baby — V (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello lovies, i hope you enjoy this chapter. lots happening!

📌 Warnings: the following chapter contains SMUT, rated R content, +18 content. You've been warned!

word count: 10.8K

The townhouse was quiet, but it was no longer the screaming silence of a tomb. It was the soft, expectant quiet of a home waiting to be lived in.

Harry walked to the kitchen island. He flicked on the under-cabinet lights, bathing the marble in a warm, amber glow. He didn't strip off his jacket with a flourish; he just took it off, looking exhausted, and draped it over the back of a bar stool.

He rolled up his sleeves, not with military precision, but with the weary relief of a man who was done being Harry Styles for the day.

"Wine?" he asked, opening the fridge. "I think the white is actually cold for once."

"Red is fine," Y/N said from the doorway.

He pulled out a bottle of Barolo. He poured two glasses and handed her one, clinking the rim against hers gently.

"To chaos," he murmured, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.

"To chaos," she agreed.

Harry took a long sip, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he looked at the stove.

"I’m making carbonara," he said. "It’s... well, it’s the only thing I can make without a recipe. Is that okay?"

"It sounds perfect."

He washed his hands and got to work.

Y/N walked over to the island. In the old days, she would have sat on a stool and waited. Today, she hopped up onto the marble counter, letting her legs dangle.

Harry turned around to grab the cheese grater and paused. He looked at her perched on his expensive countertop.

"You know," he said, pausing with a block of Pecorino in his hand. "Strictly speaking, this is a health code violation. Putting your shoes against the cabinets."

"Is that a rule, Mr. Styles?" Y/N teased, taking a sip of her wine. "Are you going to write me up?"

Harry looked at her. He looked at her sneakers bumping against his cabinets. He looked at the hole in her sweatshirt. He realized he didn't care about the cabinets at all.

"No," he said softly. "I think I like it."

He stepped closer, not to intimidate, but just to be near her. He rested his forehead against her shoulder for a brief second, breathing her in.

"Just don't kick the wine glass," he mumbled into her sweatshirt.

"I make no promises."

Harry chuckled—a warm, rusty sound—and went back to cooking.

He wasn't surgical about it. He was focused, sure, but there was a domestic rhythm to it. He grated the cheese, a little bit flying onto the floor which he ignored. He threw the guanciale into the pan, wincing slightly when the oil popped.

"So," he said, stirring the pasta. "The job hunt."

Y/N stiffened slightly. "What about it?"

"I know the CEO of Bloomsbury," Harry said. He tried to sound casual, but Y/N could hear the 'fixer' in his voice trying to come out. "We play golf. I could make a call."

Y/N set her wine glass down.

"Harry."

He turned around, tongs in hand, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "It’s just a call. It’s efficient."

"No calls," she said firmly. "If I get a job, I want to know I got it. Not because of who I'm sleeping with."

Harry opened his mouth to argue—to explain leverage and networking—but he stopped. He looked at her stubborn face. He realized that trying to control this was exactly what drove her away last time.

He sighed, surrendering. "Okay. No calls."

"Thank you."

"But," he added, pointing the tongs at her. "If you run out of money and start eating instant noodles again, I’m buying you groceries. I can’t watch you starve, Y/N. That’s my line."

Y/N smiled. "Deal. Groceries are allowed."

Harry finished the pasta. He tossed the noodles in the sauce, checking the consistency with a frown of concentration.

"I think it's ready," he said, sounding a little unsure.

He plated it into two bowls and grabbed forks. He handed her a bowl and leaned against the counter next to her, holding his own.

"Tell me if it's rubbish," he said, watching her take the first bite. "I haven't made this in a while."

Y/N chewed. It was rich, salty, and perfect.

"It’s terrible," she deadpanned. "Worst thing I've ever eaten."

Harry’s face fell for a fraction of a second before he saw her grin.

"Brat," he laughed, nudging her shoulder with his own.

He took a bite of his own pasta, letting out a hum of satisfaction. He stood there, leaning against the counter in his socks and unbuttoned shirt, eating dinner with her.

It wasn't a power play. It wasn't a scene from a movie. It was just dinner. And for the first time in a long time, Harry looked like he was actually home.

5:30 AM.

Harry’s internal clock was a precision instrument. He didn't need an alarm. His eyes opened at exactly 5:30 AM, just as the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was turning a bruised purple.

His body went into autopilot.

Step 1: Get up.

Step 2: Check Nikkei and Hang Seng markets.

Step 3: Espresso.

Step 4: Five-mile run.

He sat up, the duvet pooling at his waist. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, his thumb hovering over the email icon.

Then he felt the weight shift beside him.

He froze.

Slowly, Harry turned his head.

Y/N was asleep on the other side of the massive bed. She was buried under the white duvet, only a messy tangle of hair and one bare shoulder visible. She was breathing deeply, a soft, rhythmic sound that was completely foreign to this room.

For the last ten years, this room had been a functional space. It was where he slept to recharge for the next day of work. It was temperature-controlled, soundproofed, and efficient.

Now, it was warm. It was occupied.

Harry looked at his phone. 34 Unread Emails.

He looked at the girl sleeping in his bed.

He put the phone back down. Face down.

He slid out of bed carefully, his bare feet sinking into the carpet. He walked to the bathroom, not turning on the lights, moving by the muscle memory of living in this space for a decade. He brushed his teeth. He splashed cold water on his face.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. But the tightness around his eyes—the tension that had been there for a month—was gone.

He walked out to the kitchen.

Usually, he drank a kale smoothie and a double shot of espresso while standing up, reading the Financial Times on his iPad.

Today, he made coffee.

He used the French press. It took longer. It required patience. He waited for the grounds to steep, watching the steam rise in the silent kitchen. He found two mugs. He poured the coffee, adding a splash of oat milk to one because he remembered she hated it black.

He walked back to the bedroom.

Y/N was still asleep, but she had moved. She was now sprawled diagonally across the bed, claiming the majority of the real estate.

Harry smiled. He walked over to the side of the bed and set the mugs down on the nightstand.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress. The dip caused Y/N to stir. She groaned, scrunching her nose up against the pillow.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

"Early," Harry whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"You're up," she accused blindly, one eye cracking open to squint at him. "You're going for a run."

"Not today."

Y/N shifted, rolling onto her back. She looked up at him. She looked at his bare chest, at the tattoos, at the mug of coffee steaming next to him.

"Is that for me?"

"Unless you want me to drink two."

