Only Angel 2 [h.s] AU

Temporary fix

Harry's POV
Seattle.

Seattle's always been cold, even when the sun's out. There's a certain sharpness in the air, like everything's constantly reminding you to stay alert. On your feet. Don't get comfortable.

It suits me.

The city moves fast, works faster, and forgets quicker. I used to think that was a bad thing. Now I understand it's survival.

It's been nearly two months since the interview.

Since her.

I haven't thought about it much—not consciously. I work. I sleep. Sometimes. I eat what I can between meetings, when I remember to. Most nights I'm too wired to rest and too numb to care. Seattle keeps me busy. Fox Enterprises needed expansion. It got one. The company's flourishing, and I'm the face of it. The name behind the legacy. I show up, say the right things, nod at the right people, shake hands I never remember later.

There's a part of me that thrives in the schedule. In control.

Because the minute I stop, the quiet comes in.

And that's when I remember the things I swore I buried. The things I don't have the language for. So I keep moving.

Meetings fill my mornings. Press runs my afternoons. The gym takes what's left of my evenings. But even that... dulls. You can only run five miles or spar with your trainer so many times before your body adjusts, and the adrenaline fades. So I find other outlets.

Seattle has a lot of secrets. Some are more exclusive than others.

Colson was the one who first mentioned it—offhand, months ago over drinks, a smirk on his lips. "There's a place men like us go when our hands need something to do and our brain won't shut off."

I didn't ask him what that meant until recently.

Turns out, he wasn't lying.

It's not a brothel. Not officially. No signs, no advertising. Just a coded invitation, a membership fee with enough zeroes to ward off the broke and curious. A private club. Discretion guaranteed. And they know exactly who they're catering to.

It's not romantic. It's not intimate. It's not meant to be.

It's clean floors and glass walls and red velvet drapes that don't hide much. A collection of women—some masked, some not. Some fully clothed, most not. There are rules, and there are none. You play if you want. Watch if you'd rather. Talk, touch, command, pay. No one asks questions.

And the best part?

No one pretends it's love.

It's been a decent distraction, the club.

Not perfect. Not lasting. But enough.

While they tear down the wall in my penthouse—making room for the new playroom—I've needed somewhere to go. Somewhere that doesn't echo with every footstep. The noise of demolition during the day is bearable. At night, the silence is worse.

I didn't plan to rebuild the playroom, not at first. I told myself I didn't need it anymore. That part of me could stay buried in New York, like everything else I left behind. But old habits die hard. And if I was going to stay in Seattle, I needed the room back. Bigger this time. Higher ceilings. Better acoustics. Space for furniture I hadn't used in years.

Control. That's what it all comes back to.

The club offered a placeholder in the meantime. A setting where power was understood, not questioned. Women who didn't want anything except what you told them to want. No strings. No apologies. No conversations that lingered long after they were over.