Chapter Four: Fractures in the Light

The morning light was sharp, streaming through the gallery windows in fractured beams. Harry was already there, as he always was, organizing, adjusting, making the place hum with his quiet order. He wore that same look Naomi teased him about, the one that made him seem both present and unreachable at once.

Elena hesitated in the doorway. The letter she had tucked away in her desk drawer last night burned in her memory. She hadn’t meant to open that box inside herself, hadn’t meant to stir up ghosts she had worked so hard to bury. But one call from Harry, one look too direct, and her defenses had cracked.

And now, here she was drawn to him, yet desperate to keep her distance.

“Elena,” Harry said, his voice steady. He glanced up at her, those eyes too observant, too sharp. He noticed everything, even when she tried to hide.

She forced a thin smile and busied herself with the flyers stacked on a table. “We should finalize the order for next week’s exhibit. The new pieces from Lagos are arriving earlier than expected, and …”

“Elena.” His tone stopped her. Not sharp, not commanding. Just firm enough to pierce through the wall she was frantically trying to rebuild.

She kept her head down. “What?”

“You’re different today.”

The words caught her off guard. Of course he saw it. He always did. That was what frightened her most that he could read the small fractures she thought invisible.

“I’m just tired,” she said quickly. “Long night.”

Harry stepped closer, closing some of the distance. “That’s not it. You’re avoiding me.”

Her hands stilled on the flyers. Slowly, she looked up at him. His gaze was steady, but there was no anger in it. Only quiet persistence, the kind of patience that made her chest ache.

She swallowed. “Maybe I am.”

He tilted his head, waiting.

The silence pressed in until she couldn’t bear it. “Harry, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” His voice was low, careful.

“Be… around you. Around Naomi. Around this…” she gestured toward the space between them, trembling. “I want to. God, I want to. But you don’t understand what it feels like to carry a past that poisons every chance at trust.”

Harry’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes flickered just enough for her to see the crack in his own armor. He knew about poison. He knew about walls.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” he said quietly. “I just want honesty.”

Her laugh came sharp, almost bitter. “Honesty? You think I haven’t tried? My father…” She stopped, her throat tightening. She wasn’t ready to spill it all, not yet. But the truth slipped out anyway, raw and jagged. “He betrayed me in a way no man should betray his daughter. And I’ve never recovered from it. Every time I get close to trusting someone, every time I think maybe this time will be different I remember him. And it all turns to ash.”

The confession hung in the air, trembling between them.

Harry didn’t move at first. His hands stayed tucked in his pockets, his frame taut, as if bracing against her pain. For a moment, Elena thought he would retreat. That he’d hear her words and step back behind his walls, where no one could reach him.

But instead, he exhaled slowly. “Elena,” he said, softer now, “you’re not the only one with ghosts.”

The admission startled her. His tone carried weight, the kind that came from wounds too deep to name.

She searched his face, but his eyes had shifted guarded again, the doors slamming shut just as quickly as they’d opened. He wasn’t going to tell her, not yet.

That realization cut deeper than she expected.

She wanted to reach him, to be part of his life, part of Naomi’s laughter, part of the fragile world he kept so carefully under control. But her past held her like chains, whispering that she wasn’t worthy, that no man could be trusted, not even Harry DuBois.

Her voice broke when she finally spoke. “I don’t know how to let someone in without losing myself again.”

Harry’s eyes softened, but his stance stayed firm, almost immovable. “Then don’t decide today. Just… don’t walk away.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust that this time could be different. But the letter in her drawer, her father’s handwriting, her scars, it all pressed too close.

She shook her head. “I need to think”

“Elena!”

“Please, Harry. Don’t follow me.”

She turned and walked out before he could answer.

The gallery was quiet again, too quiet. Harry stood in the stillness, staring at the door she had just passed through. His chest ached with the weight of her confession, with the truth of her wounds.

And though he tried to steady himself, one thought clawed at him, relentless and raw:

She wants to be here. She wants me. But her past won’t let her.

And deep down, Harry feared his own walls might not let him either.

He went for her, called her name once more and she stopped, She broke off, swallowed hard, then forced herself on.

“I was fourteen, Harry. Fourteen when my father handed me over to a man three times his age. A rich man. A man who collected wives like cattle. And do you know why?” Her voice rose, sharp and trembling. “Because my father owed him money. Because my future was currency.”

The words cracked in the air, slicing through the quiet of the lounge.