She pushed herself up, the sheet falling to her waist. She reached for the mug, wrapping both hands around it.

"You're supposed to be running," she said, blowing on the steam. "Or conquering the stock market. Or yelling at people."

"I can yell if you want," Harry offered dryly. "Get off my lawn."

Y/N laughed, a sleepy, raspy sound that did something dangerous to Harry’s chest.

"Come back to bed," she said.

Harry hesitated. "I have a conference call at eight."

"That is two hours away." She patted the empty space beside her. "Come here. The coffee tastes better horizontal."

Harry looked at the window. The sun was starting to crest over the horizon, lighting up the city that was waking up below them. He thought about his schedule. He thought about the unread emails.

Then he looked at Y/N, hair messy, holding his mug, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world worth waking up for.

He climbed back into bed.

He didn't lie on his side of the mattress. He slid in close to her, propping himself up against the headboard. Y/N immediately shifted, resting her head on his chest, her legs tangling with his.

"You're warm," she murmured.

"You're stealing the covers," he countered, pulling the duvet up over her shoulder.

"Negotiation tactic," she mumbled, closing her eyes again.

Harry took a sip of his coffee. He balanced the mug on his stomach. He rested his other hand on her arm, his thumb tracing slow, idle circles on her skin.

He watched the sun come up. He didn't check the markets. He didn't plan the day.

"You have a conference call," Y/N whispered, her hand moving idly up his chest to trace the ink of the swallow on his clavicle.

"I know."

"You should get ready."

"I have time," Harry lied. He didn't have time. He had twenty minutes to shower, shave, and review a forty-page briefing.

But then Y/N shifted. Her leg slid over his, the friction of skin against skin sending a slow, lazy heat through him that had nothing to do with the coffee. She pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, right over his pulse point.

Harry set the mug down on the nightstand. Hard.

He turned to her, catching her lips in a slow, languid kiss that tasted of oat milk and sleep.

The morning light was pouring in now, bright and unforgiving, but neither of them cared to hide. This wasn't the frantic, desperate collision of the night before. This was slow. It was indulgent.

Harry moved over her, shielding her from the sun. The room filled with the soft sounds of tangled sheets and quiet sighs. He took his time, learning the new rhythm of her body in the daylight, memorizing the way she looked with her hair spread across his pillows and his name on her lips.

For thirty minutes, the world outside the townhouse ceased to exist. The stock markets opened, the emails piled up, and the city rushed to work.

But Harry Styles—the man who never missed a meeting—simply didn't care.

When they finally lay back against the pillows, breathless and tangled together in the ruined sheets, Harry glanced at the clock.

8:05 AM.

He was late.

He smiled at the ceiling, pulled Y/N closer into his side, and closed his eyes.

"Worth it," he murmured.

It was 2:00 PM on Saturday when the peace of the townhouse was shattered.

The intercom buzzed.

"Delivery for Mr. Styles," the concierge announced, sounding slightly out of breath. "It... it barely fits in the freight elevator, sir."

"Send it up," Harry said.

He stood in the center of the living room. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, arms crossed, looking at the large, empty expanse of wall above the console table. It was the only wall in the house large enough to accommodate the monstrosity he had purchased.

Y/N was sitting on the sofa, eating an apple and trying to hide her grin.

"You don't have to do this," she said. "We can put it in storage. We can burn it. We can pretend it got lost in transit."

"No," Harry said stubbornly. "I bought it. I am hanging it."

"It’s four feet of black canvas, Harry. It’s going to look like a black hole opened up in your living room."

"It is a statement piece," Harry argued, though he didn't sound convinced. "It says... 'I appreciate the void'."

The freight elevator doors pinged open.

Two burly movers stumbled out. They were grappling with a massive square object wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap. They looked sweaty.

"Careful with the corners!" Harry instructed, stepping forward. "That frame is vintage mahogany."

"Where do you want it, guv?" one of the movers wheezed.

Harry pointed to the pristine white wall. "Center. Eye level."

It took twenty minutes. There was a lot of grunting, a near-miss with a Ming vase, and several terrifying creaks from the plasterboard. But finally, the massive object was secured.

"Right," the mover said, wiping his forehead. "Sign here, please."

Harry signed the digital pad and tipped them fifty pounds each. They left quickly, eager to escape the intense gaze of the man in the sweatpants.

Harry stood before the wrapped painting.

"Ready?" he asked.

"I can't watch," Y/N said, peeking through her fingers.

Harry reached up and tore the brown paper. He pulled it away in large strips.

The bubble wrap fell to the floor.

And there it was.

The Void.

It was exactly as she remembered it from the gallery, only here, against Harry’s tastefully curated grey and white decor, it looked even more aggressive. It was a massive, pitch-black square. It had no texture. It had no depth. It absorbed the light from the windows like a physical threat.

It was aggressively, violently ugly.

Harry stared at it. He stood perfectly still, his hands on his hips.

The silence stretched on for ten seconds. Twenty seconds.

"It is..." Harry started. He stopped. He tilted his head to the left. "It absorbs the light."

"It’s hideous," Y/N laughed. "Harry, it’s actually hideous."

"It cost fifty thousand pounds," Harry murmured, as if the price tag might suddenly make it beautiful.

"It looks like you forgot to finish painting the wall."

"It is conceptual," he defended weakly.

He walked closer to it. He inspected the brushwork—or lack thereof. He looked at the way it clashed horribly with the soft grey of the sofa and the warm wood of the floor. It was a scar on the perfection of the room.

And that, he realized, was exactly the point.

He turned to look at Y/N. She was giggling, her legs tucked under her on his three-thousand-pound sofa, looking at the monstrosity he had brought into his home.

Y/N's phone buzzed on the coffee table.

She picked it up and glanced at the screen. A snort of laughter escaped her.

"What?" Harry asked, still eyeing the painting warily.

"It's Josh," she said, reading the message. "He says: 'Just so you know, the painting is gone. The wall looks huge now. Also, tell your boyfriend thanks for taking it. It looked like depression.'"

Harry let out a short, sharp laugh.

"He's not wrong," Harry admitted. "But it's our depression now."

He looked back at the painting.

He hated it. Aesthetically, it offended every cell in his body. It was loud, abrasive, and ruined the flow of the townhouse.

But looking at it reminded him of the gallery. It reminded him of walking through that crowd and claiming her. It reminded him that he had chosen the mess over the perfection.

"We are keeping it," Harry decided.

