Stop it."

You can hear your dad whistling in the backyard, clearly excited about the party today. 

You wonder if Joel is actually going to show up considering he and your dad seem to be avoiding one another. 

Joel. A topic you've been trying not to fixate on. 

Without Joel now you're going to have to find someone new to help with your list. The thought should excite you, but mostly it makes your stomach twist. And there underneath the sketches is the wrinkled page attempted to be smoothed. The writing and doodles by the numbers. 

The list. 

You look at the few items you managed to check off, sighing at how it all went tits up. 

What happened? Was he feeling guilty? Was he turned off? Did you do something offensive? Was he mad you fell asleep? You're so frustrated that you'll never know the answer. You'll always wonder what happened to make him pull back so viciously. 

You grab your phone, frustrated that it's still only at twenty percent. You plug it back in and compose a text to Jacob. 

I can't wait to see you.

Same here Oh I had an idea about the list

Yeah? ????

Calm down fast typer. You know that club Elysium on Red River?

That haunted looking place?

Yeah. Tuesday is singles night. A perfect place to pick up a gentleman to knock off a number or two.

You’re a genius

A sexy one.

"Why can't you just be straight?" You say with a sigh, popping the phone back onto your desk. Your fingers trail over the well-worn list, face heating. 

The doorbell rings. 

"Can you get that?" Your dad calls through the sliding glass door. He sounds irritated, which is what he always is right before hosting a party when he feels rushed.

"Okay!"

You jog to the door hoping to see Jacob on the other side. You've barely been able to speak to him this week; Joel's been circling your desk like a hawk every time he comes near.

He always has some kind of excuse, correlating, stapling, photocopying. Sometimes it feels like busy work. But you don't understand why he's acting like that. Maybe he is just a stickler about fraternization. Maybe you and Jacob do seem unprofessional. 

Well, there's nothing he can say today, you reason. This isn't work.

You smile in satisfaction, humming to yourself. When you open the door however, your smile dies immediately. 

"Afternoon."

Joel stands there in a dark t-shirt with the home teams logo emblazoned on the front. His jeans are dark washed and his hair looks styled, like he went to some effort. 

You hate that he looks so good. 

You don't reply to him, you just stand back and take the door with you, looking at the floor. Joel slips out of his boots and walks inside and you notice he's holding a case of beer. 

"My dad already has plenty."

"Yeah, that microbrew trash," Joel murmurs, "S'why I brought my own."

"Knock yourself out," you mutter back, walking away from him into the kitchen. 

He walks after you awkwardly, his footsteps heavy and the scent of sandalwood and sweat catching up to you. You stand at the far edge of the counter, watching Joel move to the large fridge. His back is so broad under his T-shirt, biceps bulging...

Stop.

Your logical self tries to prevail. It's like an imaginary cartoon of yourself that shows up on one shoulder wearing thick, oversized glasses and looking serious. 

Get yourself together. He's just a man. 

But then another you pops up on your left shoulder wearing a clown nose. 

Yeah a man who's cock you sucked! 

"Shut up," you whisper to yourself. 

"What was that?"

Joel is still there, loading his beer into the fridge with a puzzled expression. You figure it's a fair response given that you were just babbling to yourself. 

"Nothing."

You want to leave but you also don't want Joel chasing you out of your own space. You grab a water glass and pour yourself some from the tap.  

Joel pulls a beer bottle from his case, twisting the top off and flicking it into the trash.

“You want one?" Joel asks, holding a bottle out to you. You shake your head, opting for lemonade from the fridge instead. 

You flinch as he clears his throat - a classic maneuver which means he's about to say something uncomfortable. Great. 

"Hey, uh, you think we could talk?"

You turn to see him inches from you and your sardonic reply dies in your chest. He's so big, his mouth so pouty under that close cropped beard. 

"I.. erm...”

His eyes bore into yours. He's intimidating even when he's not trying to be. 

"Miller, you showed!"

Joel steps back from you as your father appears through the back sliding door with a smile on his face. He seems relieved to see his friend. 

"Figured it was weird if one of the CEO"s was absent," Joel says before smirking. "Plus I had to make sure you were keeping tradition alive and making it one to remember." 

“Lemonade?” Your dad says with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Not gonna try out the margarita machine, Trix?”

“Nah.”

