The TV glow lit up the dimly lit room, outlining the figure who stood by the window, arms crossed, the volume just loud enough. A news anchor's voice filtered through the rerun of Isabella's press release:
***"Earlier today, the Montez Conglomerate broke its silence following the recent leak of private and explicit content involving heiress, Isabella Montez. The press conference, held at Montez headquarters, featured a composed yet visibly shaken Isabella, flanked by PR advisor Señor Guapo and none other than Harry Danvers - the elusive co-founder of Aegis Sentinel Solutions, known for his notoriously private profile. When asked why he was personally handling the Montez case, Danvers gave a response that has since sent the internet buzzing. Take a look."***
The clip of the press release began to play and the figure pushed away from the window to reveal a frowning Harry. His eyes focused on a poised Isabella standing on a podium, row of microphones stretched before her, camera flashes going off. The frown on Harry's face deepened as Señor Guapo took the podium beside Isabella, his carefully rehearsed tone filling the room.
*Already talking too much. Typical. He had the mic but it was her presence that sold it. Held it together better than anyone had a right to. She's stronger than she gives herself credit for.*
She was wearing a cream double-breasted pantsuit — the blazer cinched at the waist, buttons marching down like they had somewhere to be and the trousers falling into a graceful flare around her ankles, strapped into a nude stiletto.
*How the hell does she always look that good in office wear?*
Harry paused the replay with a tap of the remote and the screen froze on Isabella as she was about to answer a question. Her hands were clasped and as the replay continued, her voice faltered for half a second.
He muttered under his breath and threw back the last of the whiskey in his glass, welcoming the burn.
***"...This is not just about me - it's about drawing a line between scandal and abuse. No one deserves to be violated and then crucified for it."***
Harry nodded in approval at Isabella's words, pushing back the memories and pain those words evoked.
*Maybe if she had a little more faith in herself, she wouldn't have let that Señor handle the press.*
***"Mr. Danvers! A question, please —if you rarely handle cases yourself, why take this one personally?"
"Because I know what it's like."
"Are you implying there was a personal stake?"
"I'm implying I don't like bullies. Including those that hide behind cameras and performative questions."***
"Which media was that again?" Harry murmured as he scrolled the internet on his ipad. Xander had let him know that the press release hadn't done as much good as they had predicted.
*Señor incompetent Guapo*
He had given it a few days. A few days for online commentary to surface, articles and edits to be circulating.
*Enough days for Señor Guapo to do his damn job.*
The anchor's voice filtered in again:
***"Mr. Danvers surely has a way with words and Sources say Isabella Montez will remain under Aegis protection for the foreseeable future. Though she declined to comment further..."***
Harry turned away, jaw tight, eyes stormy. He shrugged on a hoodie, the Sound of the TV becoming a hum in the background as he made for the door, his shoulders tensed.
*Time for that backup plan.*
Harry cut through the open-concept kitchen toward the business wing and paused - a light was on. The kitchen was lit - and it shouldn't have been. The ground floor lights were always off before bed. It was an unspoken rule in the Danvers family. Harry's brows furrowed as he crept to the kitchen threshold.
A figure leaned on the island, one elbow resting on the surface, barefooted and wrapped in a robe. The light lit up unmistakable ginger. Harry's brows relaxed.
*Of course, it's her.*
Isabella hunched over her phone, her hair spilling around her like a cocoon — soft armor for whatever she was scrolling. Harry leaned against the wall, hands buried in his joggers.
"Don't you have a house?"
Isabella's head snapped up, hair falling into her face, eyes wide. She tucked her hair away and squinted at him.
She lowered her gaze. "I love being harassed on borrowed property. Really adds to the trauma."
Harry shook his head. "Sarcasm is like your default setting."
Isabella's eyes lifted to him slowly, brows pinched. Something in his words echoed — but it slipped away. She rolled her eyes. "And being a jerk is yours?"
"And here I thought we came to a mutual ceasefire."
Isabella arched an eyebrow. "We did? Sorry, didn't get the memo."
Despite her nonchalance, Isabella knew exactly what he was talking about: they'd worked together, closely, these past three days. Surprisingly well. Too well.
*Not that I'm ever going to tell him that.*
And there was the fact that she bristled at the thought of him playing savior, as if she was some charity case, which is why she had brought up money. When she'd insisted on paying him, he'd gone silent. Just stared at her - too long, too sharp. It felt like he'd seen right through her. And that had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. The man's attitude was already unbearable, the last thing she needed was to be indebted to him.
*He probably thinks he's the king of the tribe of Judah. Pfft.*
Her gaze betrayed her, sliding down before she could stop it — he wore a hoodie over a black singlet with the sleeves bunched up to his elbows. Veins ran up his forearm, disappearing under bunched sleeves. Harry ignored the snark in her voice and stepped closer, noticing the screen.
He frowned and nodded towards her phone. "You shouldn't be reading that crap."
Isabella scoffed, "I don't need a babysitter, Danvers, stick to strategies. Besides, it's called staying informed and knowing what I'm up against."
