Chapter Sixty Six

Chapter Sixty Six
The front door of the penthouse shut with a heavy, muted click, sealing out the damp morning chill of the Capital.

Saint pulled off his dark cap, scarf, and oversized coat, tossing the disguise onto the living room sofa in a crumpled heap. His hands,still bound in white medical tape,throbbed with a dull ache, but his mind was far more exhausted than his body. There was a hollow weight in his chest, a bitter mix of relief, regret, and residual adrenaline.

He rubbed his face with his bare wrist and headed straight for the kitchen. His throat was dry, and every nerve in his body demanded something sharp to numb the throbbing behind his eyes. He reached into the cabinet, pulling out a fresh crystal bottle, and was just about to twist off the cap when a soft creak echoed from the hallway.

Saint jumped, his muscles snapping taut as he spun around, glass held like a weapon.

The master bedroom door swung open smoothly. Stepping out into the hallway, looking entirely relaxed, was Harry Benson.

Saint’s jaw dropped. His hangover seemed to double in intensity instantly. "Harry?! What the fuck?"

Harry walked calmly into the kitchen, his posture unhurried and fluid. Without asking, he reached out, his large, warm hand closing over Saint's fingers to gently take the bottle away. He set it down on the marble island and clicked the cap firmly back into place.

"You know you don't act right with this," Harry said, his deep voice carrying a quiet, unbothered authority.

Saint stared at him in utter disbelief, his hands flying up to his temples. "What are you still doing here? I thought..." He gestured wildly toward the front door. "I thought you left hours ago!"

Harry offered a slow, maddening smile, leaning his hip against the edge of the island. "You thought wrong."

He gestured down at his attire,a pair of soft, charcoal-grey cotton pajama pants and a loose dark t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest.

"I didn't know you still knew my size, you know," Harry added softly, a light, teasing glint in his dark eyes.

Saint rolled his eyes so hard it hurt his forehead. "Don't flatter yourself. Those belong to some random guy."

Harry pouted, adjusting the drawstring at his waist with a deliberate, exaggerated flick. "Doesn't matter. They're still in your house, and they fit me."

"Get out of my house, Harry," Saint snapped, his voice dropping into a hard, uncompromising line as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't have time for this. I just had to deal with your unhinged son, I have a blinding headache, and I don't need the titan of the shipping industry lounging around my kitchen in second-hand sleepwear."

"I'm not doing anything," Harry replied calmly, completely immune to Saint's sharp tone.

"I have work to do," Saint insisted, turning on his heel.

"I won't bother you," Harry offered, stepping around the island to follow him at a leisurely pace. "Most likely, I could even help you."

Saint let out a long, dramatic sigh that sounded like a groan, shaking his head as he walked down the corridor toward his home office.

The room was a minimalist dream,lined with drafting tables, rolled-up blueprints, high-end monitors, and a sleek leather sofa against the far wall. Saint ran several freelance architectural design projects on the side, and even though his older brother officially ran the family's corporate enterprises, Saint still had a mountain of financial logs and design approvals to review.

He sat down in his heavy leather desk chair and booted up his screens, hoping the glow of the monitors would act as a barrier. But his jaw tightened as the office door clicked open, and Harry strolled inside without a shred of hesitation.

Saint groaned again, slumping back in his chair. "Do you have no empire to run, Mr. Benson?"

Harry didn't answer with words. He simply crossed the room, sat down on the leather sofa, pulled his smartphone from his pocket, and tapped open a mindless puzzle game. He leaned his head back against the cushions, completely at ease, the quiet bloop-bloop of his game ambient noise in the room.

Saint stared at him for a full minute, waiting for the absurdity to break. When Harry didn't move, Saint let out one final, defeated sigh and turned back to his keyboard.

For the next three hours, the office fell into a strange, improbable rhythm.

Saint threw himself into his work with desperate focus. He reviewed structural stress calculations for a commercial tower, drafted replies to demanding clients, and approved budget lines for his brother's firm. The clicking of his mouse and the furious tapping of his keys filled the room, punctuated only by the occasional soft hum from Harry on the couch.