"What's with the Trix thing?" Joel interrupts as he raises a brow in interest. "I've heard it a few times and I don't get it." 

"It's nothing," you frown. Having Joel here talking about mundane things makes you feel insane. 

“She wasn’t nothing,” your dad defends. “She had a pet bunny named Trixie.”

“Dad he doesn’t want to hear this,” you say with a cringe. You notice a twinkle in Joel’s eyes, a hitch to one side of his mouth that makes him smile crookedly.

“Sure do.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

"Uh, Trixie was a very big deal," your dad interjects, offended at your casual dismissal of a beloved pet. "You made us feed you carrots out of our hands. On Halloween you dressed up as her, you had bunny pyjamas... "

"For fucks sake," you mutter, head in your hands. "Next topic, please."

"I wanna hear more about Trix," Joel says and you can hear the laughter edging into his words. 

"For a whole summer this one went around wearing bunny ears on a headband her mama made her, just so she could look like Trixie." 

At the mention of your mother you bristle, frowning and pushing back from the table.

"I need..." You search your mind for some excuse. 

"More carrots?" 

You shoot daggers at your father and a chuckling Joel.

Could this be more embarrassing?

Joel peers outside the glass sliding door. "S' that a wall of balloons?"

"Sure is, c'mon and see what I cooked up this year." 

Your father is like a child on show and tell, beaming and excited to show his friend. It's been quite a long time since you saw the two of them relaxed like this. A. Part of you is touched that your father looks so happy. 

The caterers arrive shortly after and begin to get to work. You glance around at the decorations that were set up by the decorators last night, at all the effort your father went to. 

It's not only to impress staff, you know that. It's also to give you everything he couldn't when your mom was alive. He wants you and your brother to live well. 

It doesn't mean hand outs; it doesn't mean not teaching you the importance of hard work. It just means splashy parties and good food and birthday presents that make you dumbstruck. It means a father not stressed about making ends meet. 

Your parents used to argue about money a lot. Of your mother's overspending or your father's late nights at the office. Perhaps that's why money has never sat well with you. 

People start to arrive, the doorbell ringing constantly as your father ushers everyone in, urging them to grab margaritas and canapés. 

Kathleen greets you a squeeze, looking around at the extravagance of the event. 

"Seems like these parties get more and more over the top."

"Tell me about it." 

"Best go see what you're dad's up to," she says, looking around the room for him. 

You feel sympathy as you look at her, the way she feels she needs to be at your father's beck and call even off the clock. Is she just an older version of you? Never able to say how she feels? The thought sobers you. 

"Kathleen, lemme show you the margarita machine." 

Minutes later Kathleen has a margarita in her hand and is being brought into a conversation with Terry about who the cutest football player is. 

In habit you go to message Jacob to see where he is when you remember your phone is charging in your room. You make your way through the crowd and walk in the room. You turn away from the door, phone raised to your face as you check the battery life. 35%. You need a new phone. You sigh.

"You got a minute?"

Joel's voice wafts from behind you low and husky. Startled, you drop your phone to the ground, cringing before picking it up. 

"I'm just grabbing my phone." 

He nods, hands stuffed awkwardly into his denim pockets. He's waiting for an invitation, like some flannel-wearing vampire. You don't want Joel in your home. You want him far away. 

"Mind if I come in?"

To my childhood bedroom? Sure. Nothing embarrassing about that. I hope you like math-a-thon trophies and shitty movie posters. 

"Sure." 

Your room is a mausoleum containing the bones of your childhood self. The insecure smart girl, the outcast that never felt like she fit in.  Back before the puberty fairy hit and helped you grow into all the things you hated about yourself. The damage was done, your brain chemistry stuck on the belief that you weren't sexy or confident. 

You were the girl that yearned to be as pretty as her mom, as stylish as the girls at school, as confident as the women she saw in magazines and movies. But you just never quite got there. 

Can Joel sense who you used to be? Can he look at your collection of hobbies and photographs and cobbler together something meaningful? You never could. You stand in silence watching as Joel shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes darting all around the room. 

"S'Nice." 

You can't help staring at the awkward man standing there in your bedroom. He stands out like a sore thumb, too tall, too broad, and too manly amongst your floral sheets and colorful hair ties. 

You can both hear the party going on downstairs at full volume, the drinks clearly flowing. When you hear Kathleen shriek your father's name you can't help but smirk. 

