Chapter 123 – Harry POV
They're out for blood.
I switch off the TV with trembling fingers. The screen cuts to black, but the headlines keep echoing in my head.
"Gold Digger of the Century!"
"Runway Omega or Criminal Mastermind?"
"Dorian Speaks: 'He Was Never Loyal.'"
It's Ivan's face they're tearing apart. His voice, his body, his choices. His past. Or some twisted, tabloid Frankenstein version of it. I've only met him a handful of times, but this?
This isn't him. The only negative trait I can think of is his narcissism but even that is justified given how he looks like.
He didn't have to, but he saved me from my life with Dorian, hell after he even offered me an apartment in his building.I turned it down.
I don't know why, not really.
Maybe because I needed warmth, not just safety. Not just distance from Dorian—but closeness with someone, not just anyone if I'm being honest. Mason.
He says it's fine, that I'm not a burden. He says I can stay as long as I need. That he likes having me around.
But it's hard to believe that sometimes.
I've taken over his bed, his living room, his life. I sleep beside him now because it's the only place the nightmares don't reach me. I feel safe here. I feel…okay.
My therapist says I need to let go of the guilt. That safety isn't something I have to earn.
But it's hard. I spent years learning that love came with conditions. That comfort was temporary. That kindness had a price tag I couldn't afford.
The front door clicks open.
I glance up just in time to see Mason kick off his sneakers and peel off his hoodie, tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. He's drenched—fresh from a run—skin glistening, shirt clinging like a second skin. He pulls it off near the door, abs catching the morning light, joggers slung low on his hips like a sin I wasn't ready to witness before caffeine.
And just like that—
I forget how to breathe.
There's a reason he made it into the Top Ten Sexiest Men list four years in a row. Mason Greene. People's favorite heartthrob. A-list actor.
But when he's here with me? He's just Mason.
Still too gorgeous. Still casually illegal. But quieter. Gentler. Realer.
"Awake already?" he says, walking further into the kitchen, like he doesn't know he's a visual offense this early in the morning.
"Yeah," I say, averting my gaze like it'll save my soul. "It's an early day."
Mason crosses the room and—like it's the most natural thing—reaches out and runs his hand through my hair. Soft. Familiar. Calming.
"Breakfast?" he asks, voice rough from the run. Or maybe sleep. Or maybe just him.
I blink up at him. "You're cooking?"
"I can assemble," he says with a lopsided grin. "Toast counts."
I huff a laugh. Quiet, involuntary. The sound startles me. It's been happening more lately—these little slips of light cracking through.
He throws together breakfast while I linger at the counter, watching. Watching the way he moves barefoot across tile like he owns the place. Which, okay, he does. But it's not the real estate that gets to me.
It's the fact that he makes space for me in it.
His toast is a little burnt. His scrambled eggs are mostly edible. The orange juice is perfect, though—I suspect he didn't make it.
We eat in easy silence. Familiar. Safe.
"Seen the news about Ivan?" I ask, reaching for the juice again.
Mason glances up, expression tightening just a little. "I have. It's absurd, really."
"Tell me about it."
"But," he says, tone thoughtful now, "if there's anyone who can survive this circus and come out standing—it's Ivan Orlov."
He unlocks his phone and turns the screen toward me.
I nearly choke on my drink.
Ivan just posted on social media. A photo. Blatantly cropped but unmistakable. His hand resting on a very muscular, very familiar abdomen. A wedding ring gleams obnoxiously on his finger. The caption?
Woke up, alive, healthy, and with my pot of gold.
I snort. "Oh my God."
"He's fine," Mason says, shaking his head in awe. "He's actually fine."
"No, he's thriving."
And for a moment, we both just laugh.
Me—in pajamas, sitting in Mason's kitchen, drinking juice like I belong here.
Him—barefoot and shirtless, smiling over the rim of his coffee.
It's quiet.
Warm.