Harry never planned on escaping.

The relentless pace of New York’s glittering madness had become his rhythm — sharp deals, sharper words, and a life measured in boardroom victories. But here, on this sprawling terrace in Mallorca, the only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves against ancient stones and the distant calls of seabirds.

You stood beside him, the warm Mediterranean breeze teasing your hair, your silhouette painted soft against the fading sunset. He watched you carefully, the years of polished confidence giving way to something more fragile—something he rarely let himself see.

The past lay between you like the olive trees scattered across the hills—gnarled, resilient, and full of stories no one dared speak aloud.

He cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence. "You ever think about how much of ourselves we hide? The parts we’re too scared to show… especially to the ones we care about?"

You turned to him, eyes reflecting the burning sky. “Every day.”

Harry smiled, a rare softness tugging at his lips. “Good. Because I’m tired of pretending. Of keeping the ghosts at bay.”

He took your hand, rough from years of grip on power and control, and held it like it was the only truth left. “Here, with you, I want to stop running. So....stay with me, baby. Please?”