baby — VI (Patreon)

Author's note: Today is my first day back to school. Wish me luck! Happy reading and have a great start of your week!

word count - 9.8k

WARNINGS: +18 content and explicit language. Read at your own discretion.

Y/N swirled her tongue one last time, a deliberate, maddening stroke against the most sensitive part of him. Harry’s vision went white. His hand spasmed on the mouse.

"Gentlemen," Harry said, his voice straining, cracking on the first syllable. "I have to... I have a hard stop. We will finalize the details via email."

"But we haven't discussed the—"

Harry didn't wait. He slammed his finger down on the End Meeting button like it was a detonator.

The screen went black. The green camera light died.

For three seconds, Harry just sat there, his head thrown back against the leather headrest, his chest heaving, his trousers already pooled around his thighs from her work under the desk.

Then, he moved.

He pushed the chair back. It rolled across the thick carpet with a dull thud, hitting the back wall. Then he reached down for her.

His hands found her waist. He didn't speak. He just gripped her, his fingers digging into her sides, and hauled her out.

Y/N emerged, flushed and messy, a grin tugging at her swollen lips. "Did you close the deal, Mr. Styles?"

"You," Harry breathed, ignoring the question. His voice was a low rumble. "You are an absolute brat."

She laughed, a bright sound in the quiet office, but it was cut short as Harry stood up, kicking his trousers down further so he could move.

He turned to his desk. The sacred, organized surface where he managed billions of dollars. With one violent, sweeping motion of his arm, he cleared it. The Q3 projections, the Montblanc pen, the legal pads, they went flying, fluttering to the floor in a chaotic storm of white paper.

"Harry!" she gasped.

"Turn around," he growled. "Bend over."

The command was low and sharp.

Y/N obeyed instantly, the thrill shooting straight to her core. She turned, placing her hands on the mahogany surface, and bent at the waist.

Harry stepped up behind her. He grabbed her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight against her flesh, and shoved her chest down until she was flush against the cool wood.

"You think that was funny?" he murmured, his hands finding the button of her trousers. "Teasing me? While I am live to Singapore?"

"I think you liked it," she whispered into the wood.

"I think," Harry corrected, pulling her zipper down, "you need to learn a lesson."

He hooked his fingers into her waistband and her panties in one go. He shoved them down, dragging the fabric over her hips, past her thighs, letting them pool around her knees.

He stepped back for a split second, his eyes traveling over the curve of her waist and the exposed skin of her ass, stark white against the dark wood of the desk.

"What a pretty sight," he murmured.

Then, he moved.

SMACK.

Harry brought his hand down hard on her bare ass.

Y/N cried out, a sharp intake of breath that echoed off the walls. "Harry!"

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Try to keep quiet, yea?" he taunted. "Andrea is right outside."

Y/N bit her lip, the risk of getting caught made it all more exciting. She gripped the edge of the desk until her knuckles turned white.

Harry didn't have to adjust anything; he was already exposed, heavy and eager. He lined himself up, pressing the tip against her, teasing the entrance.

"Tell me," he demanded, his hips snapping forward just an inch.

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, her eyes wild, her hair a mess. She saw the conflict in his eyes. The man who wanted to be gentle warring with the man who wanted to worship her and kneel at her feet.

She made the choice for him.

"Do it," she challenged breathlessly. "Fuck me like you hate me."

Harry’s eyes darkened. The last thread of his restraint snapped.

He thrust into her.

It was one long, punishing motion, burying himself to the hilt from behind.

Y/N let out a broken, high-pitched cry, her head falling forward, her forehead knocking against the wood. It was too much. It was too overwhelming. His fullness stretching her.

Harry leaned down, his forehead resting against the back of her shoulder, his voice a guttural growl right in her ear, nipping at her skin.

"Is this what you wanted?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled back, almost leaving her, before driving back in with a force that made the heavy oak desk creak.

It wasn't a gentle loving. It was a release. It was every ounce of stress from the markets, every moment of missing her, pouring out of him.

Y/N’s fingers scrabbled against the edge of the desk. The friction was unbearable. Every time he snapped his hips forward, she was pushed further onto the desk, her thights reddening under the impact against the edge of the desk.

"Baby," she panted, "Harry, please—"

"Just like that, princess," he praised, his voice rough in her ear as she pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts.

He found a rhythm that was punishing and perfect. He fucked her with a desperate intensity, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the glass walls.

Harry looked down. He watched the way her back arched, the way her knuckles strained as she held on for dear life.

"I can't get enough of you," he admitted, the words torn from his throat. "I can't get enough."

He slapped her ass again, harder this time.

"I’m close," he warned, his voice a wrecked rasp. "Y/N, I’m close."

"Come," she begged, her head tossing against the desk. "Harry, come."

She clamped down around him, her inner muscles spasming, and the sensation sent him over the edge.

Harry let out groan, burying his face in her hair. He drove into her one last time, bottoming out, and poured himself into her. His knees buckled, his entire body shaking with the force of his release, holding her hips to keep himself upright.

He stayed there for a long time, pressed against her back, breathing heavy, ragged gasps into her hair.

Slowly, the world came back into focus. The hum of the servers. The rain against the window.

Harry pulled out slowly. He slumped forward, draping his upper body over her back, wrapping his arms around her waist to hold her up as her legs trembled. He kissed her shoulder, his lips lingering on the damp skin.

"Hi," he whispered, his voice exhausted and fond.

Y/N loosened her death grip on the edge of the desk. Her fingers were stiff. She turned her head, resting her cheek on the cool wood again, looking back at him through her messy hair.

"Hi," she breathed.

Harry looked at the papers scattered on the floor. He looked at the way she was draped over his desk, pants around her knees, thoroughly claimed. A small, dimpled smirk appeared on his face.

"I am going to fire you," he groaned, his voice muffled against her skin. It was devoid of any real threat; it sounded more like a confession. "I am going to ban you from the building. I am going to have your picture put up at security."