"Are you sure?" Y/N asked, standing up and walking over to stand beside him. "You have to look at it every day."

Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. He kissed the top of her head.

"I like it," he lied. "It adds character. And it covers the smudge on the wall."

"There was no smudge on the wall, Harry."

"There is now," he said, gesturing to the giant black square. "A fifty-thousand-pound smudge."

He squeezed her shoulder.

"Welcome home, Y/N."

Y/N leaned her head against his arm, looking at the black abyss.

"You're an idiot," she whispered affectionately.

"I know," Harry agreed. "But I'm rich. So it's called 'eccentric'."

Next monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Harry was ready. He was standing by the kitchen island, fully armored in a navy three-piece suit. His tie was dimpled perfectly. His watch was set to Tokyo time. He was drinking an espresso and reading a briefing on his iPad.

Y/N was... not ready.

She was sitting opposite him, wearing pajamas that had seen better days. Her hair was in a messy bun that was slowly unraveling. Her laptop was open, surrounded by a fortress of sticky notes and half-empty mugs.

Click. Click. Sigh.

Harry looked up over the top of his iPad.

"That was a heavy sigh," he noted.

"It was a 'I hate the modern recruitment process' sigh," Y/N corrected. She rubbed her temples. "Why do I have to upload my CV and then manually type out my entire work history into the boxes? It’s redundant. It’s inefficient."

"It tests your patience," Harry said. "And your attention to detail."

"It tests my will to live."

She hit enter. A loading bar spun on the screen. Then, a small red box popped up.

Error: Session Timed Out. Please refresh and try again.

Y/N didn't scream. She just closed her eyes and lowered her forehead slowly until it hit the cool marble of the counter with a dull thud.

Harry winced sympathetically.

He set his iPad down. He walked around the island.

This was the hard part.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to fix it. He wanted to pick up his phone. He wanted to call his head of HR and tell them to find her a position. He wanted to call the CEO of every publishing house in London and demand they interview her.

He could solve this problem in five minutes.

But he had promised.

He stopped behind her chair. He put his hands on her shoulders and began to massage the tension knotting at the base of her neck.

"Take a break," he murmured.

"I can't," Y/N mumbled into the countertop. "I have three more applications to finish before noon."

"You have been staring at that screen for two hours. Your brain is frying."

"My brain is fine. My future is frying."

Harry’s thumbs dug into the tight muscles. "You are being dramatic."

"I am being unemployed," she corrected, lifting her head to look at him. Her eyes were tired. "Do you know how many rejections I’ve had this week? Four. And one of them was an automated email that called me 'Dear Applicant'."

Harry looked at her. He saw the fear behind the frustration. The fear of not being good enough. The fear of relying on him.

"Let me look at your CV," Harry said.

Y/N stiffened. "Why?"

"Because I hire people for a living," he said reasonably. "I know what people look for. Maybe it just needs a formatting tweak. A punchier opening."

"I don't need you to rewrite it."

"I'm not rewriting it. I'm... consulting."

Y/N hesitated. Then she spun the laptop around.

Harry leaned over. He scanned the document. His eyes moved fast, dissecting the layout, the font choice, the phrasing.

"Here," he said, pointing to the second paragraph. "You’re burying the lede. You put your degree at the bottom. Move it to the top. It’s your strongest asset right now."

"But the template said—"

"Forget the template. The template is for average candidates. You want to stand out." He scrolled down. "And this part about the café? Condense it. Focus on the transferable skills. Customer management. Crisis resolution."

"Crisis resolution?" Y/N raised an eyebrow. "I made lattes, Harry."

"You dealt with caffeine-deprived Londoners at 8 AM," Harry said seriously. "That is crisis resolution."

He reached for the trackpad, his fingers flying. He didn't rewrite her history, but he sharpened it. He tightened the sentences. He made it look professional. Clinical. Efficient.

"There," he said, straightening up. "Try that."

Y/N looked at the screen. It did look better. It looked cleaner.

"Okay," she admitted. "That’s better."

"I am useful occasionally," Harry smirked. He checked his watch. "I have to go. I’m late."

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"Don't panic," he whispered against her hair. "You are brilliant. They will see it."

"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You own the building."

"I started in the mailroom," Harry reminded her, a lie he liked to tell to sound grounded, though in reality, he started as a junior analyst at Goldman Sachs.

He walked to the elevator. He pressed the button.

As the doors slid open, he looked back. She was typing again, her posture a little straighter, attacking the form with renewed vigor.

Harry stepped into the elevator.

He took his phone out of his pocket. He opened his contacts. He scrolled to B. Bloomsbury CEO.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

He could just ask for a "favor." He wouldn't even have to tell her. He could just nudge her CV to the top of the pile...

He stared at the screen.

No walls. Real.

If he did it, and she found out, she would leave. And even if she didn't find out, he would know. He would know that he didn't trust her to handle her own life.

Harry closed his eyes. He let out a frustrated breath.

He locked the phone and shoved it back into his pocket.

He let the elevator take him down to the car, leaving her to fight her own battle. It was the hardest thing he had done all week.

By Saturday morning, the townhouse smelled of expensive coffee and the lingering scent of anxiety, mostly Y/N’s.

She was sitting on the floor of the living room—right under The Void—staring at her laptop, refreshing her email for the tenth time that hour.

Harry walked in. He looked offensively fresh.

He was wearing jeans. Not the stiff, dark indigo raw denim he wore on "casual Fridays" at the office, but actual, soft, light-wash vintage Levi’s. He had paired them with a white t-shirt and a beige cardigan. He looked soft. He looked approachable. He looked like a man who didn't have a net worth equivalent to a small country’s GDP.

"Get dressed," he said, nudging her foot with his toe.

"I am dressed," Y/N said, gesturing to her leggings.

"Properly dressed. We are going out."

Y/N looked up at him suspiciously. "Out? Out where? To the balcony?"

"To the flower market," Harry announced. "Columbia Road. I want hydrangeas. And you need Vitamin D. You’re starting to look like a vampire."

Y/N scrambled up. "Harry, Columbia Road on a Sunday? It’s a zoo. It’s loud, it’s crowded, and people shove you."

"I can handle a shove," Harry said dismissively.

"You fly private to avoid airport queues," she reminded him. "You hate crowds. You hate inefficiency."

"I am evolving," he stated calmly. He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist. "I want to buy flowers. I want to walk down the street with my girlfriend. And I want to get coffee that isn't served on a silver tray."

