Chapter 6
Harry
The courthouse had been as uneventful as peeling gum off the bottom of a shoe.
We’d answered the questions, filled in the forms, said the words one more time with my assistant, Matthew, acting as our legal witness. Eight in the morning sharp, first appointment available.
Elena had looked tired. It wasn’t exactly surprising, considering neither of us got much sleep last night, and when we did, it had been with me practically passed out with my head on her thigh.
But every time I close my eyes, now, I can still hear the sounds she made, can still feel her muscles tensing under my fingers, can still see the way she’d arched—
“The modification to the agreement was fairly straightforward.” My attorney, Jason, spins a pen in between his fingers as he slides the documents across the mahogany table toward me and Ralph White.
My patience is already wearing dangerously thin just sitting next to Elena’s father.
The man has treated this meeting like any other business transaction, shuffling through contracts with the same enthusiasm he’d show a quarterly earnings report, like his eldest daughter didn’t just get married off yesterday to a man almost twice her age.
“All of the terms remain the same, but with Harald substituted as the spouse in question.”
Ralph barely glances up from the papers as he flips through them. “The consummation requirements?”
“Archaic,” I mutter, pushing my reading glasses up my nose. I grab my copy from in front of me, glazing over it. “But it’s been handled.”
It’s a lie. Technically. It’s close enough to the truth that it doesn’t matter.
“Good,” Ralph says, picking up his pen and initialing the first page.
The casual dismissal of my callout makes my teeth clench.
Even when I was going through the motions of this with George, I was at least caring, but Ralph seems to be eager to get her out of his hair and space.
And after the way she’d looked at me last night, like I was something miraculous just for making her fall apart with my hands and mouth, I can’t understand why anyone would want to push her away.
I click my pen against the desk. “I’ve been thinking,” I say carefully, turning my gaze on Ralph, testing the waters. “Elena might be more comfortable staying at my penthouse in Manhattan. She’d be closer to work, and I could give her some time to adjust.”
Ralph’s pen pauses mid-signature. “Why would she need to do that?”
It takes everything in me not to throttle him.
“Because this situation is complicated enough without forcing her into completely unfamiliar surroundings,” I huff, keeping my voice as level and professional as I can.
“She has a life, a career, and half of that takes place in the city anyway. I thought I’d allow her some autonomy while we figure out the next steps. ”
“Next steps?” Ralph parrots, his brows practically gluing themselves together. “Harry, you’re married to her now. The contract is clear — she’s to integrate into the Highcourt family structure. That means your property. Your oversight.”
The word oversight makes my stomach twist. “She’s not a business asset.”
“Isn’t she?” He sets down the papers like I’ve somehow offended him, his white mustache twitching. “Let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is. Elena understood her role when she agreed to marry George. All that’s changed is that it’s you instead. Same function, different variable.”
I can feel Jason’s stare over the desk, his pen poised as if he’s expecting to take notes. He’s been handling Highcourt business for nearly fifteen years, though, and knows when to speak up and when to let me handle things the way I need to.
But right now, I’m dangerously close to handling Ralph White in a way that would spread even more rumors about me.
“You’re right. Elena is my wife now,” I articulate slowly. “And because of that, and even despite it, she is not a commodity to be managed.”
Ralph, somewhere in his stick-figure frame and empty brain, finds the audacity to chuckle. “Of course. But let’s be practical. You’re taking on a significant responsibility here, and Elena is… well, she’s young, inexperienced in a lot of ways.”
“She’s thirty—”
“She’ll need guidance. Structure.”
“She’ll need respect.”
“She’ll get whatever you choose to give her.” Ralph waves his hand dismissively, and I almost see red. “Just take her, Harry. She’s yours to do with as you wish. Penthouse, estate — it doesn’t matter to me as long as the business objectives are met.”
The words make me genuinely recoil, the facade I’ve spent years honing cracking just a little. Take her. She’s yours to do with as you wish.
As if she’s a piece of furniture to be rearranged. As if her thoughts, her desires, her autonomy don’t factor into any of this.
But the problem, truly, rests in that I know exactly what I want to do with Elena. I want to strip away every insecurity my son planted in her head, want to show her what it feels like to be wanted, want to explore every sound I discovered she could make, every way her body responds to mine.
But that, I’m positive, is not what Ralph means.
“The arrangements are Elena’s choice,” I say instead, signing my name to the bottom of the last page with more force than necessary, the fine tip of the pen nearly tearing through the paper. “I’ll discuss the living situation with her when I see her later.”
Jason clears his throat. “If there are no further modifications needed, then I believe we’re done.”
Ralph nods and pushes himself up from the chair, straightening his tie. “Excellent,” he announces, and I can’t help but cringe at the formality of it all. “Harry, thank you for… well, stepping up in this situation. I appreciate it couldn’t have been easy.”
He has no goddamn idea.
————
My car idles in the parking garage beneath the Highcourt, the keycard to the room sitting on the dashboard and reflecting the harsh light.
The reality of the situation started crashing down on me halfway through the drive — that this needs to be temporary, that I need to find my son and talk some sense into him, that he needs to honor his original commitment.
Then Elena and I can get an annulment, she can marry the man she was supposed to, and things can go back to how they should be.
Even if the thought of her with my son makes something dark rear its head in my chest. Even if it means I’m slightly more like Ralph White than I want to be.
I pull out my phone and dial George’s number for what must be the twentieth time already today. It goes straight to voicemail, exactly like it's done for the last twenty-four hours.
“Me. Again,” I grunt down the line, knowing damn well he’s probably not even listening. “Whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, you need to come home. We need to talk. Call me.”
I end the call and try again. Same result.
Cursing beneath my breath, I grab my bag and shove the car door open. Having only one child was supposed to make succession planning simpler. Somehow, though, it seems to have left me with a spoiled, irresponsible heir who runs away when faced with responsibility.
I hate that Geraldine would’ve known what to do with him. She would’ve thought this entire situation was hilarious and had him back home in a heartbeat.
But she’s gone. And I can’t think like that.
When I get back up to the lobby, a flash of dirty blonde hair draws my attention before I can even make it to the elevator.
Elena’s sitting on a couch against the far wall, a coffee abandoned on the table in front of her, her sister’s head of dyed auburn hair obscuring half of my view of her.
A white and light orange sundress clings to her, accentuating the same breasts I’d practically worshipped last night, pooling around her crossed legs, hanging off her shoulders intentionally.
I’m not entirely sure what to do with the part of me that wants to cross the room to her.
She locks eyes with me, her mouth still moving as she says something I can’t quite hear, her gaze flashing back and forth between her sister’s and mine.
It’s like she’s questioning the same thing—whether to move or stay—but I know that the part of her that’s telling her to move is likely the same part that coils inwards and follows directions when her father barks an order at her.
Instead, I take a step, and then another, forcing my feet to move. But not to her.
To the elevator.
I shoot her a quick text, just a sentence telling her that I need to speak to her but that it can wait until she has a moment.
And then I go.