"Liar," she whispered.

"Liar," he agreed immediately.

He pushed himself up on his forearms, creating just enough space to look at her. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes dark and blown wide. He looked nothing like the CEO of Vanguard Holdings. He looked wrecked.

He looked down at the chaos beneath them. Y/N was lying across the mahogany desk, her trousers still tangled around her knees, her hair fanned out in a messy halo. And underneath her, scattered like confetti, were the confidential documents he had swept aside.

He picked up a crumpled piece of paper from under her elbow.

"You are currently lying on the Q3 Yield Curve analysis," he noted dryly.

Y/N laughed, a breathless, happy sound. "Is that bad?"

"It is confidential," Harry murmured. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. "And now it is wrinkled. The Board will wonder why their financial projections smell like my cologne and... you."

"Tell them it's a new scent," Y/N teased, arching her back slightly as he ran his hand down her side. "Call it 'Insider Trading'."

Harry snorted, a genuine, boyish sound that made his dimple pop. He leaned down and kissed her nose.

"So," he rasped, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "We skipped the debrief. Did you get the job?"

Y/N smiled. She thought about Julian, the warehouse, the way she had felt walking in there with his card in her pocket.

"I think so," she said. "Julian liked the bag. And he liked that I wasn't afraid to disagree with him about modern fiction. I think I charmed him."

"Good," Harry said possessively. "But if you didn't... I assume there is an opening here?"

"For what?"

"Executive Stress Management Consultant," Harry suggested. "The hours are irregular, but the benefits are excellent."

"I don't know," Y/N mused, running her hand down his chest, feeling his heart rate finally slowing. "The boss seems volatile. He shouts at people in Singapore. He spanks his employees."

"Only when provoked," Harry defended, his eyes darkening slightly at the memory. "And you were definitely provoking me."

He sighed, the reality of the afternoon finally settling in. He pulled away reluctantly, standing up and helping her sit up. He was gentle now, his hands careful as he helped her untangle her trousers and pull them up.

He buttoned her trousers for her, his fingers brushing against her stomach. It was such a domestic, intimate gesture after the violence of the last ten minutes.

He stepped back and ran a hand through his chaotic hair. He looked down at himself. His shirt was untucked, two buttons were missing, and his tie was hanging loose around his neck like a scarf.

"Jesus," he muttered, walking over to the reflective glass of the window to inspect the damage. "I look like I’ve been in a bar fight."

"You look like you had a very productive lunch break," Y/N corrected, sliding off the desk. Her legs felt like jelly. "Do you have a spare shirt? Or are you going to run the rest of the day looking like a rockstar?"

"I have a suite in the back," Harry said, gesturing to a discreet door in the paneling. "Shower, wardrobe. I practically live here."

He turned back to her. He watched her fixing her trousers, the casual action so at odds with the luxury of the room. His expression softened.

"Y/N," he said softly.

She looked up, freezing with one shoe in her hand. "Yeah?"

“You were amazing today," he said. He wasn't talking about the sex. “I am proud of you.”

“Thank you” Y/N felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

He walked back over to her and pulled her into a hug. He held her tight, resting his chin on top of her head. They stood there for a long minute, just holding each other in the wreckage of his office.

Then, a soft chime from his computer broke the silence.

Harry groaned. He didn't let go of her, but he turned his head to look at the screen.

"Andrea," he muttered. "She is reminding me of the schedule."

"Do you have another call?" Y/N asked. "Do I need to hide under the desk again?"

"No," Harry sighed. He rubbed his temples. "Worse. I have the Serpentine Gala tonight."

Y/N blinked. "The art thing?"

"The fundraiser," Harry corrected. "Black tie. The Mayor will be there. Half the FTSE 100. It is a 'see and be seen' event. I have to go to shake hands and pretend I care about neo-impressionist sculpture so that the board stays happy."

He looked at her. A thought sparked in his eyes.

He looked at her messy hair, her cool trousers, her swollen lips. Then he looked at the empty space by his side where he usually stood alone at these events, holding a glass of scotch and checking his watch.

"Come with me," he said.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

Y/N laughed nervously. "Harry, be serious. I can't go to a gala."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't own a dress," she said flatly. She gestured to her outfit. "This is as fancy as it gets, Harry. I don't have a gown. I don't have anything that belongs in a room like that. The most expensive thing I own is a Zara slip I bought on sale three years ago."

Harry didn't look deterred. In fact, he smirked. It was a guilty, knowing smirk.

"Actually," he said, walking over to his desk to retrieve his phone. "About that."

"About what?"

"I might have... anticipated this," Harry admitted. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "I sent a request to the personal shopping team at Harrods this morning. I told them to pull three options. Black tie. Silk. Minimalist."

Y/N’s jaw dropped slightly. "You ordered me dresses? Before I even arrived?"

"I was feeling optimistic," Harry shrugged, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. "They were delivered to the townhouse an hour ago. François is already there setting them up. Along with shoes. And... a few other things."

Y/N stared at him. "You are insane. You realize that, right? You are actually insane."

"I am efficient," Harry corrected. He walked over to her, crowding her space again, taking her hands in his. "I hate these events, Y/N. They are full of sharks and people who want things from me. But if you are there... I won't hate it. I want to show you off. I want to walk in there with you and watch everyone wonder how I got so lucky."

He brought her knuckles to his lips.

"So," he murmured against her skin. "Will you do me the honor? The dresses are waiting."

Y/N looked at him. She looked at the man who had just ravaged her on his desk, and the man who had thoughtfully ordered her a wardrobe because he knew she didn't have one.

"You really are too much," she whispered, shaking her head.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes," she smiled.

Harry grinned, relieved. He checked his watch, and his expression turned apologetic.

"I can't leave yet," he said, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I have to finish the final review for Singapore with Legal, or the deal falls apart. It’s going to take me another two hours."