"Full house," Joel says. "More than last year I think."

Seriously? He wanted to talk about this? He came up to your bedroom to chat about party size? 

"Uh yeah. Must've been dad's crab dip that sealed the deal. No one can say no to that." 

Joel huffs a laugh but it doesn't translate to his face. He's still just staring at you with a strange look. 

"You upset about not hosting, Mister Miller?"

Joel's lips thin at the honorific, face darkening. You have a feeling you know why. It makes your thighs press together slightly. 

"We're not at work," he manages to mutter. "You don't have to call me that." 

You scratch the side of your nose, unsure of what to say. You've always called him Mister Miller. You end up shrugging at him by way of response. The energy is weird in here now. You wish Jacob would stop being a social butterfly and show up already. 

His eyes fall on your bed and you see his breath hitch in his chest. You look at it through his eyes; the light floral print, the haphazard way you folded it. Then there, near the edge of the mattress; a pair of panties you missed folding this morning.

They’re the scandalous sort, red and lacy that you bought back when you thought Joel would be seeing them. But not like this. You lurch across the room like some uncoordinated Frankenstein’s monster and grab them, shoving them into your back pocket.

Neither of you speak, but Joel does do that throat clearing thing that you despise.

“So what did you need, Joel?”

Joel clears his throat, clearly ready to start communicating about what he intended to.

Yeah, you were. You nod politely, too kind to rub it in. 

"It's.... It's about what we talked about at work the other day," he says quietly, looking everywhere but you're face as he speaks.

Is he serious? 

Irritation flares within you, arms crossing over your chest. Your voice is a little shaky when you reply to him, faltering in the face of being blunt. 

"You mean the day you told me you didn't want to talk about it anymore?"

He cringes. "Yeah. That." 

You watch his jaw wiggle slightly as he tries to get his point across. Clearly he's been thinking about this a while judging by the apprehensive expression he wears. 

"You asked me if you did anythin' wrong in the hotel. And I just needed you to know that you didn't. You were great." 

You stare at him, blinking slowly as you digest this. "Really?”

"More than great," Joel says with a nod. "You didn't do anythin' wrong. I got in my head when we... You know," his neck flushes. "And I was shitty about it. M'sorry." 

You've never heard Joel apologize to anyone in your entire time knowing him. Even when you think he's been in the wrong. He's come to you with his proverbial hat in hand, sincere and apologetic. He's so human to you in this moment. It softens you immediately. 

"Thanks Joel," you finally say softly. "I appreciate the apology."

The moment feels surreal, having Joel in your childhood bedroom, having him apologize, having him standing there not attempting to move. 

"Is it just that?"

Joel squints at you, confused. "Huh?"

"Is that the only reason?" You step towards him, surveying his expression. "My dad doesn't have anything to do with it?"

His eyes give him away immediately, the subtle wince. "That's part of it. Yeah."

You're not stupid, you always thought it might be an issue for Joel but you never wanted to push it. You were content ignoring that part of the arrangement. Joel sucks at his teeth, exhaling through his nose as he continues to look at the floor.  

"I need to tell you...I need you to know," Joel starts, speaking in a rush. "I offered to help you with your list because I was pissed off at your dad. I dunno, I guess it felt like payback somehow."  He searches your face. "I'm really sorry about that. Fuck, feels like all I'm doing today is apologizin'. But I mean it."

He looks beside himself, this bear of a man taken down by an arrow of guilt to the chest.

"I've been sick about it," Joel confides. "You probably think I'm a piece of shit."

You can’t help but laugh loudly, drawing his brows to his hairline. You laugh so hard you snort, covering your mouth and feeling your face heat as he stares. 

"I'm sorry, you're just so earnest. Joel, I don't care about that," you say once your laughter subsides.

"You don't?"

"Why would I?"

How can you possibly be upset? His motivation was shitty, sure, but was yours any better? You fucked around with Joel knowing he fired a good man like Brian. You fucked around with him that he denied his brother a respectable job even though Tommy was clearly desperate. But you didn't care; you just thought Joel was hot. 

As far as you can tell you're both pieces of shit. Only Joel seems utterly devastated by his actions. 

"It’s not like we were dating or anything," you say as you lean against the bedroom wall. "And it's not like either of us went into this with pure intentions."