Y/N looked at him. He looked so hopeful. He wanted to do a normal Sunday thing. He wanted to play 'normal couple.'

She couldn't say no to him when he looked like that—soft and hopeful in his cardigan.

"Fine," she groaned. "But if someone steps on your Gucci loafers, don't look at me."

"And I'll risk it. Go put on shoes."

The car ride over was peaceful, but the moment the car pulled up to the curb near Shoreditch, the reality hit them.

It was chaos.

Columbia Road was a riot of color and sound. Street sellers were shouting out prices in heavy cockney accents—"Three bunches for a tenner! Get 'em while they're lovely!"—while throngs of people shuffled shoulder-to-shoulder down the narrow street. The air smelled of crushed stems, damp earth, roasting coffee, and frying bacon.

Harry opened the car door. He stepped out first.

He looked instantly out of place. With his perfect posture, his glowing skin, and his aura of extreme wealth, he looked like a visiting dignitary who had taken a wrong turn.

He didn't check the perimeter. He turned and offered his hand to Y/N.

She took it.

He pulled her out of the car and immediately interlaced their fingers. His grip was firm.

"Ready?" he asked close to her ear.

"Are you ready?" she countered. "That guy over there is selling succulents out of a pram."

"Innovative," Harry noted.

He led her into the crowd.

For the first five minutes, Y/N was tense. She kept waiting for Harry to snap. She waited for him to get annoyed by the slow walkers, or the people bumping into him, or the mud on the pavement.

But he didn't.

Harry moved with a surprising amount of ease. He seemed fascinated by the grit of it. He navigated the crush, pointing out different blooms.

"Ranunculus," he noted, nodding at a bucket of pink flowers. "Too frilly."

"I like them," Y/N argued.

"They die in two days," Harry dismissed. "Inefficient investment."

They stopped at a stall selling massive blue hydrangeas. Harry engaged the seller—a rough-looking man with a cigarette behind his ear—in a serious conversation about soil acidity. The seller called him "mate." Harry called him "sir." It was surreal.

Harry handed the man a twenty-pound note and accepted a giant armful of blue flowers. He turned back to Y/N, holding the bouquet in one arm and reaching for her hand with the other.

"Hydrangeas secured," he smiled. "Coffee next?"

"You're actually enjoying this," Y/N realized, letting him pull her back into the stream of people.

"I am," Harry said. "It's loud. It's messy. It's... real."

He squeezed her hand.

"And nobody is asking me about merger acquisitions," he added. "Which is a nice change of pace."

They walked toward a bakery. The queue snaked out the door.

"Queue," Harry noted.

"We can go somewhere else," Y/N offered quickly, knowing his patience limits.

"No," Harry said. He joined the back of the line, pulling her in front of him so her back was pressed against his chest. He wrapped his free arm (the one not holding the flowers) around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"We wait," he murmured. "Like normal people."

Y/N leaned back into him. She felt the solid warmth of his chest. She looked around at the students, the young families, the hipsters with their dogs. Nobody was looking at them. To this crowd, Harry wasn't a billionaire socialite. He was just a tall, handsome guy buying flowers for his girl.

It was the privacy she had missed. And it was the intimacy he had craved.

"I think they are running out of almond croissants." He pointed out.

They shuffled forward in the line. Y/N was leaning back against his chest and feeling safe in the anonymity of the crowd when a voice cut through the noise.

"Harry? Harry Styles?"

Y/N felt Harry stiffen against her back. It was not fear. It was the reflexive armor of a man who was used to being approached for money or favors.

He did not pull away from her though. He turned slowly and kept his arm firmly wrapped around her waist.

A man was standing near the entrance of the bakery. He looked to be about Harry’s age. He had silvering hair and wore a quilted Barbour jacket while holding a leash attached to a very expensive Vizsla. He looked like he belonged in a country club in Surrey rather than on a gritty pavement in Shoreditch.

"Charles," Harry said. His voice shifted instantly. The soft and playful tone he used with Y/N was gone. It was replaced by his smooth boardroom baritone. "I did not expect to see you this far east."

"I could say the same for you," Charles laughed. He stepped closer. He looked Harry up and down, taking in the vintage jeans and the armful of flowers. "Slumming it are we? Or just lost on the way to the club?"

"Just getting coffee," Harry said easily. "The blend here is superior to the club."

"Is it?" Charles looked skeptical. Then his gaze drifted down.

He looked at Y/N.

Y/N felt a sudden and sharp urge to pull away. She was wearing leggings and sneakers. She was twenty two. She was holding the hand of a billionaire who was currently chatting with a man who looked like he owned a bank. The disparity felt glaring. In her old life this was the moment Harry would have stepped away. He would have introduced her as an assistant or a friend or he would not have introduced her at all.

She tried to untangle her fingers from his to give him the space to be Harry Styles the respectable businessman.

Harry did not let her.

He tightened his grip on her hand. He crushed her fingers against his palm gently. He pulled her flush against his side leaving zero daylight between them.

"Charles," Harry said. His voice cut through the other man’s inspection. "This is Y/N."

Charles looked at her. He did the math instantly. His eyes flicked from her fresh makeup free face to Harry’s silvering temples. A small and knowing smirk touched his lips. It was the kind of look men gave each other when they saw an older friend with a much younger and beautiful girl. A look that said Well done old boy.

It made Y/N feel cheap.

"Pleasure," Charles said. He extended a hand. "Are you interning at the firm?"

It was a polite question but the insult was razor sharp.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to defend herself but Harry beat her to it.

"She is my partner," Harry said.

The word hung in the air. Not girlfriend. Not date. Partner. In Harry’s world, the world of equity and law, that word carried weight. It implied equality. It implied permanence.

Charles blinked. The smirk vanished and was replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise.

"Oh," Charles said. He cleared his throat and recalibrated quickly. "I see. My apologies. A pleasure to meet you Y/N."

"Nice to meet you," Y/N managed to say. Her voice was steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

"We were just getting breakfast," Harry continued. His tone was polite but dismissive. He was signaling that the conversation was over. "Give my best to Eleanor."

"I will," Charles said. He looked a bit awkward now. "Good to see you Harry. Y/N."

He nodded and walked away, tugging his dog through the crowd.

Harry watched him go. He did not relax until Charles was swallowed by the sea of people.

"You did not have to do that," Y/N whispered as she looked up at him.

Harry looked down. The hard edge left his eyes and was replaced by that soft warmth he saved only for her.