"Oh," Y/N said, looking at the door. "So...?"

"So, I am sending you ahead," Harry said decisively. He walked to the intercom and pressed the button.

"Andrea?"

"Yes, Mr. Styles?"

"Have the driver bring the car around for my guest immediately. She is heading to the house."

"Of course, sir."

Harry turned back to Y/N. He placed his hands on her waist, pulling her in for one last, lingering kiss. It was soft, a promise.

"Go to the house," he instructed softly against her lips. "François will take care of everything. Take a bath. Drink some champagne. Pick whichever dress makes you feel dangerous."

"And you?" she asked.

"I will be there as soon as I can," Harry promised. "I’ll meet you at home. We’ll go to the gala together."

He stepped back, reluctantly letting her go.

"Go on," he said, his eyes warm. "Before I change my mind and keep you under this desk for the rest of the night."

Y/N laughed, grabbing her bag. She walked to the heavy oak door, her hand hovering over the handle. She looked back at him. Harry was already reaching for a stack of files, the mask of the CEO starting to slide back into place.

She couldn't leave him like that.

She turned around. She crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbed the ends of his loosened tie, and pulled him down.

Harry made a surprised sound in his throat, but he melted instantly, his hands finding her waist as she planted a hard, searing kiss on his lips. It wasn't a question; it was a claim.

She pulled back, leaving him looking slightly dazed and thoroughly kissed.

"Don't work too hard, Mr. Styles," she whispered.

Harry stared at her, a slow, dimpled grin spreading across his face. He looked like he had won the lottery.

"Get out of here," he murmured affectionately.

She winked, turned on her heel, and walked out the door, leaving Harry Styles smiling at the closed wood, completely forgetting about the Singapore deal for just one more minute.

Y/N stepped in the house, expecting silence. Instead, she walked into a hive of activity.

The living room, usually a minimalist sanctuary of white sofas and modern art, had been transformed into a pop-up atelier. A rack of clothes stood by the window. Rows of shoe boxes were stacked on the coffee table. And standing in the middle of it all, directing a terrified-looking assistant, was a man in a pristine turtleneck.

François turned around. He scanned Y/N from her messy hair to her sneakers. He didn't look impressed.

"So," he said, his French accent sharp. "This is the emergency."

"Hi," Y/N said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "I'm Y/N.”

"I know who you are," François said, stepping forward. He grabbed her chin gently, tilting her head left and right. "Good bone structure. Terrible circles under the eyes. We have work to do."

He gestured grandly to the rolling rack. Three garment bags hung there, ominous and waiting.

"Mr. Styles requested 'black tie minimalist'," François explained, walking over to the rack. "But I also have to ensure you do not blend in. We have three options."

He unzipped the first bag. It was a black velvet column gown. Stunning, safe, classic.

He unzipped the second. A champagne-colored slip dress with crystals. Beautiful, but perhaps a bit bridal.

Then, he unzipped the third bag.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

It was a river of silk in a stunning, vibrant shade of chartreuse green. It wasn't a soft pastel; it was bold, acidic, and alive. It had a high halter neck that twisted elegantly around the throat and a dramatic sash that trailed from the neck all the way to the floor.

"And this," François murmured, watching her reaction. "a statement."

Y/N reached out, touching the cool silk. It felt like water. She looked at the black dress, then the champagne one. They were beautiful. They were safe. They were what a girlfriend should wear to not embarrass the CEO.

But then she looked at the green. It was dangerous.

"That one," Y/N said immediately.

François smiled, a sharp, approving expression. "great choice."

The next hour was a blur.

Y/N was ushered into the master bathroom, where a bath had already been drawn—filled with salts that smelled like eucalyptus and money. She soaked for exactly ten minutes before François knocked on the door and told her time was up.

She was wrapped in a plush robe and sat in a chair facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking London.

While one assistant blow-dried her hair into voluminous, glossy waves that cascaded down her back, another applied makeup. It wasn't heavy—just glowy skin, a sharp brow, and a lip color that looked like her own, but better.

Finally, it was time.

She stepped into the silk. It glided over her skin, hugging her hips and puddling at her feet. François fastened the neck. She stepped into the strappy silver heels he provided.

She walked over to the full-length mirror in the hallway.

She stopped. The girl in the mirror wasn't an intern. She wasn't a struggling creative living in Hackney. She looked tall, statuesque, and expensive. The green silk clung to her curves in all the right places, and the sash gave her a regal, untouchable air.

"My god," she whispered.

"Not god," François said, handing her a small, white structured bag. "Just good tailoring."

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

"Y/N?" Harry’s voice called out. He sounded exhausted. "I’m home. Legal was a nightmare, I need to shower in five minutes if we are going to—"

Harry walked into the living room.

He didn't drop his briefcase. He didn't gasp.

He stopped. He took one look at her—from the silver heels, up the long, dangerous line of the green silk, to her bare shoulders—and a slow, dark smirk spread across his face.

It wasn't a look of shock. It was a look of pure, unadulterated hunger.

The room went silent. François saw the look on Harry's face, smirked to himself, and quietly ushered his assistants out the door, leaving them alone.

"Hi" Y/N asked, feeling the heat of his gaze. "I had three choices, but this one felt..."

"Dangerous," Harry finished for her.

He walked toward her. He didn't rush. He moved with a prowling, predatory confidence, his eyes raking over her like he was already taking the dress off.

He stopped inches from her. He smelled like stress and expensive cologne, his shirt unbuttoned, his hair messy—a stark, sexy contrast to her perfection.

"Well," he drawled, his voice dropping an octave, a cheeky smile playing on his lips. "I must have died in that meeting."

"You think?" she teased.

"I definitely died," Harry murmured, stepping into her space, his hands settling firmly on her waist. His thumbs rubbed against the silk, testing the fabric. "Because this view? This is heaven."