Around 1:00 PM, Saint finally stopped typing. His eyes burned, and his neck felt like it was locked in iron. He leaned back, taking off his blue-light glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He glanced over at the sofa.

The game sound had stopped. Harry was asleep.

The powerful, terrifying patriarch who could crush corporate rivals with a single phone call was completely prone. His broad shoulders were relaxed, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy cycles. Without his tailored suits and stern boardroom glare, his silvered temples and the faint lines around his eyes gave him a soft, vulnerable look that Saint hadn't seen in years.

Saint stood up quietly, his boots making no sound on the rug as he crossed the room. He stood directly over the sofa, looking down at the man who had occupied his mind, his bed, and his rage.

Saint lifted his right hand, pulling his fist back as if he were actually going to punch the sleeping billionaire right in his handsome, arrogant jaw. His knuckles tightened, his throat constricting with the sudden, sharp memory of everything this man represented.

He held his fist there for three long seconds.

Then, his shoulders dropped. Saint let out a quiet, defeated sigh, his hand uncurling.

He stepped over to the coat rack near the office door, pulled down one of his heaviest, longest dark winter coats, and walked back. With slow, careful movements, Saint unfolded the thick wool coat and draped it gently over Harry’s sleeping body, tucking the collar up around Harry’s broad shoulders to keep out the office draft.

As the heavy fabric settled over Harry, a sudden, blinding memory hit Saint like a physical strike to the chest.



Five years ago.

The apartment had smelled of cheap coffee, old paper, and rainy afternoons.

Saint had Harry pinned against the sunlit brick wall near the entryway of a tiny, cramped studio apartment above a quiet corner street. Saint’s hands,younger, unscarred, and free of bandages,were buried deep in the lapels of a worn tweed jacket.

"You're late already," Harry had murmured, his voice laced with that warm, familiar rumble as his hands rested gently against Saint's waist.

"So?" Saint had grinned, leaning in until their noses brushed, his eyes bright with the uninhibited arrogance of a brilliant young architecture student. "Is it every day I get to see you?"

Saint had leaned forward and kissed him,a deep, sweet, utterly unhurried kiss that tasted of cinnamon tea and morning rain.

Harry had let out a soft groan into the kiss, though he slowly pulled back an inch, his dark eyes filled with a subtle, protective melancholy. "This won't end well, Saint."

"I don't want it to end," Saint whispered fiercely, pressing another quick kiss to Harry’s jaw.

"Saint..."

Harry had slipped deftly out of his grip, stepping back toward the small bathroom with a white towel tightly wrapped around his broad waist, his damp skin catching the sunlight.

Saint had slumped against the wall, crossing his arms and pouting like a rewarded child who wanted more. "You're being stingy."

"Stingy?" Harry had laughed, a rich, effortless sound as he adjusted the towel. "I've been here all weekend. You have to go to school, Saint. And I need to go to work. You know money doesn't grow on trees."

Saint had chuckled, shaking his head at the older man's practical lecture. "So serious, Mr. Bookworm."

Back then, Saint hadn't known about the shipping fleets. He hadn't known about the harbor board, the millions in private accounts, or the Benson legacy. Back then, Harry had introduced himself simply as a middle-class antique bookstore owner who liked quiet afternoons and young, ambitious art students. He had lived in a small, rented walk-up, driven an old sedan, and hidden his entire empire behind a worn tweed jacket just to be loved for who he was.

Saint blinked, the memory dissolving back into the quiet grey light of his modern penthouse office.

He stood beside the sofa, his hand lingering on the dark wool coat resting over Harry's chest. Harry stirred slightly beneath the weight, letting out a soft, comfortable sigh, but remained asleep.

Saint looked down at him, his heart heavy with a profound, terrifying ache. The bookstore owner had been a lie, a beautiful, golden fantasy constructed out of deception. But as Saint looked at the man sleeping on his couch, he realized the terrifying truth he had been running from for years, he hadn't just fallen for the lie. He had fallen for the man behind it.

Saint quietly turned and walked back to his desk in silence.