Chapter 10
Harry
The kitchen at Highcourt Hall has always been something of a sanctuary to me.
Dark granite counters, professional-grade appliances that gleam under warm, pendant lights, and enough space to feed an army if I needed to.
It’s where I come when I need to think, when I need a drink, when I need space — usually with a cup of coffee.
This morning, though, even the familiar ritual of grinding beans and measuring water hasn’t quieted the noise in my head.
Matthew sits across from me at the breakfast bar, his laptop closed, a boarding pass for his flight to Split visible on the counter beside his coffee mug. He’s been my assistant for eight years, my right-hand man for seven of them. Assistant in title but confidant in reality.
If anyone can track down my wayward son, it’s him.
“The festival runs through the weekend,” he says, tapping the printed itinerary. “Ultra Europe. If George is there, it won’t be hard to find him. He’s never really been subtle about his partying habits.”
I nod, taking another sip of coffee, but it just tastes like ash to me right now. “Have you checked his credit card?”
Matthew nods, his glasses slipping down his nose slightly. He pushes them back up. “Last transaction was in Dubrovnik two days ago. High-end hotel, the kind that rich kids go to and then claim they stayed at a hostel. The one before that was the same day, he took cash out.”
At thirty-five, Matthew has more sense of responsibility than my twenty-eight-year-old miscreant ever has. He seems just as annoyed by George’s behavior as I am. “Good. That’s… something.” I set my mug down harder than necessary. “If you find him—”
“When.”
I roll my eyes. “When,” I repeat. “When you find him, make it clear that there will be consequences. Real ones this time. No more fucking warnings, no more chances to ‘find himself’ or whatever excuse he’s using now. I’m done. I’ll cut him off if I have to.”
Matthew studies me over the rim of his coffee cup. We’ve worked together long enough that he can read my moods better than most people, and I can tell he’s cataloging the tension in my shoulders, the way I keep clenching and unclenching my jaw.
It’s annoying.
“You’re wound tighter than I’ve seen you in years,” he says quietly. “This all because of George? Or her?”
Her. Elena. The woman who’s been living fifty yards away for two days, close enough that I can see the lights in her windows from my study, far enough that I can pretend I’m maintaining appropriate boundaries. “It’s about fixing the mess my son created,” I say, but the words feel hollow.
Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Harry.”
I run a hand through my hair, knowing damn well he’s calling me out, suddenly feeling every single one of my forty-eight years. “I just never expected to be married again. Happy?”
The admission hangs between us. Matthew doesn’t push, just waits, and somehow that makes it easier to continue.
“After Geraldine, I told myself that was it. One great love per lifetime or whatever, you know? Focus on George, maintain the business, leave relationships to younger men.” I laugh, but it’s bitter, empty.
“And now I’m somehow married to a woman who was supposed to be my daughter-in-law.
A woman who’s closer to George’s age than mine. ”
“Elena’s thirty,” Matthew says. “Hardly a child.”
“She’s only two years older than George, and he’s practically an infant,” I huff. “She’s young enough that this whole situation feels… off.”
“She asked for this arrangement, Harry. And from what I’ve observed, she’s nothing like George. She’s strong, got a solid head on her shoulders, and opinions, apparently.”
That’s an understatement. The argument two days ago in her bedroom still plays on repeat in my mind, the fire in her eyes blazing when she’d called me out for treating her like property, the way she’d stood her ground even while naked and vulnerable.
Christ, especially while naked and vulnerable.
“She only asked for it because of her father. And none of that makes it right,” I mutter.
“What would? Letting her marry George when he gets back?”
The question hits like a slap. The thought of her with my son, of George begrudgingly touching her the way I did the first night, makes my stomach twist. “That’s the plan,” I say, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
Matthew sets down his coffee and leans forward. “Can I ask you something?”
I gesture for him to go ahead.
“Do you genuinely believe George is going to come back ready to be a husband to anyone, let alone Elena?”
The question I’ve been avoiding settles between us like a sinking stone. George has always been selfish, impulsive, allergic to responsibility. The boy who abandoned his fiancée at the altar isn’t suddenly going to transform into a devoted husband just because I drag him home.
I know that.
“He’ll do what’s required of him,” I say.
“Will he? Or will he run again the first time she snaps at him?”
I don’t have an answer for that, which I guess is an answer in itself.
Matthew checks his phone and stands, gathering his laptop and shoving it in his bag. “Flight leaves in two hours. I should be in Croatia by tonight.”
“Call me the moment you have eyes on him.”
“I will.” Matthew pauses at the kitchen door, looking over his shoulder, his dark hair slipping from its low pony. “Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor while I’m gone,” he says casually. “Think about what you actually want before you make me file a bunch of paperwork you might not need. Don’t consider what the business needs or what makes the most sense on paper. What you want.”
He leaves before I can respond, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until the front door closes behind him. The house settles into uncomfortable silence, vast and empty around me.