He looked down at the dress. His smirk widened.

"And you picked the green."

"I did," she said. "François called it a statement."

“God, you look expensive” Harry whispered, leaning down to brush his nose against her neck, inhaling deeply.

He pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel exactly how much he liked the dress.

"I don't want to go," he growled against her skin, nipping lightly at her jaw. "I want to ruin this dress. I want to rip it off you right here on the rug."

"We have to go," she reminded him, though her breath hitched.

Harry pulled back, looking at her with burning green eyes. He smirked again, boyish and wicked.

"Give me ten minutes to shower," he said, squeezing her waist one last time. "If I have to stand next to you looking like this, I need to look my best. Otherwise, people will think I'm your bodyguard."

He stole a kiss—hard, possessive, and hot.

"Don't move," he commanded, backing away toward the bedroom, his eyes still glued to her. "I'll be right back."The arrival at the Serpentine Gallery was quiet. Intimidatingly so.

The arrival at the Serpentine Gallery was quiet. Intimidatingly so.

The black town car crunched over the gravel and came to a smooth stop. A doorman in a tailcoat opened the door immediately.

Harry stepped out first. He had transformed. The chaotic, disheveled CEO from the office was gone. In his place was Harry Styles, the socialite. He wore a sharp black tuxedo with a velvet jacket, his hair coiffed perfectly, streaks of silver visible at his temples under the gallery lights. He looked experienced, wealthy, and untouchable.

He turned back to the car and extended a hand.

Y/N took it. She stepped out, the green silk flowing like liquid around her legs.

The air smelled of rain and expensive perfume.

"Ready?" Harry murmured, offering her his arm.

"No," she whispered honestly.

"Good," Harry smirked, pulling her close so her body was flush against his side. "Neither am I”.

They walked toward the entrance. There was one official photographer stationed by the door. He didn't scream. He simply raised his camera, took three rapid, high-definition photos of them, and lowered it with a polite, stunned nod.

"Mr. Styles," the photographer acknowledged, his eyes lingering on Y/N.

Harry gave a curt, dismissive nod back.

They made it inside.

The gallery was a cavern of glass and white walls, currently awash in soft, flattering blue light. A massive abstract sculpture dominated the center of the room, surrounded by people who looked like they had been born in tuxedos. A string quartet was playing something intricate in the corner, the music floating over the low, polite murmur of London’s elite.

It smelled of lilies, old money, and judgement.

When Harry and Y/N stepped into the main hall, the murmuring didn't just fade. It died.

It rippled through the room like a wave. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Champagne glasses froze halfway to mouths.

Y/N felt the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. They were dissecting her. She could practically hear their thoughts buzzing in the silence.

Harry Styles never brings a date.He always comes alone.Who is she?She looks so young.

They looked at Harry, composed, nearing his mid forties, radiating power and established wealth. Then they looked at Y/N, fresh-faced, glowing, clearly in her early twenties, standing there in a dress that cost more than most people’s annual rent.

The contrast was stark. The age gap was visible. And the fact that Harry was holding her hand so possessively made it scandalous.

Y/N’s hand tightened on Harry’s forearm.

"They're staring," she breathed through her teeth, keeping a plastic smile on her face. "Harry, literally everyone is staring."

"I know," Harry whispered back, leaning in close so his lips brushed her ear. To the room, it looked intimate, romantic. "Smile, darling. You look like you're at a funeral."

"I feel like I am," she muttered. "My own."

Harry chuckled, a low vibration against her side. "They are staring because in ten years, I have never brought a woman to one of these events. Not once. They are trying to figure out if you're a model, an heiress, or a very expensive mistake."

"And what am I?"

"You," Harry said, squeezing her hand, "are the best decision I've made all quarter. Now, walk like like you own me."

He guided her deeper into the crowd. He moved differently here. He was effortless. He nodded at a Duke, shook hands with a CEO, and navigated the room like he was parting the Red Sea.

As they passed, the whispers started.

"Is that her?""She's a child.""Finally bought one, has he?"

Y/N stiffened. Harry’s grip on her arm tightened just enough to be grounding.

"Ignore them," he murmured. "They're just bored and rich. It’s a terrible combination."

A waiter appeared with a tray. Harry took two glasses of champagne and handed one to her.

"Chin up," he whispered, clinking his glass against hers. "To making a scene."

"To making a scene," she echoed, taking a large sip.

A man approached them near the sculpture exhibit. He was older, balding, wearing a tuxedo that strained at the buttons. It was Lord Henderson, a property developer Harry knew well.

"Styles," Henderson boomed, his voice a little too loud for the quiet room. His eyes slid instantly to Y/N. He didn't look at her face; he looked at her chest, then her waist. He looked her up and down with a sneer that made her skin crawl. "Well, well. Mirrors everywhere and you finally brought a reflection."

"Lord Henderson," Harry said, his voice polite but icy. "This is Y/N."

"Charmed," Henderson said, not offering his hand. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes lingering on Y/N’s face. "She is very... fresh, Harry. Good God, does she even have a driving license yet? Or did you pick her up from the university library?"

The air around them froze.

Y/N stiffened. She felt the shame rise, hot and prickly. It was a direct, nasty dig at the age gap.

Harry didn't let her move.

He stepped forward, placing his body partially in front of Y/N, shielding her. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't make a scene. He just turned cold.

"Careful, Alistair," Harry said. His voice was very quiet. It was the voice he used when he was about to destroy a company. "You are speaking to my partner."

"Partner?" Henderson laughed dryly. "Come now, Harry. We know how this works. You reached a certain age, got bored, bought something pretty to look at—"

"If you finish that sentence," Harry cut him off, "I will pull Vanguard's funding from your Docklands project tomorrow morning."

Henderson choked on his drink. The smile vanished. "You... that deal is signed."