Joel blinks. "We didn't?"

"You offered to help me for your reasons and I accepted for mine. It doesn't matter why to me." Your tone softens. "You were really kind and I enjoyed our time together. No regrets."  

Joel looks relieved, but something else lurks behind the dark of his iris. Something you can't name. 

"So we're good," you say with a reassuring smile. "All good. We can part as... Well, I feel like friends is pushing it. Acquaintances who've seen each other naked?" 

Joel's grin suddenly appears, carving that small dimple into one blushing cheek. He chuckles softly at you, his broad shoulders lowering. 

"I think after everythin', friends is a fair assessment." 

Relief is warm and soothing as it runs through your veins, making you feel a thread of affection for Joel. Despite how things ended with you two, you'll always appreciate what he was able to show you. 

You can't tell him that right now, that level of sincerity is too intimidating. Maybe one day you'll write him a letter. 

"Good." 

He nods, shoulders lowering. He's done what he came here to do. Joel continues to survey your bedroom with the quiet interest of a stalking animal, eyes scanning the space until they land on your desk.  You figure it's time to leave. You spin around, hand reaching for the door when a low rumble sounds out behind you.  

“You do these sketches yourself?”

You turn back to see Joel’s long fingers pressed lightly against the papers on your desk.

“Yeah.”

He slants a smile your way. “Damn. You’re good.”

You feel yourself flushing in a quiet sort of embarrassed pride. “Thanks.”

You think about offering your services, of seeing if Joel would consider letting you shadow him without your father’s knowledge. But then you see the amusement drain from his face, his lips thinning in displeasure.

“This what I think it is?”

In his desire to see more of your work he’s unearthed the wrinkled checklist. Wake Partner with Oral Sex can be seen from where you stand, a big red X through it.  

You make a choking noise, lurching in his direction. You bump your hip into his as you cover the list with an old textbook on Gothic architecture. 

"Nothing."

Smooth. Real smooth. 

Joel's dark brows are still pulled, eyes flashing up to yours as he thins his lips. 

"You're still doin' that?" 

You shrug non-commitally, cheeks warm. Joel looks upset, rubbing the back of his neck and exhaling out his nose. You’re too embarrassed to reply to him so you decide to flee. You turn, hand raising to open the door.

"You can't do anymore of that list."

You blink several times at the door handle, not convinced that you actually heard him right. You turn around, your body slow. 

"Pardon me?"

"I said you can't do' anythin' else off that list of yours." 

You can only gape at him, shocked that this gauntlet has been thrown at your feet. "And why not?" 

"You're my best friend's kid," Joel says dismissively. "I'm not gonna sit by while you put yourself in danger."

"Danger?"

"Completing the rest of that list with strangers?" Joel says slowly as if you're an idiot not to know this already. "One night stands with handcuffs? You're askin' to get hurt by some creep out there." 

You begin to feel your temper flare at the way he's speaking to you. How dare he sit there acting like he's in charge of you? "I know how to take care of myself." 

"Clearly you don't," Joel shoots back. His broad shoulders square. "You could get seriously hurt. That's why you can't do anymore 'a this." 

He motions to the list on your desk. Your body feels tight, like your skin is too taut. You want to roll your shoulders, feeling an energy shift in you that is not at all pleasant. You move a step closer to him, feel sinking into the carpet. 

"And if I do?" 

The silence is deafening. You've never been one to speak to Joel like that. He tilts back, jutting his chin ever so slightly to look intimidating. That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold. 

"I'll tell your Dad all about your little list." 

Your head cocks, hands on your hips in defiance. 

"Really Draco Malfoy? My father will hear about this?"

Joel squints, clearly not understanding the reference. Fucking boomer. 

"When you do that, are you gonna tell him who helped me knock off some of those numbers?" You grimace. "Gonna tell him about our time at the hotel, Mister Miller?"

He visibly flinches. 

Your face is so warm it almost hurts. You've never spoken to anyone like this, but Joel's treatment of you is frustrating.

"Because if you don't, I will," you continue. "But I feel like that might not go over so great for you." 

If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me. 

Joel doesn't move a muscle but you can tell by the slight widening of his eyes that he clearly never thought you'd defy him. He bares his teeth, about to bite back. 

"Miller? You up there?"