"Do what?"

"Call me your partner. You could have just said friend. He was judging you. I saw his face."

Harry shrugged. He shifted the flowers so he could wrap his arm more securely around her shoulders.

"Charles judges everyone," Harry said. "He judges me for buying Japanese equities. He judges his wife for drinking Merlot. His opinion is irrelevant."

He leaned down and his lips brushed her ear.

"Besides," he murmured. "I am not hiding you Y/N. Not anymore. I do not care if you are twenty two or fifty two. You are mine. And I want everyone to know it."

Y/N felt a flush rise to her cheeks but this time it was not from embarrassment. She squeezed his hand.

"Partner," she repeated softly testing the word. "Does that mean I get equity in the firm?"

Harry laughed. It was a loud and genuine sound that made a few people in the queue turn and smile.

"Let us start with a doughnut," Harry said as he guided her toward the counter. "And if you manage not to get powdered sugar on my cardigan we can discuss stock options."

Wednesday evening was rainy. It was the kind of relentless London drizzle that turned the city into a grey smear against the windows.

Harry arrived home at 8:00 PM. He was tired. The merger with the German firm was proving difficult and he had spent six hours arguing about pension liabilities. He loosened his tie as he walked out of the private elevator. He was ready for silence. He was ready for a glass of whiskey and the view.

Instead he was greeted by a whirlwind.

"I got one," Y/N announced.

She was standing in the middle of the hallway. She was holding a wooden spoon in one hand and her phone in the other. She looked like she was vibrating.

Harry paused. He placed his briefcase on the console table under The Void.

"You got a cold?" he asked as he stepped out of his loafers.

"No," she laughed. "I got an interview."

Harry straightened up. The fatigue vanished from his face.

"Really?"

"Yes," she beamed. "It is for an editorial assistant position. They emailed me twenty minutes ago. They want to see me on Friday."

Harry walked over to her. He took the spoon out of her hand and placed it on the table. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the floor.

"That is brilliant," he said as he spun her around once. "I told you. I told you the CV was solid."

"You did," she admitted as he set her down. "You were right. As always."

"Who is it with?" Harry asked as he walked toward the kitchen. "Bloomsbury? Penguin? Hachette?"

"It is called Ink & Bone," Y/N said.

Harry stopped pouring his water. He turned around.

"Ink & Bone," he repeated. "Is that a tattoo parlor?"

"No," Y/N rolled her eyes. "It is an independent press in Hackney. They publish experimental fiction and poetry. They are very cool Harry. They published that anthology I read to you last month."

Harry frowned. "Hackney? Is it... solvent?"

"It is not Vanguard Holdings," she said defensively. "They don't have glass elevators. But they have a mission statement I actually like."

Harry looked at her. He saw the excitement in her eyes. He had to suppress the instinct to check their credit rating on his phone.

"Then it sounds perfect," he lied smoothly. "Friday gives us two days to prepare."

"Prepare?"

"Yes," Harry said. He took a sip of water. His eyes narrowed slightly. He shifted from Boyfriend into Senior Partner. "Do you know their back catalog? Have you researched the founders? Do you have answers prepared for the standard behavioral questions?"

Y/N stared at him. "I was just going to read their latest release and wear my nice blazer."

"Insufficient," Harry declared. "If they are a small press they are looking for passion and specific knowledge. You need to walk in there knowing more about their company than they do."

He walked around the island. He picked up his iPad.

"Sit down," he instructed pointing to the stool. "We are doing a mock interview."

"Harry," she groaned. "I have dinner on the stove. It is stirring risotto."

"The risotto can wait. Your future cannot. Sit."

Y/N sat. She looked bemused.

Harry paced back and forth in front of the kitchen island. He looked terrifyingly competent even in his socks.

"Okay," he started. "I am the editor-in-chief of Ink & Bone. My name is... let us say, Sebastian. I wear corduroy and I take myself very seriously."

Y/N giggled.

"Focus," Harry snapped playfully. "So tell me Y/N. Why Ink & Bone? Why not a big corporate publisher where you could make actual money?"

Y/N straightened her spine. She cleared her throat.

"Well Sebastian," she started. "I admire the risk you take on new voices. The big publishers are chasing trends but you are chasing talent. I want to be part of finding the next great voice not just the next bestseller."

Harry stopped pacing. He looked at her. He blinked.

"That was... good," he admitted.

"I know," she smirked. "I practiced in the shower."

"Okay," Harry said stepping closer. "But what is your greatest weakness?"

"I care too much," Y/N said instantly.

"Cliché," Harry dismissed. "Try again. Give me a real weakness but frame it as a strength."

Y/N thought for a moment.

"I can be obsessive," she said slowly. "When I get stuck on a manuscript or a project I find it hard to switch off until it is perfect. I take the work home with me."

Harry smiled. It was a small and proud smile.

"Better," he noted. "Because it implies you will work unpaid overtime without complaining."

"Cynic," she muttered.

"Capitalist," he corrected.

He leaned across the island. He rested his elbows on the marble.

"One last question," Harry said. His voice dropped. He wasn't playing Sebastian anymore. He was just Harry. "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

Y/N looked at him.

Five years was a lifetime. Five years ago she was in school. Five years from now she would be twenty-seven. Harry would be fifty.

She looked at the man standing in the million-pound kitchen. The man who had bought an ugly painting because she liked it. The man who was spending his Wednesday night helping her prep for a job that paid peanuts.

"I want to be editing my own list," she said softy. "I want to be doing work that matters."

She paused.

"And," she added, reaching across the counter to touch his hand. "I want to be coming home to you."

Harry stared at her. His expression softened completely. The ruthless CEO mask dissolved.

He turned his hand over and interlaced his fingers with hers.

"Good answer," he whispered. "You are hired."

"Do I get a signing bonus?" she teased.

Harry rounded the island. He pulled her off the stool and into his arms.

"I think we can arrange a bonus," he murmured against her lips. "But first you have to stir the risotto. It is burning."

Thursday night was not peaceful.

The mock interview had gone well but the reality of the situation was setting in. Y/N was standing in the middle of the guest bedroom which she had temporarily designated as her "staging area." The bed was covered in clothes.

It looked like a Primark had exploded.

There were black trousers that were slightly too grey from over-washing. There were blouses that had mysterious wrinkles that no amount of ironing could remove. There were blazers that fit her shoulders but not her arms or her arms but not her waist.