"I have excellent lawyers," Harry smiled, and it was a terrifying expression. It was all teeth and no warmth. "I will tie you up in litigation until your grandchildren are bankrupt. Do not test me."

He leaned in closer, invading the older man's personal space.

"She is not 'something pretty'. She is the only reason I am standing here talking to you instead of buying your debt and liquidating your assets. Apologize. Now."

Henderson looked at Harry’s eyes. He saw the absolute, unhinged protectiveness there. He saw a man who would burn the city down for the girl on his arm. He paled.

"I... my apologies," Henderson muttered, looking at Y/N, unable to meet her gaze. "A poor joke. No offense intended."

"Go away," Harry dismissed him.

Henderson scurried away into the crowd like a frightened rat.

Harry turned to Y/N immediately. The ice vanished from his face, replaced by instant concern. He cupped her cheek, his thumb rubbing gently against her skin.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Y/N looked at him. She saw the fire in his eyes. She realized, for the first time, that the money wasn't the power. He was the power. And he was using it entirely for her.

"I'm fine," she whispered. A smile tugged at her lips. “That was... incredibly sexy."

Harry laughed, the tension breaking. His dimple popped. "Come on. Let's get another drink”

Harry guided Y/N away from the sculpture exhibit, his hand firm on the small of her back. The encounter with Henderson had rattled the room; people were still whispering, but now they were giving Harry a wider berth.

"I need something stronger than champagne." Y/N murmured.

"I think there is a whiskey bar near the Impressionists," Harry said, steering her toward the back of the gallery.

They were halfway across the room when a voice cut through the hum of conversation.

"Harry."

It wasn't loud, but it was commanding. It was a voice that expected to be heard.

Harry stopped. His hand on Y/N’s back stiffened imperceptibly. He closed his eyes for a split second—a micro-expression of annoyance—before composing his face into a polite mask.

He turned.

Standing there was the woman who looked like she had been carved out of marble. She stood tall, blonde, and impeccably dressed in a navy gown that screamed "old money." She was older than Y/N, closer to Harry’s age, and carried herself with a cool, practiced elegance.

"Victoria," Harry said smoothly. "I didn't know you were back in London."

"I arrived this morning," she said, her eyes not leaving Harry’s face. She didn't look at Y/N. Not yet. "My father is donating the new wing. I could hardly miss the opening."

She stepped closer, invading their space with the scent of expensive roses.

"You look well, Harry. Better than the last time I saw you."

"I am well," Harry said, his tone final.

Finally, Victoria turned her gaze to Y/N.

It wasn't a glare. It was an inspection. Her blue eyes swept over Y/N’s face, the green dress, the way Harry’s hand was still possessively claiming her waist.

"And this must be..." Victoria paused, a small, condescending smile playing on her lips. "The young woman that I heard so much about."

Y/N felt a cold spike of adrenaline. This was her. This was the woman Harry had tried to date when they were apart. The woman who was "appropriate." The woman who fit into this world seamlessly.

"Y/N," Harry corrected sharply. "This is Y/N."

"Of course," Victoria said, extending a hand that looked like it had never touched a dirty dish in its life. "Victoria St. Clair. Harry and I... go back a long way."

Y/N took the hand. It was cold. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Victoria lied. She looked back at Harry. "She is very... vibrant, Harry. A bold choice. Green is such a difficult color to pull off."

"She looks perfect," Harry said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register again.

Victoria laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Oh, Harry. Always the knight in shining armor. I suppose that’s the appeal, isn't it? Rescuing things?"

She looked at Y/N again, her smile tightening.

"He tried to date me, you know," she said to Y/N, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Dinners, operas, weekends in the Cotswolds. It was all very... perfect. On paper."

She took a sip of her champagne.

"But he was miserable," Victoria said, her eyes flashing with a mix of bitterness and amusement. "He spent half our dates checking his phone. And the other half staring out the window looking like a lost puppy. I always wondered who he was thinking about."

She stepped back, smoothing her dress.

"I suppose now I know," she said dryly. "The girl who makes him wear his heart on his sleeve. And his bank account on her back."

"Victoria," Harry warned, stepping forward.

"Relax, Harry," she waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not going to cause a scene. I just wanted to see her. To see what all the fuss was about."

She looked at Y/N one last time. There was no hatred in her eyes now, just a sort of weary resignation.

"Good luck, darling," she said to Y/N. "You'll need it. This world... it eats people like you for breakfast. Try not to let him shield you from everything."

She turned to Harry.

"Give my regards to your mother, Harry. I assume she's thrilled."

With that cutting remark, she turned on her heel and glided away, disappearing into the crowd like a shark returning to the deep.

Harry let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for five minutes. He turned to Y/N, his expression anxious.

"Ignore her," he said quickly. "She is bitter and she drinks too much chardonnay."

"She was beautiful," Y/N said quietly. "And she was right. You guys look... you look like a matched set."

"We were a disaster," Harry said firmly. He grabbed Y/N’s shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "I felt like I was suffocating. I tried to make it work because it was 'sensible,' and I was miserable every single second."

He leaned in, his green eyes fierce.

"She is the past. A very boring, very cold past. You are the only person in this room I want to be with. Okay?"

Y/N looked at him. She saw the honesty there. She nodded.

"Okay," she whispered.

He had stopped walking. The string quartet had packed up, replaced by a smooth jazz band on the small stage in the center of the room. The opening notes of a piano drifted through the air, followed by the familiar, crooning melody of Frank Sinatra’s "The Way You Look Tonight."

Harry’s eyes lit up. He turned to Y/N, his hand sliding from her back to her waist.

"Dance with me."

"Harry," Y/N hissed, glancing around. A few couples were swaying stiffly, leaving plenty of room for the Holy Ghost between them. "Everyone is watching. And I don't know how to waltz or whatever this is."

"It's not a waltz," Harry murmured, pulling her onto the polished floor before she could protest. "It's just swaying. And holding on. I think you can manage that."