What I want.
As if that’s simple. As if wanting has ever been enough to override duty, responsibility, and the weight of expectation that comes with the Highcourt name.
I drain my coffee and rinse the mug in the sink, trying to focus on mundane tasks instead of the request Matthew left me with, but my mind keeps drifting to the cottage, to Elena probably starting her workday, likely making her own coffee in that smaller kitchen.
I let myself wonder what she’s wearing, if she slept well or if she tossed and turned with wandering hands, if she’s thought about that night in the hotel room even half as much as I have.
The memory surfaces against my will. Elena, sprawled across crisp white sheets with rose petals around her, her skin flushed and mouth parted, her back bowing with my head between her thighs.
Elena, standing in that bedroom, her hands doing absolutely nothing to cover her as she threw accusations and a pillow at my head like they were weapons.
The way I wanted to step closer instead of walking away.
My phone buzzes with a text from my property manager in Switzerland, something about permits and construction delays, but I can barely focus on the words. Every thought seems to lead back to Elena, to the way she’d looked at me in those charged few seconds before I forced myself to walk out.
This is exactly why I established boundaries, why I made it clear that the night in the penthouse was an aberration, not a pattern to be repeated — because left to my own devices, apparently I’m the kind of man who fantasizes about his son’s intended bride.
I should go to my study, review my files, make calls, and lose myself in the familiarity of work.
That’s what I’ve always done when personal complications threatened to overwhelm my obligations.
Instead, though, I find myself walking through the house toward the main staircase, my feet carrying me toward my bedroom before I’ve actually decided to go there.
The master suite feels too large, too quiet, the king-size bed that once seemed appropriate now just emphasizing how alone I am in this oversized house. I close the door behind me and lean against it, reluctantly but finally admitting to myself what I’ve been fighting for days.
I want her.
Elena.
My son’s abandoned fiancée, my temporary wife, the woman who should be completely off-limits. I want to know what other sounds she makes, want to learn every inch of skin I haven’t explored yet, want to strip away every insecurity my idiot son planted in her head.
The want is sharp enough to cut, and inappropriate enough to make me hate myself for it.
I push away from the door and walk toward the ensuite bathroom, already reaching for my belt. If I can just… purge the need, maybe I can think clearly again, maybe I can remember why maintaining distance is the right thing to do, even if it feels like torture.
My clothes are off before a single part of me has a chance to consider what I’m doing, but I’m too lost in it already.
The shower is on, steam rising from it and fogging over the mirror, and then I’m stepping in, the water hot enough to scorch my skin.
I pray that it’s enough to drown out the images I can’t shake.
Elena, draped in nothing but golden light, the curve of her hip barely hidden by that damn comforter.
Elena, bare, throwing a pillow at me with anger in her eyes, almost every inch of her on display.
Elena, twisted under my hands in the penthouse suite, gasping my name like it was the only word she knew.
I don’t want to remember how she arched off the bed when my thumb swept the inside of her thigh.
I don’t want to hear the way her breath hitched when I murmured filthy praise against her skin.
And I don’t want to think about how she’d looked at me two days ago, challenging and furious and alive, like she was waiting to see if I’d cross the line she knew I’d drawn.
But my body doesn’t give a shit about what I want.
Steam fogs my vision as I brace one forearm against the tile wall, the other working over my cock with rough, punishing strokes.
Water burns down my spine, but it’s not enough to wash away the fantasies creeping in — how her thighs would tremble if I had her pressed against this same wall, how her nipples would harden under my tongue, how she’d whimper and gasp if I tilted her hips just like that—
Goddammit.
My grip tightens. The pressure builds, heat coiling in my gut like a snake ready to strike. Everything morphs — it’s not just my hand anymore, it’s her, vivid in my imagination. Her mouth. Her thighs. The slick grip of her pussy—
Stop, stop, stop—
A ragged groan rips from my throat. Disgusting. That’s what this is. She’s half my age, she was meant for my son, I’m meant to be taking care of her, for Christ’s sake, not beating off to the thought of her.
My hips jerk, betraying me.
In my head, she’s on her knees right here in this shower, her lashes damp and fluttering up at me, daring to take what she’s offering.
The fantasy burns too vividly. Her tongue tracing the head of my cock, my fingers tangled in her soaking hair, my name slipping from her lips between gasps for breath or gags.
And God, the sounds she’d make. No timid little sighs, no hesitant whimpers. She’d moan like she did in the penthouse suite, loud and messy and shameless, her body vibrating with need. She wouldn’t stop until I was spilling every drop down her throat—
“Fuck,” I choke out, loud and unhinged, my release slamming into me so violently that my knees nearly buckle. The spray rinses the evidence away in seconds, but the emptiness that follows is so much worse than the lust that was clouding my head.
I turn my face into the water, letting it scald me, half in punishment and half to clear my thoughts.
It’s not enough.
This isn’t enough.