Y/N stood in her underwear. She stared at the pile of polyester blends and felt a rising tide of panic.

"I have nothing," she whispered to the empty room. "I am going to go in there naked. That will be memorable."

She picked up a white button-down shirt. She held it up to the light. There was a faint coffee stain on the hem.

"Garbage," she muttered throwing it onto the floor.

She picked up a skirt. It was too short.

"Clubwear," she hissed tossing it aside.

Harry appeared in the doorway.

He was holding two mugs of tea. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her storm around the room in her underwear kicking piles of clothes.

"Is the fashion show over?" he asked mildy. "Or is this the avant-garde section?"

Y/N spun around. She did not even try to cover herself. She was too angry for modesty.

"It is a disaster H," she announced. "Look at this." She gestured wildly to the bed. "This is what I have. It is student clothes. It is fast fashion. If I wear this to a serious publisher they are going to think I am there to deliver a pizza."

Harry walked into the room. He set the tea down on the bedside table.

"You are spiraling," he noted.

"I am being realistic! Appearance matters. You know that. You spend three thousand pounds on a suit because it signals power. This..." She picked up a cardigan and let it drop limp from her hand. "This signals 'please give me a discount'."

Harry looked at the cardigan. He tilted his head.

"It is a bit... pillowy," he admitted.

"See!" Y/N threw her hands up. "I can't go. I am going to cancel. I will tell them I have cholera."

"You do not have cholera," Harry said calmly. "And you are not cancelling."

He walked over to her. He placed his hands on her bare shoulders. His palms were warm. He rubbed his thumbs over her collarbones grounding her.

"Listen to me," he said looking her in the eye. "Wear the black trousers. Wear the white t-shirt. Wear your own blazer. Clean lines. Simple. It shows you are practical."

"It shows I am broke," she whispered. "I feel small Harry. I feel like I am going to walk in there and apologize for existing."

Harry studied her face. He saw the genuine insecurity there. He knew that for her this wasn't just about fabric. It was about armor. She felt exposed and she wanted a shield.

"Okay," Harry said. He dropped his hands. "I can fix that."

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a sleek heavy piece of metal.

It was his black titanium American Express card.

He took her hand and pressed it into her palm curling her fingers over it.

"Harry," she started immediately trying to pull her hand away. "No. I do not need you to buy me clothes. I do not need charity. It is too late for that."

"It is not charity," Harry said, his voice serious. "It is strategy."

He squeezed her closed fist around the cold metal.

"I want you to take this tomorrow morning. Before the interview. I want you to go out and buy the outfit that makes you feel dangerous."

Y/N looked at him, wide-eyed. "Harry, I can't just go shopping with your black card. It’s too much."

"Why not?" Harry asked, tilting his head with a smirk. "I can give you orgasms, but I can't buy you an outfit for the most important day of your life?"

Y/N’s cheeks flushed pink, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find a counter-argument.

"That... that is different," she stammered.

"Is it?" Harry stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble. "I have seen you naked. I have heard you scream my name. But a pair of trousers is where you draw the moral line?"

He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone.

"That seems like a very arbitrary rule, Y/N. Let me dress you. Let me help you"

Y/N looked down at her hand. The metal was cool against her skin. It was heavy. And he was right—it was ridiculous to be intimate in every other way but stubborn about this.

"You really want me to do this?" she asked. "I could buy a boat."

"Please do not buy a boat," Harry smiled. "But buy the trousers. The good ones. And the bag."

Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She gripped the card tighter.

"Okay," she whispered. "I’ll buy an outfit."

"Alright" Harry said. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Now drink your tea. You have a big day tomorrow."

Friday morning was not a blur of panic. It was a fashion show.

Harry was driving. He had insisted on taking the Range Rover because, according to him, it had "superior climate control for preserving hair volume."

Y/N sat in the passenger seat. She was not wearing a stiff suit. She was wearing the outfit she had bought yesterday with the black card.

It was perfect.

She wore a fitted black long-sleeve top that showed off her collarbones and tucked seamlessly into a pair of charcoal grey wide-leg trousers. They were tailored but slouched just enough to look effortless. On her feet were retro sneakers. On her shoulder sat the massive Goyard tote bag that cost more than her first car.

She looked like an off-duty model who had just popped out for a matcha latte.

"You keep looking at me," she noted, catching Harry’s eye as they stopped at a red light in Shoreditch.

"I am admiring my investment," Harry grinned. He reached over and rested his hand on her thigh. "You look very... Hackney chic. Very 'I curate art but I also take the bus sometimes just to feel something'."

Y/N laughed, swatting his arm lightly.

"That is exactly the vibe I was going for. Rich but approachable. Pretending not to be rich."

"It is working," Harry said. He tapped the steering wheel. "Although that bag is a dead giveaway. You look like you are carrying gold bars in there."

"It is empty," Y/N admitted. "It literally just has my CV, a bottle of water, and a lip balm. But it makes me feel important."

"It makes you look like you are about to hostile takeover the publishing house," Harry teased. "Which, for the record, is always an option if the interview goes south. I can just buy the building and we can turn it into a private library."

"Please do not buy the building Harry."

"I am just saying. It is Plan B."

He turned the car onto the side street. The graffiti-covered warehouses loomed above them. It was gritty. It was cool. It was exactly where she wanted to be.

Harry put the car in park. He turned to her.

"Okay," he said. The joking tone dropped just a fraction, replaced by that warm, steady look that always made her knees weak. "Nervous?"

"A little," she admitted. "My hands are sweating. I hope I don't ruin the purse”.

"The handles will survive," Harry assured her. "And so will you."

He reached across the console. He didn't give her a lecture this time. He just took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

"You look stunning Y/N," he murmured against her skin. "If this guy doesn't hire you he is legally blind."

"And if he is rude?" she asked, a playful glint in her eye.

"Then you use the bag," Harry said solemnly. "Swing it at his head. It will do damage."

Y/N let out a loud laugh. The tension in her chest broke.

"Okay," she breathed. "Assault the interviewer. Got it. Great advice."

"I am a full service boyfriend," Harry winked. "Now go. Go be brilliant."

She leaned over and kissed him. It wasn't a quick peck. It was a lingering, grateful kiss that tasted of mint and coffee.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Anytime," Harry smiled. "Call me when you are done. If you are not out in an hour I am coming in with a rescue team."

"Bye Harry."

Y/N opened the door. She stepped out onto the pavement.

She adjusted the strap of her tote bag. She smoothed the front of her grey trousers. She felt the cool air on her face.