He pulled her into his frame. It wasn't the polite, distant hold of the other couples. He stepped right into her space, his chest brushing against hers, his right hand settling firmly on the dip of her waist, burning through the green silk. He took her left hand, interlacing their fingers.

"Relax," he whispered, beginning to move them in a slow, easy rhythm. "I'm leading. You just have to look pretty. Which, as we've established, you are exceedingly good at."

Y/N let out a breath and followed his lead. He was surprisingly good—confident and smooth, guiding her effortlessly.

"You're enjoying this," she accused, looking up at him. "Parading me around like a prize pony."

"I am," Harry admitted shamelessly. He spun her slowly. "After the afternoon I had? And the ex-girlfriend ambush? I deserve to show off."

"Victoria seemed nice," Y/N teased, her eyes dancing. "Very... polished. Very 'Cotswolds weekends'."

Harry groaned, dropping his forehead to rest against her temple for a second. "Don't. If you mention the Cotswolds again, I am going to dip you. And not gracefully."

"I bet you loved the opera," she pressed, fighting a smile. "I bet you sat there in a little velvet suit and clapped politely."

"I fell asleep," Harry corrected, his lips twitching. "Twice. And I snored. She was horrified."

He pulled her closer. The gap between them vanished. The room, the staring elites, Lord Henderson—it all blurred into the background.

"I’d rather be here," Harry murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated against her chest. "With the girl who wears sneakers to my office and challenges me on literary theory. And looks like that in green."

He moved his hand on her back, his thumb rubbing slow, possessive circles into the silk.

"You know," he whispered, "I haven't been able to take my eyes off you since you walked out of the bedroom."

"You stared a little," she admitted.

"I was planning," he corrected.

"Planning what?"

Harry didn't answer immediately. He turned his head, burying his face in the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing against her skin, sending a shiver straight down her spine.

"Planning how quickly I can get you out of here," he breathed against her pulse point.

He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive cord of her neck.

Y/N gasped softly, her fingers tightening on his shoulder. "Harry... people."

"Let them look," he growled against her skin.

He moved lower, his lips trailing hot, damp kisses along the slope of her shoulder, right where the halter neck exposed her skin. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her hip, anchoring her against him. It was a possessive claim, hidden in plain sight. To the room, it looked like a romantic embrace. To Y/N, it felt like being devoured.

"Harry," she warned, though her voice was breathless. "Behave."

"I am behaving," he murmured, lifting his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. "I haven't bitten you yet."

"Yet?"

" The night is young," Harry smirked, a wicked glint in his eye. "And we have a limo ride home."

The song swelled to its crescendo. Harry spun her one last time, pulling her back into his chest with a force that knocked the wind out of her.

"Is this what you wanted?" she whispered, echoing his words from earlier. "To make a scene?"

Harry looked around the room. He saw the envy in the men’s eyes and the curiosity in the women’s. Then he looked back at her.

"No," he said softy. "I just wanted to dance with my girl."

The song ended on a lingering, melancholy note. Harry held her for a second longer than necessary, his chest rising and falling against hers, before slowly stepping back.

The spell of the dance floor broke. The ambient noise of the room—the clinking of crystal, the low murmur of gossip, the polite laughter—rushed back in.

"Right," Harry said, his voice rough. He kept his hand firmly on her lower back, a branding iron through the silk. "We have made an appearance. We have insulted a Lord. We have danced. I think my contractual obligations are fulfilled."

"Don't we have to say goodbye?" Y/N asked, glancing toward the entrance where a crowd was still mingling.

Harry checked his watch. He looked pained. "Unfortunately, yes. If we leave without saying goodbye to the Director, it will be noted. 'Styles Snubs Serpentine'. It’s bad for share prices."

He offered her his arm again. "One lap. Five minutes. Then I am kidnapping you."

They moved through the room. Now that the initial shock of their entrance had worn off, the atmosphere had shifted. The stares were less hostile and more curious. People nodded as they passed. A few brave souls even smiled at Y/N, sensing that if Harry Styles was this protective of her, she was someone worth knowing.

They reached the gallery director, a formidable woman named Dame Helena, near the exit.

"Harry," she beamed, kissing him on both cheeks. "You scoundrel. You arrive late, you threaten my donors, and now you’re leaving early?"

"I am a busy man, Helena," Harry charmed, though his grip on Y/N’s arm was tight. "And the sculpture is magnificent. Truly."

"And who is this?" Helena turned her sharp gaze to Y/N. Unlike Victoria or Henderson, her eyes were kind. She looked at the green dress, then at the way Harry was shielding Y/N with his body. Her expression softened. "Ah. I see."

"This is Y/N," Harry introduced, pride bleeding into his tone.

"A pleasure, my dear," Helena said, taking Y/N’s hand. "You look lovely. And you have accomplished the impossible."

"What's that?" Y/N asked.

"You've made Harry stay past 9 PM," Helena winked. "Usually he does a loop and vanishes out the back door."

Harry laughed, looking down at his shoes. "Guilty."

"Go on," Helena shooed them away. "Get out of here. Before I ask you for another million pounds."

"Check is in the mail," Harry promised.

He wasted no time. He guided Y/N toward the foyer. The transition from the warm, perfumed air of the gallery to the cool draft of the entrance was sharp.

Harry stopped. He looked through the glass doors at the night air.

"It’s chilly," he noted.

Without hesitating, he shrugged off his black velvet tuxedo jacket. He was left in his white dress shirt, the fabric crisp against his chest, his suspenders visible.

He draped the heavy jacket over Y/N’s shoulders. It was massive on her, engulfing her in velvet that smelled of cedar, expensive cologne, and him. It covered the backless cut of the dress, hiding her skin from the world.

"Harry, you'll be cold," she protested.

"I'll be fine," he dismissed, adjusting the lapels so she was bundled up. He smirked. "Besides, I like seeing you in my clothes. It sends a message."