Your father's voice breaks through the argument, causing you two to move apart as if you'd been embracing instead of standing toe-to-toe in an argument. 

"Yep. Just using the facilities," Joel calls back, his eyes still on you. "Downstairs was occupied."'

"The games starting and I know you got twenty on kickoffs."

"Be right there." 

The two of you haven't broken eye contact yet. Your body is buzzing, legs wobbly. You take another step forward, lowering your voice. 

"It's fine if you don't want to do the list. I respect that," you tell Joel honestly, not wishing to escalate things further. "And I’m sure this is all a misguided attempt to be kind. But you don't have any say about what I do on my own time." 

That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold. 

"It's a bad idea."

"Thank you for your feedback," you reply flatly. "But Tuesday night is singles night at Elysium and I'm gonna knock off number two."

The two of you are inches from one another, breathing heavily with your pupils blown out. His eyes are flicking between your mouth and eyes, causing your pulse to spike.

A roaring cheer goes on downstairs and the two of you break apart, both gulping for air. You're embarrassed at how turned on you are right now just from this little spat. 

You watch him leave; seething, all the while wishing his ass didn't look so fucking good in those jeans. 

///

Joel shovels pretzels into his down turned mouth, casting sideways looks your way. You're perched on the edge of the sofa, scrolling your phone bored. Clearly football isn't the event of choice for you. 

Despite this you wear a team's jersey over your jeans, your hair tied up in matching bows. You've tried to be festive despite not enjoying the subject matter. 

He watches the small little pull of your mouth to one side. You're amused. Joel finds himself eager to know what about. Are you on tinder? Are you trying to find someone to go to the club with? Were you serious about that? 

You cross your legs and Joel can’t help but trace the line of your ankle up to your thigh in those tight jeans. How can you be so sexy all covered up? Your dad is saying something to him and Joel replies with a ‘mhmm’ but his gaze is covertly on you.

He doesn’t know what happened up in your bedroom. One moment he was apologizing and the next he was furious and hard. You’d looked so intense, eyes bright, teeth clenched with this kind of confidence he’d never seen in you.

It turned him on.

He shifts in his seat now, willing his cock not to swell in his jeans as he recalls. He thinks he feels eyes on him and his gaze shifts your way again. But it’s not you staring at him, its Tess. She gives him a soft little smile as she heads into the kitchen. He frowns.

All of a sudden the doorbell rings and you jump up to get it. Joel watches you leave the room, hears you give a little squeak of delight when you see who it is. A familiar chuckle sounds out.

It’s Jacob Milne.

The Mill Group Casanova.

If Joel has to hear one more female intern in the break room giggling over how handsome he is Joel is going to vomit. He can’t stand the kid and doesn’t know when that started. He’d been the one to hire him on years ago, impressed with his work ethic and portfolio. But now just the sound of his laugh is like nails on a chalkboard for Joel.

The two of you walk back into the room, snaking between the bodies on chairs and couches, giggling. Your bodies are close, your movements comfortable with one another. Joel can feel himself growing more furious by the second. 

And then salvation in the form of a long pass.

"Halftime!" Your dad announces, pushing himself up to stand. "Feeds on!" 

The group gathers excitedly around the large spread. Snacks have already been served, but now its gourmet burgers, steak and lobster bites, shrimp pasta salad and more. The kind of stuff Joel always thought of as ‘too fancy’ when he and Tommy grew up with his single father.

Joel grabs a plate, absently listening to Kathleen chattering on beside him. But his eyes are stuck on you across the room, oblivious to the food.

You two look good together, similar in age, both very attractive. You look well suited and Joel can't understand why that pisses him off so much. 

Your dad sidles up beside Joel, excusing his reach as he grabs one of the steak bites.

“Having a good time, Miller?”

“You bet,” Joel says forcing a smile. “Good food. Good company.”

“Sure beats our first one, huh?”

“Shitty beers and a couch with springs that dug into our asses.”

The two men smile toothily at the memory. Back when they thought they’d never get out of debt. Back when they were two widowers feeling alone. Time sure has changed things.

Joel’s eyes are back on you as he and your dad pile food onto their plates.

"That’s interestin’," Joel murmurs to your father. 

Your dad follows Joel’s gaze, brows raised. "What?” 