She didn't feel small. She didn't feel desperate. She felt like the girl in the reflection—capable, stylish, and backed by a man who would burn the city down if she asked him to.

She walked toward the steel door of Number 42 with a swing in her step.

The interview was a blur but a good one.

Julian, the editor, was younger than she expected. He was maybe mid thirties with messy hair and he was wearing a vintage band t-shirt under a blazer.

He looked up when she walked in. He took in the trousers and the sneakers and the bag.

"Nice bag," Julian said nodding at the Goyard as she sat down. "We usually get people coming in here wearing stiff suits. They look like they are going to a funeral."

Y/N smiled dropping her bag onto the floor with a casual thud.

"I figured I should dress for the job I want," she said smoothly. "Not the funeral I am planning."

Julian laughed.

"Good answer," he said leaning back. "You fit the vibe. Now tell me about the books."

They talked for forty minutes. They talked about fiction. They talked about the industry. She didn't feel out of place. She felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

When she walked out the rain had started to drizzle again.

She didn't care.

She pulled out her phone. She didn't call Harry. She knew he had a meeting.

She opened the Uber app. She typed in Vanguard Holdings.

She stood on the curb looking effortlessly cool in her sneakers and wide leg trousers waiting for her ride to take her to the skyscraper where her boyfriend ran the world.

She felt like she had already got the job.

The lobby of Vanguard Holdings was a cathedral of glass and silence. It was filled with men in navy suits and women in pencil skirts who walked with the terrifying speed of people who billed by the minute.

Y/N walked through the revolving doors.

She did not look like them. She moved with a relaxed swagger that the stiff suits in the lobby couldn't quite comprehend, breezing past the security desk with a confidence that said she belonged there.

The security guard, Ralph, looked up and nodded respectfully. "Afternoon, Miss."

"Hi Ralph," Y/N smiled, pressing the button for the top floor.

The elevator shot up fifty stories in seconds. The doors slid open to reveal the executive suite. It was quiet up here. The carpet was thicker. The art on the walls was real Rothko.

Harry’s executive assistant, a terrifyingly efficient woman named Andrea, looked up from her desk. She looked frazzled.

"Oh," Andrea said, blinking. "He is in a mood. The Tokyo markets opened down. He is eating everyone alive."

"I will take my chances," Y/N said coolly.

She walked past the desk and pushed open the heavy mahogany doors to Harry’s office without knocking.

Harry was pacing.

He had abandoned his jacket on the sofa. His sleeves were rolled up. His tie was loosened. He was muttering something about "yield curves" and looking like he wanted to throw his phone out the window.

He spun around when the door opened.

"Andrea, for the last time, I do not want the—"

He stopped.

His eyes landed on Y/N. He took in her relaxed posture, her wind-blown hair, and the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room that mattered.

The stress didn't vanish, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't smile immediately.

"You didn't call," he said, his voice low.

Y/N dropped her bag onto a leather armchair with a heavy thud. She walked toward him.

"Hello to you too," she teased.

"We had an agreement," Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked like the CEO now—stern and demanding. "You were supposed to call when you finished. I was five minutes away from sending a security team to Hackney to extract you."

"I wanted to surprise you," Y/N said, stopping right in front of him. She reached out and touched his arm. "And you looked like you needed a surprise. Andrea looks terrified."

Harry sighed, the tension finally leaving his shoulders as her touch registered. He couldn't stay mad.

"Andrea is terrified because Tokyo is a bloodbath," he admitted, uncrossing his arms to rest his hands on her hips. "And you are trouble. You made me worry."

"I am fine," she whispered. "I am better than fine. I missed you."

She kissed him.

It wasn't a sweet greeting. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his, hard. She tasted the coffee on his tongue. She felt the vibration of his groan against her lips.

Harry’s grip tightened on her hips, digging into the charcoal fabric. He pulled her flush against him, claiming her mouth with a sudden, starving intensity.

"You are a menace," he growled against her mouth, his teeth grazing her lower lip. "Walking in here looking like sin... making me want to lock the door and let the Tokyo market burn just so I can hear you scream my name."

"Is it working?" she whispered breathlessly.

"Unfortunately, yes."

She smirked. She grabbed his tie and tugged. She walked backward, pulling him with her around the massive oak desk.

"Sit down," she commanded, nodding at his high-backed leather executive chair.

Harry glanced at the chair. Then he glanced at the three massive monitors setup on his desk.

The center screen was active. A video conference window was open. The room on the other side—a boardroom in Singapore—was currently empty, just a view of a long mahogany table, but the connection was live.

Harry saw the little green light on his webcam staring back at him.

"I shouldn't," he said, resisting her pull slightly. "The link is already active. They are just waiting for the partners to sit down."

"Is the microphone on?" Y/N asked, glancing at the screen.

Harry looked. The icon was red with a slash through it.

"Muted," he muttered. "But the camera is live, Y/N."

"Sit," she repeated.

Harry let out a breath, but he sat. He sank into the leather seat, immediately checking his position in the self-view window on the screen. He was centered. Professional.

Y/N didn't climb into his lap. Instead, she sank down.

She dropped to her knees in the small space between his chair and the desk, completely disappearing from the camera’s view. She was in the blind spot.

Harry looked down at her. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair.

"Y/N," he whispered urgently, his eyes darting back to the empty boardroom on the screen. "We shouldn't."

"Why?" she asked innocently. She ran her palms up his thighs, feeling the muscles jump under the suit fabric. "Nobody is there yet."

"They could walk in at any second," Harry hissed. "The camera is on. I am literally broadcasting to Asia right now."

"You are broadcasting your face," Y/N corrected softly. "Not your lap."

She reached for his belt buckle.

"We shouldn't," Harry repeated, but his voice was straining. "It is reckless. If they join..."

"Then you better hope you have a poker face," she whispered.

The belt buckle clicked open. The sound was sharp in the quiet office.

Harry looked at the screen. The empty boardroom in Singapore stared back at him. The green light of the camera mocked him. And under the desk, the woman he loved was undoing his zipper.

"Y/N," he warned, his voice tight. "Seriousy. We shouldn't do this."

"You need to relax," she challenged softly,"Focus on the meeting Harry."

Harry looked down at her. He looked at the mischief in her eyes. He looked at the way she was kneeling there, hidden in the shadows of his desk, safe from the camera but dangerously close to ruining him.