He turned to the security detail waiting by the door. "Is the car ready?"

"Two minutes, sir. It's just pulling around."

Harry nodded. He interlaced their fingers and pushed the heavy glass doors open.

There was no chaos outside. No screaming fans. Just the crisp, clear London night air and the crunch of gravel on the driveway. A few other guests were waiting for their vehicles, standing in polite clusters. Valets in waistcoats moved efficiently.

It was quiet. It was civilized.

Until it wasn't.

They stepped onto the gravel, waiting for the Maybach. The cool air hit them, a stark contrast to the heat of the gallery.

Harry let out a breath, looking at the sky, then down at her. She was shivering slightly under his massive jacket, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Something in him snapped. The three hours of polite smiling, of enduring Henderson’s leering and Victoria’s comments, of holding her waist but not being able to touch her—it all boiled over.

"To hell with it," he muttered.

Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Harry grabbed her.

He wrapped his arms around her, hauling her body against his, crushing the velvet jacket between them. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and he brought his mouth down on hers.

It wasn't a polite, socialite kiss. It was searing, deep, and desperate.

Y/N gasped against his mouth, her hands instinctively clutching the front of his white shirt. Harry groaned, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting the champagne and the night air on her skin. He kissed her like he was starving, oblivious to the valets, the other guests, and the security guards standing ten feet away.

For a man who had spent a decade hiding his private life, this was a public declaration of war.

He broke the kiss only when they both needed air, resting his forehead against hers. His breathing was ragged.

"I’ve been wanting to do that since you walked out of the bedroom," he rasped, his lips swollen.

Y/N was breathless, her heart hammering against his chest. "We’re in public, Harry."

"I don't care," he growled, kissing her again, harder this time, nipping at her lower lip. "Let them watch."

The crunch of tires on gravel broke the moment. The Maybach pulled up right next to them.

The driver stepped out, keeping his eyes respectfully averted, and opened the back door.

Harry pulled back slowly, looking down at her with darkened eyes. He kept one arm firmly around her waist, guiding her toward the car, his body shielding her even though there was no danger.

He guided her in, followed her immediately, and the door thudded shut behind them, cutting off the outside world completely.

Silence.

They were in the back of the car. It was warm, dimly lit, and smelled of leather.

Harry let out a long, heavy exhale. He slumped back against the seat, stretching his long legs out. He sat there in his white shirt and suspenders, looking effortlessly elegant even without the jacket.

He reached up and loosened his bow tie with one hand, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

"God," he groaned, running a hand through his hair, finally ruining the perfect coif. "I hate those things."

"You looked very cool," Y/N said, pulling his velvet jacket tighter around herself, her lips still tingling from his kiss outside. "Very 'Bond Villain'."

Harry turned to look at her. The passing streetlights cast rhythmic shadows across his face as the car pulled away, sliding smoothly into the London traffic.

He didn't smile. His eyes darkened. The polite socialite was gone. The man who had kissed her senseless on the driveway was back.

He reached out and pressed a button on the armrest.

With a soft whir, the black privacy partition between them and the driver began to rise, sealing them off completely.

"Come here," Harry said.

Y/N didn't hesitate.

She slid across the smooth leather bench, discarding the velvet jacket as she moved. Harry met her halfway, his hands reaching out to grab her hips and pull her effortlessly onto his lap.

She straddled him, her knees sinking into the seat on either side of his thighs. The green silk of her dress rode up, pooling around her waist, leaving her legs bare against the fine wool of his tuxedo trousers.

Harry groaned—a low, vibration that rumbled against her chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, his hands gripping her waist to anchor her against the sway of the car.

"Finally," he breathed against her skin. "I have been dying to touch you for three hours. Do you have any idea how torture it is to stand next to you in that dress and not be able to do this?"

"You seemed fine," Y/N whispered, running her hands up his chest. She felt the heat radiating through his white dress shirt. She hooked her thumbs under his suspenders, tugging slightly. "You were very polite. Very CEO."

Harry lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and heavy with need.

"I was acting," he admitted. "The whole time, all I was thinking about was how you looked on my desk earlier. And how much I wanted to get you back in this car."

He kissed her.

It wasn't like the kiss outside. That had been a statement; this was a conversation. It was slow, deep, and drugging. Harry’s tongue swept into her mouth, tasting the remnants of the whiskey he had ordered but never finished. One of his hands slid up her back, his fingers dancing over her bare skin where the halter neck left her exposed.

Y/N sighed into the kiss, melting against him. The car turned a corner, and she shifted, the friction of her silk-clad center rubbing against the hardness of his thigh.

Harry hissed, his grip on her hips tightening to a bruise.

"Careful," he warned, his voice rough. "The driver is good, but he's not deaf."

" The partition is up," Y/N reminded him, nipping at his lower lip. "We're invisible."

"That doesn't mean we should test the suspension," Harry smirked, though he leaned back, inviting her to grind closer.

He moved his hand. It slid from her waist, down the curve of her hip, and under the hem of the green dress. His large, warm palm found the bare skin of her thigh, stroking upward.

Y/N gasped, her head falling back against the headrest. The sensation of his rough, calloused hand against her sensitive skin—in the back of a moving car, with London passing by in streaks of light outside—was overwhelming.

"You wore the silk panties," Harry noted, his fingers brushing the edge of the fabric. His voice was thick with approval. "The ones I bought."

"They matched the dress," she managed to say.

"Good girl," he praised.

He didn't go further. He just kept his hand there, resting heavy and possessive on her thigh, his thumb rubbing soothing circles near the apex of her thighs. It was grounding.

He rested his forehead against hers, their breathing synchronizing in the quiet of the cabin.

"You were incredible tonight," he said softly, the lust receding just enough to let the affection shine through. "I know it was a lot. The staring. Henderson. Victoria."