Joel takes a bite of burger as he looks to your father. To his extreme relief your dad is watching you and Jacob like a hawk. They both watch as you laugh at something Jacob says, your head tossed back as Jacob grins at you. 

"Never realized they were so... close," your father hedges uncomfortably, taking a sip of his beer, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. 

Joel can see the tension there in his friend’s expression. Knows that if he plays his cards right there’s a chance for opportunity.

"He's a good kid. Smart too. Brian anyways really liked him. Makes me wonder if he should be brought into the Williams account." 

Your dad frowns. "You don't think he's a bit wet behind the ears?"

"Naw, he's a quick study and worth the investment."  Joel doesn't give recommendations lightly. "Plus if he's busy with that, his nights might not be as free..."  

Your dad looks at Joel and then back at you and Jacob. You shift your hips and from this angle Joel and your father can see the lace of your red panties poking out the back of your jeans pocket. Joel nearly choked on his beer.

“Oh my fuck,” your dad whispers in horror, tugging Joel out of the food line and ushering him to the far wall for privacy.  “You see that?”

“Uh… I do.”

“You think he asked her to do it?” your dad asks, looking from you to Jacob while he shakes his head.

“Maybe.”

“You think he’s some kinda pervert?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t think so,” Joel hedges. “Just young.”

“Not that young.”

“He treats her nice,” Joel insists, not wanting to get Jacob fired. “Always polite in the office. Always respectful.”

Your dad hums a reply but when Jacob runs a few fingers through your hair and your dad launches himself your way, Joel can't help but smile to himself. 

///

"Your hair looks so good," Jacob marvels, dragging his fingers through your tresses once more. 

"Thank you," you preen. "I did that reverse washing thing. And… you look like you've been busy," you say taking in the circles under his eyes. "Aki work his way back into your bed?" 

"No, and keep your voice down," Jacob says casting a look around the crowded space. "Roxie ate my expensive lotion and I had to rush her to the vet."

Your smile dies. "Is she okay?"

"She's totally fine, she just smells like bergamot and cost me five hundred in vet fees." 

You can't help but laugh loudly at this and he joins in.

"But while we're on the subject of casual dating, are we going to Elysium on Tuesday?"

You step a little closer, voice dropping. "Yes, I just need your help deciding what to w-"

"Milne, glad you could make it."

You both glance over to see your father approaching, beer in hand, a queer little smile on his face. You snap your mouth shut as your father appears, giving Jacob a swift handshake. 

“Thank you for the invitation, sir.”

Jacob is always a bit tense around your dad and Joel and despite the frivolity of the event, you can still see the stricken expression he wears.

"We got lots of drinks and grub, so help yourself,” your dad says with a wan smile. “Both of you.”

"Thank you, sir."

You watch as Jacob takes off for the drink table not even waiting for you. You feel your dad's eyes on you and you raise a brow.

"What's up, dad?"

"He's a nice boy."

"Uh yeah, I guess." 

"Ambitious, would you say?"

"Sure." 

Your dad nods thoughtfully, eyes sailing over to Jacob who has been dragged into conversation with some of the marketing team. His phone beeps and you watch him take it from his pocket, holding it closely to his chest. 

After halftime is over and you and Jacob have commandeered the comfiest couch for yourselves, you settle back and try to focus on the game but you’re distracted, nodding when Jacob mentions something about the players. He's intense about sports, especially football. He started the fantasy football League in the Mill Group. 

You try to be interested, enjoying the warmth of his soft shoulder against yours, inhaling the expensive shampoo he uses. Jacob is a great comfort to you, especially now when you're still reeling after Joel's treatment of you. 

You hear the chatting of those around the television, the crunch of salty snacks, the clink of ice. It looks like it's a hit so far which you know must delight your dad. 

You steal a look his way, seeing how he quietly chats to a smiling Tess, her eyes on his face, enraptured. You feel your lip curl in disgust. Jacob is muttering to you now, trying to get you into the game despite your obvious apathy. 

"So, it’s a cover-2 shell, right? Safety’s creeping up, linebacker’s shading inside and everyone’s thinking it’s a run. But Jenkins reads it instantly, like, pre-snap, he hits his back foot and fires between the hook defender and the dropping safety...."

It's like another language you have no desire to learn. A Rosetta Stone for sport bros. You keep nodding with a polite smile on your face. Jacob darts his eyes between the screen and your face. 

