Harry was used to strict obedience. One of the richest men in America, he found that most people did one of two things in his presence: they obeyed—instantly, desperately, bending over backwards as though proximity to him might bless them with even a sliver of his hard-won success—or they feared him. They ducked behind office pillars, whispering prayers he wouldn’t call on them, wouldn’t demand reports or meeting minutes not yet re-written to his exacting standards.

He hadn’t built an empire on charm and chance. It was born of discipline. Precision. Ruthless expectation.

Harry was power. The kind of man who could snap his fingers and have whatever he wanted delivered without delay. Nothing felt out of reach anymore—not after everything he’d bled for. The sweat. The sacrifice. All of it driven by a quiet desperation to forget what came before.

He’d grown up in a struggling, working-class home. His mother—a radiant force of a woman—worked day and night to shield him from the hunger and hardship she’d known. But when illness came, the scaffolding collapsed. He saw how money could’ve saved her. Proper care. Better insurance. But with her laid off and him just sixteen, he lost her. Lost everything.

That pain never left. It just got buried beneath silk ties and power suits.

At his core, Harry was a good man. A loving man. Mid-fifties, never married, no children—yet a heart so full of affection it almost ached. He wanted to spoil the right woman. Drown her in devotion. Make her feel worshipped, never second-best. Lucy called him a unicorn.

He’d tried with Lucy.

They met at a wedding, swaying beneath chandeliers. She’d whispered, “You don’t want to date me. The next man I date—I’ll marry.” And Harry, sentimental beneath all his armor, had believed her. He adored her. Gave her everything. Worshipped her as if she was his salvation. Bought her a ring that cost more than most people’s homes.

She left him for her ex. A broke waiter named John. A man with little to offer, except the one thing Harry could never buy—her heart.

After that, he let the idea of love go. He resigned himself to the quiet ache of solitude, convinced no one would ever really see him.

Tonight’s gala blurred into all the others. He couldn’t even remember what it was for—puppies? sick children? The causes were noble, but forgettable. He moved through the room like a ghost in a tailored suit, exchanging handshakes and half-smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It had been months since Lucy had vanished from his life, leaving him with a $100,000 ring he eventually gave to a stranger on the street—some parting act of rebellion or release, he didn’t know.

And then he saw her.

She stood beside a man in a suit three seasons too old, his hand straying too far down her back. She stiffened. Then, with quiet grace, redirected his touch with a featherlight hand on his forearm—a polite, practiced boundary. Not confrontational. Just firm.

Harry’s gaze locked on her.

She wasn’t wearing any designer he recognized. No labels. No borrowed glamour. Instead, she wore a gown that looked as if it had been summoned from the forest at midnight. Deep green velvet, kissed with sequins like stars scattered across leaves. It clung to her curves like ivy, the bodice sheer in places—delicate yet daring. Layers of ruffles spilled from her hips, cascading like a waterfall, parting at the thigh to reveal the soft glint of skin.

She was... breathtaking.

Then she moved. Drifted away from the man beside her. Graceful. Intentional. She made her way across the ballroom, heels barely making a sound over the marble floor, and paused at the open bar—near him.

Harry turned just as she stepped up beside him. Her perfume caught him off-guard—lavender and vanilla, light and warm, like memories of spring after a long winter. His chest tightened as she glanced up.

She offered him a small, unguarded smile. No pretense. No calculation.

Just a smile.

And something inside him—something wounded, buried and silent for years—stirred. Something he even kept guarded from Lucy.