"Victoria wasn't so bad," Y/N murmured, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "She just... misses you."

"She misses the idea of me," Harry corrected. "She misses the arm candy. She doesn't miss the man who works eighteen-hour days and forgets anniversaries because of market crashes."

He looked at her, searching her face in the dim light.

"You saw it all tonight, Y/N. The sharks, the fake smiles, the judgments. That’s my world. It’s cold and it’s lonely."

He paused, his thumb stilling on her leg.

"Did it scare you off?"

Y/N looked at him. She saw the vulnerability behind the question. He wasn't asking if she liked the party; he was asking if she could handle being with him.

"Harry," she whispered. She leaned back just enough to look him in the eye. "Do you really think a few lords and a bitter ex-girlfriend are going to scare me?"

Harry stared at her. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—the real one, the one that made him look twenty again.

"No," he agreed. "I suppose not."

He kissed her again, tenderly this time.

"I’m starving," he announced suddenly, pulling back. "I haven't eaten since lunch. The canapés at those things are essentially cardboard."

"I saw a waiter with tiny burgers," Y/N said. "But you were too busy threatening to bankrupt people."

"Priorities," Harry shrugged. He checked his watch. "It’s nearly midnight. We are going to the house. We are getting out of these clothes. And we are ordering the largest, greasiest pizza in London."

Y/N laughed, climbing off his lap as the car slowed down, signaling their arrival.

"Pizza and couture?" she asked, grabbing his velvet jacket. "Is that allowed?"

Harry straightened his tie, winking at her as the car came to a stop.

I make the rules." he said.

The townhouse was quiet. It was the kind of silence that cost millions of pounds, thick, insulated, and peaceful.

Harry kicked the front door shut with his heel. He didn't turn on the main lights. The city glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows provided enough illumination, casting the massive living room in shades of midnight blue and silver.

He dropped his keys in the bowl with a clatter that signaled the official end of the workday.

Y/N walked straight to the sofa and unbuckled her silver heels. She let them drop to the carpet with a soft thud, sighing as her feet hit the plush wool. She stood there, barefoot in the £5,000 green silk dress, looking exhausted and happy.

"I am never wearing shoes again," she announced, wiggling her toes.

Harry chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in the quiet room. He walked over to the sound system and tapped a button. Soft, ambient jazz began to play, barely louder than a whisper.

"I’ll open the wine," he said, discarding his jacket on an armchair and rolling up his sleeves. "You order the food. Same as always?"

"Pepperoni and truffle mushroom?"

"Obviously," Harry called out from the kitchen. "And get the garlic dip. I don't care if I have a board meeting tomorrow."

Twenty minutes later, the picture of high-society elegance had been thoroughly dismantled.

They were sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. The expensive silk rug was currently hosting two open pizza boxes.

Harry was sitting with his back against the sofa, his long legs stretched out under the table. His bow tie was long gone, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a glass of extremely expensive red wine in the other.

Y/N sat cross-legged opposite him. She had refused to take the dress off, but she had loosened the halter neck slightly so it hung lower.

"This," Harry declared, gesturing with his pizza crust, "is better than the gala. The canapés were essentially bird food."

"I think Helena would have a stroke if she saw you right now," Y/N teased, wiping a crumb from her lip. "Eating grease in a tuxedo shirt."

"Helena loves me," Harry grinned, relaxed and boyish. "She knows this is the real me. The gala is just the costume."

He took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass. The air between them wasn't heavy with questions or doubts; it was just easy. It was the comfortable silence of two people who didn't need to fill the space with words because they already knew where they stood.

Harry reached across the table. He didn't say anything profound. He just took her hand, interlacing their fingers where they rested on the carpet. He squeezed it—three times. I. Love. You.

Y/N squeezed back.

"You okay?" he asked softly, running his thumb over her knuckles.

"Yeah," she smiled, looking around the townhouse that finally felt a little bit like hers too. "I'm really good."

Harry smiled, a genuine, dimpled expression that reached his eyes. He leaned forward, careful of the pizza boxes, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm glad you're here," he murmured against her skin. "Home looks better with you in it."

"It's just the dress," she joked weakly.

"It's you," he corrected simply.

He leaned back against the sofa, pulling her with him until she was resting between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder, holding her while they ate and watched the London skyline blink in the distance.

It was perfect. It was quiet. It was safe.

BZZZZZT.

The harsh vibration of her phone on the coffee table shattered the mood instantly.

Harry frowned, tightening his arms around her. "Who is calling you at 1 AM?"

Y/N looked at the screen. It was lit up, vibrating aggressively against the glass surface.

MUM

Her stomach dropped.

"It's my mother," she said, confused. "She never calls this late”.

Harry sat up straighter, his protective instincts flaring. "Answer it."

Y/N picked up the phone. Her hands were shaking slightly. She slid the icon to answer and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Mum?" she asked, her voice laced with panic. "Is everything okay? Is Dad—"

"Y/N Y/L/N"

Her mother’s voice wasn't scared. It was shrill. It was the voice she used when Y/N had failed A-level math, but magnified by a thousand.

"Mum?" Y/N blinked. "What—"

"Don't you 'Mum' me!" her mother shouted so loud that Harry could hear it clearly in the silent room. "I am looking at the internet, Y/N! I am looking at the Daily Mail!"

Y/N’s blood ran cold. She felt Harry stiffen behind her.

"The what?"

"Why," her mother screeched, "is there a high-definition photograph of you kissing some man called Harry Styles outside the Serpentine Gallery on my Facebook feed? Auntie Carol just sent it to the group chat!"

Y/N froze. Her eyes locked with Harry’s. He looked horrified.

"And why," her father’s voice joined in from the background, sounding furious, "is the headline calling you his '22-Year-Old Plaything'?!"

He grabbed the phone from her mother, his voice booming down the line.

"They're saying he's forty-five years old, Y/N! What the fuck is going on?”