"...this perfect seven-yard pivot, just enough separation. The ball arrives just when he turns and it’s textbook quarter- YES GO!!!." 

Jacob jumps from his seat next to you arms raised and cheeks pink as he cheers along with the rest of the group. Your dad is pleased, clapping loudly and whooping. 

Loud applause goes everywhere, hiding the yelp you let out when Jacobs’s beer lands in your lap. Of course it does. Making you look like you've wet yourself.

You think you feel eyes on you but a quick scan of the bustling room let’s you know that it's just your paranoia.  You wince, standing as the cheers continue and head into the kitchen to wash up, telling everyone you pass that its beer and not urine. 

To your surprise Tess is in the kitchen texting, her hip balanced against the counter. She looks up surprised to see you as you enter and she hastily shoves her phone into her purse. 

"Hey there. Are we allowed to smoke in here?"

"Backyard," you say pointing out the window. "By the shed. Dad smokes his cigars out there. He doesn't know I know." 

Tess flashes you a smile and laugh, thanking you. She squeezes your upper arm as she passes, leaving her citrusy perfume in her wake. It mixes with the hoppy smell of the beer which  really adds another level of gross to the experience. 

You go to the sink, running it and exhaling softly. This day is really turning into one massive headache. You feel a hand at your shoulder and turn to see Kathleen there with a packet of wet wipes extended to you.  

"Don't think those will cut it," you laugh weakly. "I think he spilled the whole bottle." 

Kathleen tuts in that mother hen way of hers, looking at the stain. "You got it early so make sure you blot. Don't rub." 

You run a hand towel under the sink, blotting at the stain as she watches.

"I don't think he even realized he did it," Kathleen chuckles. "He’s still out there cheering with an empty beer bottle. Men and football, I'll never understand it."

"Me neither," you agree. "My mom used to take me out for ice cream or a movie when Dad hosted games.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she hated it even more than I did." 

You surprise yourself with your open candor about your mother. You don't really enjoy talking about her much, but there's something about Kathleen that just encourages you to open up. 

"My kinda lady," Kathleen says, blotting your jeans with the other hand towel. "I'm just here for the free margaritas." 

You laugh with her, the two of you trying to tidy the beer from your clothes the best you can. 

"Think I'm just gonna have to change into something," you eventually frown. "But that's okay. The jersey material is so itchy." 

Kathleen nods, watching you strip off the jersey to reveal a tight white t-shirt. She’s looking at you with a heavy look, one that you know from therapists and compassionate friends from over the years.

"So, can I ask something real inappropriate?"

"Sure."

"How're you doing this month?"

Your smile is frozen, brow raised as you try to parse what she's talking about. When it hits you, your stomach drops. 

"You mean because of my mom." 

"Yeah." Kathleen's eyes widen when you take a moment to compose yourself. "Oh shoot. Was that.... Should I not have-"

"It's fine," you lie. "Just .. I didn't know a lot of people knew."

As a longtime employee and your father's right hand it's no surprise that Kathleen would remember your mother's birthday. A time of year that you try to push from your mind as often as possible. 

The day your father always takes off work to visit her gravesite. 

The day you pretend doesn't exist. 

"It’s been ten years this week," you offer quietly. 

"Wow."

"Yeah. My dad hasn't said anything but I think it's hard for him..." You shuffle, feeling her eyes on you. "He, uh, I think he blames himself. For not getting her to the doctors in time." 

Kathleen says nothing, but her eyes tell you that she's here, she's listening. 

"Your mom was a special lady," Kathleen observes. "Your dad tells some amazing stories about her." 

"Really?" 

Your dad never talks about your mom in great detail and you always thought it was because it hurt him. But here he is sharing it with one of the employees? That hurts. 

"He said that you and your mama went to the fair all the time?" 

"Yeah." You smile at the memory. "Ate enough popcorn to kill us, topped off with cotton candy." 

Kathleen smiles wide. "My kinda lady." 

You grin over at Kathleen, heart warming. "Yeah. She was. I actually think the two of you would have gotten along really well." 

It's true. Kathleen and your mother both have that sweet warmth that just draw people into their orbit. If you close your eyes now you can still see the crinkling of her eyes as she smiled, that one tooth that slightly overlapped the other, the way her head fell back when

"Her favorite was riding the rollercoaster’s." You smile to yourself. "I was always too scared to go on them. I kinda regret it now."

