Chapter Sixty Seven

Chapter Sixty Seven
The late afternoon sun was beginning to cast long, golden slashes across the office floorboards.

Harry stirred on the leather sofa, his heavy head tilting dangerously off the edge of the cushions. Before his neck could snap backward, a warm, firm hand caught the back of his head, holding him steady.

The touch woke Harry instantly. His dark eyes flickered open, heavy with sleep, and settled directly on Saint standing over him.

Saint pulled him up by the shoulders until Harry was sitting upright on the couch, his long dark winter coat sliding off his broad chest onto his lap.

"You're gonna break your neck," Saint muttered, his voice raspy. "Get up from here."

"Saint..." Harry murmured, his voice thick and rough. Instead of moving away, Harry leaned his cheek into the palm of Saint's hand, rubbing against the warm skin and the white medical gauze wrapped around Saint's knuckles like a devoted, starving man.

Saint took a sharp breath, biting his bottom lip so hard it nearly bled. His throat constricted, every nerve ending screaming at him to pull back, yet his hand remained anchored to Harry's jaw. "Harry. Stop."

"Why?" Harry whispered, looking up through dark lashes.

Harry’s large hand reached out, his fingers catching the buttons of Saint’s suit jacket, undoing them one by one. He leaned in, his breath warm against Saint's throat.

A wave of helpless desire rushed through Saint's veins. He clamped both hands around the sides of Harry’s head, leaning down and capturing his lips in a fierce, desperate kiss that tasted of lingering cognac and unresolved years. Harry let out a low moan into the kiss, his hands slipping beneath Saint’s open jacket, sliding inside his shirt to feel the feverish heat of Saint’s skin.

The moment Harry’s bare fingers pressed against his ribs, Saint snapped back.

He ripped himself away, taking two large steps back into the center of the office, his chest heaving, his mouth slightly bruised.

"No!" Saint breathed hard, his hands flying up defensively. "We can't do this."

Harry blinked up at him from the sofa, looking thoroughly undone, a rare whimpering sound escaping his throat. "Why not?"

Saint stared at him, blinking as if trying to clear a thick haze from his mind. "You're fucking married! For one. And I... I don't..."

"Don't lie and say you don't want me," Harry interrupted, standing up from the sofa, his imposing height filling the room as he adjusted his clothes. "I know from last night you do."

Saint’s eyes flared with a dangerous, golden light. "Fine! I might... but that doesn't change the fact that you are my number one enemy! After what you did, I'm supposed to forgive you? Be your what? A secret? Your little side piece while you play family man in the newspapers?"

"Saint..." Harry stepped forward, his voice dropping into an entreating rumble.

"No," Saint commanded, pointing a trembling finger toward the office door. "Leave."

Saint turned on his heel and stormed out of the home office, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

Harry stood alone in the quiet study for a long minute. Slowly, he picked up his clothes from the floor, pulled on his tailored charcoal suit, and left the penthouse without another word.

By the time Harry arrived at his sprawling suburban estate in the North Heights, it was nearly 5:00 PM.

The massive mansion was quiet. Tommy was nowhere to be found,his assistant had informed Harry on the drive over that Tommy had refused to come home after his release and was currently holed up at one of his private high-rise apartments in the city center.

As Harry walked into the grand marble foyer, the sharp click of high heels echoed down the hallway.

Standing near the kitchen island, holding a glass of iced water, was Brica Benson. She was impeccably dressed in a cream silk blouse and tailored trousers, her hair pulled back into an elegant knot.

"Oh. Hello, husband," Brica said, her tone dripping with smooth, icy sarcasm. "How lovely of you to show your face."

Harry closed his eyes briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not now, please, Brica."

"Where are you coming from?" she asked, leaning against the counter.

Harry licked his dry lips. "I... uh... was sorting some things out about Tommy’s bail."

Brica let out a short, hollow laugh. "Don't lie, Harry. I hate it when you lie. Plus—"

She reached into her designer leather handbag, pulled out a thick envelope, and tossed a stack of glossy photographs across the marble counter. They spilled out face-up.

They were crystal-clear shots of Harry entering Saint’s luxury penthouse building late last night, followed by shots of him leaving nearly twenty hours later in the same suit.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the pictures. "You're having me followed?"

"Just what a loyal wife does," Brica replied coldly, crossing her arms. "Now, what were you doing in that young man's house?"

Harry looked away toward the grand staircase, trying to summon his usual corporate armor. "I had gone to confront him about Tommy’s arrest."

Brica glanced ostentatiously at her gold wrist watch. "All night? Till five in the afternoon?"

Harry licked his lips, his jaw setting into a tight, defensive line. He looked directly at his wife, dropping the lies completely.

"Fine!" Harry snapped, his deep voice echoing through the high ceilings. "I missed him."

Brica’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits, her manicured fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter until her knuckles turned white.

"You're breaking our agreement now," Brica hissed, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "Imagine if the press saw this. Imagine if our parents saw this! Harry, be careful now."

Harry exhaled a heavy, dismissive breath. "There's no need for alarm... it won't happen again. He hates me."

Brica let out a bitter, mocking snort, pouring herself another glass of water. "Well, at least you got dick. I've been starving myself for a decade."

Harry rolled his eyes, turning toward his private study. "Who's asking you not to cheat?"

"Because, you dumbass," Brica snapped, her composure cracking completely, "both our parents are homophobic witches who would take every single cent and company share away from us if they found out! I can't be caught with a woman, and you can't be caught with a man! Not till they fucking die... or at the very least go completely senile!"

Harry stopped in the doorway, his broad shoulders slumping. He looked back at his wife,the woman he had entered a cold, transactional lavender marriage with fifteen years ago just to satisfy two powerful, traditional dynasties.

"At this point," Harry said softly, his voice devoid of anger, sounding entirely drained, "I really don't care about the money."

Without waiting for her reply, Harry walked into his dark study and closed the door behind him, leaving Brica standing alone in the grand, empty house.