Harry noticed the flash of hurt in her eyes, the slight tremble of the hand that came up to tuck away a tendril. She wasn't as unaffected as she wanted to be. But at least her eyes weren't puffy anymore. At least she was standing. She was a mess, but a functioning, fighting mess.
His voice dropped to a whisper, "I told you I'd handle it."
She looked at him — unreadable, guarded, "And I let Guapo handle it. We both survived."
Harry crossed his arms, lips turned down in disapproval. "Guapo should stick to courtrooms. If he'd let me or you handle it, we wouldn't be trending for his condescending tone: the man cut off a journalist mid-question like he was moderating a debate, then compared your situation to a camera flash — brief but blinding." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Right. Because nothing screams trauma like bad metaphors and PR panic." He took a step closer, eyes scanning her face. "It took everything not to yank him off that podium. You call that surviving?"
Isabella tilted her chin defiantly, "That's rich coming from someone who attacked a reporter, albeit with words." She arched an eyebrow.
"If you call that an attack, I do like to hear what you think of my actual attack." He took another step closer and Isabella took one back, craning her neck to look at him. "Don't act like you didn't like that slap to their face and it was chalked up to my infamous media absence. Why are you still letting him handle this? You held more sway on that podium than he ever could but yet, you let yourself shrink behind him..." *Like you've to be there to fight.* "They broke your wings. FINE. But you've claws —why aren't you using them?"
THEY BROKE YOUR WINGS. YES. BUT YOU HAVE CLAWS, RED. I HAVE SEEN THEM. USE IT!
The words from one of those post-it notes tucked away in Isabella's dresser echoed through Harry's words and her brow furrowed, confusion etched deep in her face. Her gaze met his, and Harry saw it —the uncertainty, the fire behind her eyes faltering. Not weakness - just a quiet, desperate kind of tired. And he saw it. The cost. The weight. The line she didn't want him crossing. So he stopped.
He took a few steps back, putting distance between them. Isabella tilted her head, gaze narrowing. "That thing you said... about wings and claws."
Harry's jaw ticked.
"Where did you–" she hesitated. Her voice was softer now, wary. "Why does that sound familiar?"
He looked at her—longer than he should have. Then, colder than before: "Is that all you got from what I said?"
The glare that followed was pure shutdown — warning and retreat all in one. Isabella blinked. once. Twice. And then her gaze dropped.
*What? He says a few words in a press release and you jump to conclusion? Who is to say he even knows what it's like? It's PR girl, he could have said that to draw empathy. Serves you right for hoping. People don't believe in miracles for a reason.*
She shut her eyes and took a deep breath in, grounding herself.
The silence stretched.
And then— Harry, like he hadn't just scorched the air between them asked. "How's your dad taking the fallout?"
Isabella gave him a sour look. "Why would I tell you that? So you can report back to your personal FBI file on me?" She moved to the fridge as she spoke.
She pulled it open and leaned in, scanning for a quick bite.
*I'm not even that hungry.*
"You stealing my food again?"
Isabella rolled her eyes and turned to him, arching a brow. "Well, Mr. Petty, Would you prefer I starve?"
Her eyes lit with an idea and she grinned at Harry. "Or you—"
Harry raised a finger to stop her. "You're not expecting me to cook again, are you?"
After crying herself dry the day she was given the contract, Isabella had slept deep into the night — only to wake to hunger gnawing low in her belly. She wandered into the kitchen to hunt for something to eat, still debating her options when Harry walked in. He gave her a look, grunted under his breath and whipped something up. He took a share for himself and disappeared back upstairs. Needless to say, she had pounced on the leftovers.
Isabella leaned forward in a mock-sweet voice. "Does a girl have to bring the seven demons of hell to their knees to get a little princess treatment around here?"
"If the girl isn't my mum, my sister or my girlfriend, yes."
Isabella snorted. "Who in their right mind would want to be your girlfriend? That would be like dating a really hot trauma response."
And just like that, the air tightened. Isabella glanced at him, hoping he hadn't heard her. His eyes bored into her and for the life of her, she couldn't look away. His grey-charcoal eyes blackened — like a storm was brewing behind them.
It was mesmerizing and terrifying —the kind of thing that made you lean in while instinct screamed at you to run. Harry took a step towards her and his lips parted, like he was about to say something. He paused, then cleared his throat. "I have to handle a few things. Don't burn the place down."
He walked away and Isabella watched as he did. She blinked the moment he was out of sight, looking around the kitchen like she wasn't supposed to be there. Her mind reeled.
Wh—what was that? Ugh. Why did I've to go and say that? Estúpida. Estúpida.
Her eyes went to the still open refrigerator and she scoffed, pushing it shut with a leg. "I'm not hungry anyway."
Her mind went to the note that had echoed in her head and she hurried to the stairs, mumbling under her breath how she might have been deluding herself.
*I'm probably overthinking it. It's been forever since I let myself hope. Just...Doesn't hurt to check.*