Harry saw movement on the center screen. A door opened in the boardroom in Singapore. Two men in dark suits walked in and began setting up their laptops.

"They are here," he hissed, his hand flying to the mouse to check the mute icon for the tenth time.

He looked down at her. She was already waiting, her breath warm against him.

He let out a defeated, shaky exhale. He looked at the ceiling for one second, praying for strength, before forcing his gaze back to the camera to compose his face into a mask of corporate indifference.

"You are going to get me in trouble" he whispered, though his hand drifted down to tangle in her hair. "If I lose this deal because..."

"You won't," she assured him softly.

She reached for the waistband of his boxer briefs, her cool fingers brushing against the hot skin of his lower stomach. Harry’s hips bucked slightly, an involuntary jerk of anticipation, as she hooked her thumbs over the elastic and dragged the black cotton down his thighs.

He sprang free, heavy and imposing. He was beautifully hard, his length thick and straining towards her, the velvet head glistening with a clear bead of need. He was twitching, desperate for her touch, looking so starkly needy against the formal darkness of his suit trousers.

Y/N let out a soft, appreciative hum. She wrapped her hand around him, feeling the heat radiate into her palm, squeezing the solid weight of him. He was perfect.

She didn't wait for another protest. She didn't wait for the men in Singapore to adjust their microphones.

She took him into her mouth.

Harry’s entire body went rigid. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the shock of the warmth, the wetness, and the sudden suction hitting him like a physical blow.

He clamped his jaw shut, forcing his face to remain impassive, even as his hips instinctively tried to snap upward against the restriction of the desk.

On the screen, one of the partners—Mr. Tan—leaned into his microphone.

"Good morning, Mr. Styles. Or rather, good afternoon to you."

Harry had to speak. He had to unmute.

He reached for the mouse. His hand was shaking. He clicked the icon.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Harry said. His voice was a little rough, a little deeper than usual, but steady.

Under the desk, Y/N hummed against him, the vibration traveling straight up his spine. She swirled her tongue, slow and deliberate, coating him completely before beginning to bob her head.

Harry’s fingers dug into the leather armrests so hard he thought he might puncture the material. He didn't look down. He couldn't. If he looked down, he was dead.

"I trust you have had a chance to review the proposal?" Mr. Tan asked, shuffling papers.

Y/N took him deeper, her rhythm picking up, sucking him harder with every stroke.

Harry swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visible on the high-definition feed. He forced a stiff, professional nod at the camera.

"I have," Harry managed, the words clipped and strained. "I have... the numbers right here."

He wasn't looking at the numbers. He was staring at the webcam lens, praying to a God he didn't believe in that he wouldn't groan into the microphone as his girlfriend swallowed him whole.

“The projections regarding the... the yield curves," Harry started, but the sentence fractured in the middle.

Y/N had tightened her lips. She wasn't just bobbing now; she was suctioning him, her cheeks hollowing as she dragged him deep into the wet heat of her throat, then pulling back slowly to swirl her tongue around the sensitive ridge of the glans.

Harry’s eyes lost focus. He blinked rapidly, his pupils blown wide. He saw the pixelated face of Mr. Tan looking at him expectantly, but all he could feel was the drag of her tongue and the maddening pressure of her throat.

He cleared his throat, a harsh, guttural sound.

"Excuse me," Harry managed, his voice dropping another octave. "The air conditioning in here is... quite dry."

"Understood," Mr. Tan nodded solemnly on the screen. "As I was saying, our primary concern is the volatility in the tech sector. We feel the exposure is too high."

Harry nodded. He needed to say 'We can hedge against that.' It was a simple sentence. He had said it a thousand times.

But just as he opened his mouth, Y/N released him from her mouth only to immediately take him back in, this time humming against the head of his cock. The vibration rattled through his entire nervous system.

Harry’s foot spasmed under the desk, kicking out and hitting the wood with a dull thud.

"Mr. Styles?" Mr. Tan asked, frowning slightly. "Are you with us?"

Harry grabbed the mouse and clicked Mute.

"Fuck," he exhaled, his head falling slightly back against the leather for one precious second, his face twisting in a mask of pure, agony-laced pleasure. "Jesus Christ, Y/N..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to grab her hair and fuck her throat properly. He couldn't. He had to be the CEO.

He forced his head up. He composed his features. He clicked Unmute.

"Apologies," Harry said, his voice a mask of stone, though a bead of sweat was now tracking down his temple. "There was a lag on the audio feed. I lost you for a second."

It was the perfect lie. Boring. Technical. Plausible.

Ah, the connection," Mr. Tan nodded sympathetically on the screen. "Is it stable now?

Under the desk, Y/N smirked around his length. She knew he was lying. She reached down with one hand to cup his heavy balls, massaging them gently, while her other hand wrapped around the base of his shaft to pump him in rhythm with her mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming. He was being assaulted from every angle.

"It appears stable," Harry gritted out, speaking too fast, desperate to get the words out before she made him stutter. "Please... proceed.”

Y/N swirled her tongue right over the slit at the tip, flicking it mercilessly.

Harry stopped breathing. His eyes bulged slightly. He stared dead into the camera, his expression freezing in a look of intense, pained concentration that probably looked like he was doing complex mental math.

In reality, he was trying not to scream.

"We were discussing the timeline," Mr. Tan said. "Regarding the tech exposure.”

Harry nodded stiffly.

"We can hedge," Harry managed, his voice strained. "I can have Andrea draw up the... the..."

Y/N took him deeper, swallowing him so thoroughly that the back of her throat massaged the sensitive head of his cock.

Harry’s vision blurred.

"...the derivatives," Harry finished on a breathless exhale.

"Excellent," Mr. Tan smiled. "And what is your timeline for execution?"

Harry looked at the time on the screen. Y/N had sped up. She was bobbing faster now, her messy hair brushing against his thighs, the wet, sloppy sounds of her work echoing in the small space under the desk.

Harry prayed the noise cancellation software on his microphone was as expensive as the IT department claimed it was.

"Timeline," Harry repeated. He gripped the desk so hard his knuckles popped. "As soon as possible. Immediately. Today."

He wasn't talking about the trade.

"Very aggressive," Mr. Tan noted, looking impressed. "We like that energy, Harry."

Harry let out a short, hysterical laugh that he quickly disguised as a throat clearing.

"I am feeling... very aggressive today," Harry choked out, his toes curling inside his leather loafers as Y/N took him so deep her nose brushed his pubic hair. "Very... motivated."