"How come?" 

"I was always too afraid, too cautious," you murmur, eyes on the floor. "Ever since she died I've just been ... Scared of everything." 

You used to be brave. You know you did. But you can't grasp that feeling anymore, it slips through your fingers each and every time you try to cling to it. 

You feel it sometimes though, in those quiet moments with Joel. In the unknown, heart pounding, body tingling but thrumming with this dormant bravery.  

"I get that," Kathleen says and there's a tinge to her voice that suggests something deeper, something that hurts to remember. 

You look up at her, seeing the sheen to her dark eyes and flinching when a roar goes up in the next room. 

"Guess we scored," she says blinking away the sadness. "I'm gonna go see how we're doing."

She gives your shoulder a squeeze, a soft smile shot your way before she's gone, slipping into the next room. You watch her go, missing the warmth of her presence. This conversation has left you feeling vulnerable, aching in a way that brings bile to your throat. 

"You okay?" 

You jolt when the low voice reaches you, yelping and turning around. Joel is standing there at the edge of the kitchen and despite your previous animosity, you don't scowl. You're a housecat, declawed and weak. Your stomach churning, chest tight. You hate this feeling. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

"Doesn't look it."

He doesn't say it cruelly or with that arrogance he had in the bedroom earlier today. He says it concerned with his dark eyes big and entreating. 

There are no words so you just shrug. Another roar sounds from the next room. You wait for Joel to leave and join them. He's always been a dedicated fan of the team. But he lingers, long muscled legs slowly making their way to you. One hand rests in his jeans pocket, the other holding a sweating beer in his long fingers. 

"Didn't know it was your Mama's birthday this week." 

"Yeah, well," you shrug. "Probably why dad wanted to host the game this year." 

Joel looks contemplative, like something is settling in his mind. A realization perhaps. He nods, exhaling so hard you feel it on your cheeks. He's close to you, closer than you realized. Your eyes are stuck on his mouth, a perverse desire to shake this moment of its solemnity.

Joel senses it; he must, because he moves a little closer. 

"Hey, I-" 

You wait for those plush lips to form an apology for his outburst in your bedroom but one doesn't arrive. Maybe it would have if Jacob hadn't entered into the kitchen at that very moment, his laughter following him from the other room. 

At the sight you and Joel spring apart guiltily, your back hitting the sink so hard you cringe.  Jacob's smile drops as he sees Joel's frame come into view. Joel's eyes are on his beer. 

You try to give a nonchalant smile. "Hey Jacob." 

"Sorry," Jacob says, anxiety in his voice, "I didn't mean to interrupt-'

"Not interruptin' anything," Joel insists with a casual shrug. "Just talkin' shop." 

He tilts his bottle to you by way of farewell, nodding to Jacob as he passes. You watch him go, savoring the pinch of his waist, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his exposed forearms. 

"So,” Jacob says in a low murmur. “When were you gonna tell me your mystery man is Joel Miller?" 

[ayoungpascallover]

Omg I just found out the movie is not coming to Mexico until the 31st of July.

Everyone better shut the fuck up about this movie until I get to watch it a month and a half later...

[ayoungpascallover]

I’m sorry what happened with the purple nails if you don’t mind sharing? I’m not familiar

Something similar but gone wrong Ig

[ayoungpascallover]

A woman posted how Pedro goes the same gym as her in London and I don’t think she had any intentions especially because she said she left him alone but now people know what gym it is and the worst people will get their hands on that information. I feel so bad for him.

Sadly, every month, there's something like this, a new stalker who seems to be connected to THOSE stalkers everyone in this fandom knows. And people like that gym girl who seek attention only give them more tools to work with.

Tragically, Pedro nor his team will do something about this situation until something like purple nails happens to a much bigger scale.

In the meanwhile the only thing I can think of doing to protect my experience in this fandom is not interact with any of this people, they don't even like Pedro for real. They just have a really sick sick obsession.

[ayoungpascallover]

Since we’re talking about stalkers, people are also getting weird AF and sharing information about the London neighborhood he’s living in for filming. And I know most people mean no harm but people please guys be careful. Information in the wrong hands will give weirdos more resources to violate him.

Yes! It's not normal wanting to know where a person is all of the time. Specifically if you don't know this person.