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Chapter 12

"You fucking didn't..." Liz mutters, shaking her head in disbelief as I recount the events of the previous night. I nod, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Wait till Sher or Monet hears about this. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant," she sighs, slumping back in her chair, while I fixate on the pattern of the white tablecloth, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

"Tell me at least he made you come," she leans in, whispering conspiratorially.

"Liz, cut it out. I... I completely lost it. I don't know. I just couldn't do it," I admit, still unable to lift my gaze.

"And may I ask why not? There are literally millions of women who orgasm to his photos. Some probably just from the sound of his voice. And you—you had him, right there, naked, and you... left." Her hands flail in frustration, wide-eyed.

"I know," I whisper, shaking my head. "I feel awful."

"I feel awful and I wasn't even there," she groans, then grabs her mug—her obscure organic, soy-based, half-decaf something—and takes a dramatic sip.

"What are you going to do, Ashley? We still have the video shoot today." The million-dollar question lands like a weight in my stomach.

I just shake my head. I honestly have no idea what I'm going to do. The thought of facing him again, after being that exposed, that vulnerable, is too much. And how I left... just vanished like a coward...

"No. No, no, no—I'm not doing this alone," she snaps. "I haven't prepared your part. Ashley, the shoot is today. You can't seriously be thinking about backing out."

"Elizabeth..." I plead.

"No, Ashley! You need to step the fuck up and do your thing. We're here to work. Don't let your insecurities—or whatever is going on in that overthinking brain of yours—derail everything. You owe this project more than that. You owe yourself more than that."

Her voice is sharp, but she's right.

By the time I'm standing with the director, flipping through the script and going over last-minute notes, I feel only marginally more composed. And then I see him.

Harry walks in, dressed in black, cool and composed, as if last night didn't happen—but his eyes are locked on me. He doesn't hesitate. In a heartbeat, he strides toward me, takes my arm, and leads me outside before anyone can protest. The director is visibly stunned.

My body is following him but my brain is scrambling, buzzing with panic. Outside, the air hits me with a jolt of clarity and shame. I still can't look at him, not after last night—after how I gathered my clothes in the dark and ran, leaving him naked, aroused, and probably completely confused.

"Ashley," his voice is calm—too calm.

"I'm sorry," I blurt. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry." I keep repeating it, shaking my head, my voice cracking like an old record. "I—I didn't mean to—"

His eyes search mine. I can feel tears welling up as the full weight of what I've done hits me. It wasn't about him. It was never about him. It was the memories, the loss, the guilt... Jason. Being that close with someone new, letting them in that far—it felt like betrayal. I know it's irrational. I know Jason's gone. But knowing and feeling are two very different things.

Harry just watches me. He doesn't flinch or recoil. He doesn't accuse or demand. His hands gently move from my arm to my hair, brushing it back, tucking it behind my ear as he tilts his head.

"It's okay," he says softly. "It's okay, love. Don't worry. It's fine."

And just like that, he pulls me in.