Harry stood frozen, every muscle taut. His first instinct was anger not at her, but at the faceless men in her story. At a father who could betray so completely. At a man who saw her as an object, not a child. His fists clenched, the control he always kept pressed to the edge.

“Elena…” His voice was rough, too low, almost unrecognizable. He stepped toward her.

She shook her head violently. “Don’t. Don’t you dare pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” he said, his voice steadying with effort. “I’m listening. And I need you to keep talking.”

Her laugh was brittle, hollow. “You think digging into it will free me? That if I spill the filth out loud, I’ll suddenly be healed?”

Harry’s gaze held hers, unwavering. “Maybe not. But silence has chained you this long. You deserve to be free of it.”

The words scraped against her walls. She wanted to push him away, to retreat into the armor she’d worn for years. But something in his eyes something pained, something unspoken pulled her closer. He wasn’t standing there as a savior. He was standing there as someone who knew the weight of ghosts.

“I can’t..” Her voice broke. “You don’t know what it’s like to be betrayed by the one person who should protect you. To be sold off like…” She bit back a sob. “You don’t know.”

Harry flinched, just slightly. Because she was wrong. He did know betrayal, though not hers, not in the same way. He knew what it was to have love ripped away, to watch trust turn to ash, to stand helpless in the wreckage of choices that weren’t his.

But his walls surged up like always. His own story, the pain of his wife’s death, the questions that haunted him every night he wasn’t ready to open those doors. Not yet.

“Elena,” he said quietly, forcing calm into his voice though his chest ached, “I may not know exactly, but I know enough. Enough to understand you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Her eyes glistened, but her body stayed rigid, braced for impact. “And what if I let it out, Harry? What if I let you in, and it destroys me all over again?”

“Then I’ll be here,” he said, more firmly now, stepping closer. “Not as your father was. Not as that man was. As me. And I don’t break what I’m given.”

For a long, trembling moment, she searched his face, looking for cracks, for lies, for the false notes she’d learned to detect too young. But Harry’s eyes held steady dark, wounded, but unflinching.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted it so badly it scared her. But the letter in her drawer, the memory of her father’s betrayal, the scars on her soul they pressed like iron chains.

Her breath shook as she whispered, “I’m not ready.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He wanted to drag her pain into the light so it would stop festering in the dark. He wanted to rip down her walls even though his own towered just as high. But he stopped himself.

So he nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Then I’ll wait. But don’t run from me, Elena. Don’t run from this.”

Her lips parted, trembling. She looked as if she might speak, might finally let the dam burst. But then she turned away sharply, her hands shaking as she pushed past him toward the door.

“Please,” she whispered. “Not now. I need air.”

And she was gone, leaving Harry in the lounge, the fractured morning light spilling across the empty stage.

He stood there, his chest heavy, his mind a storm. She wanted freedom but couldn’t grasp it. He wanted her to open her heart, even though his own remained locked.

Harry didn’t let her go not this time. The door had barely closed before he followed, the evening air biting against his skin as he stepped into the narrow alley beside the lounge.

“Elena.” His voice carried, low but urgent.

She froze halfway down the path, arms wrapped around herself as though the night wind could strip her bare. Slowly, she turned, her face pale, her eyes shining with unshod tears.

“Why won’t you let me leave it buried?” she whispered. “Why do you keep pulling at wounds that never healed?”

“Because they’re still bleeding,” Harry said. He walked closer, careful, measured. “You think hiding them keeps you safe. But it doesn’t. It keeps you captive.”

Her throat bobbed, her jaw set. “And what about you?” she shot back. “You talk about chains, but I see the ones wrapped around you. You hide behind Naomi, behind your lounge, behind your damn walls. You ask me to open scars you’ve never shown me.”

The words hit him like a strike to the chest. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. His instinct was to deny it, to deflect like always. But her gaze sharp, demanding, desperate cut through every mask he wore.

“Elena…” His voice cracked, softer now. “You’re right. I have my ghosts. I’ve built my life around them. But I’m not asking you to trust me because I’m perfect. I’m asking you to trust me because I know what it means to drown alone.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, breath shaking. A war waged in her eyes, fear, anger, longing, hope.

“I can’t,” she whispered, the words breaking apart. “Harry, I can’t trust any man. Not after my father.” She stopped, shuddering.

He closed the distance between them, stopping just a step away. He didn’t touch her not yet. His voice was steady, quiet. “You don’t have to trust all men. Just one. Just me.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed she might collapse into him, let herself fall. The air between them vibrated with something raw, dangerous, real.

But then she pulled back, shaking her head fiercely. “I want to, Harry. God help me, I want to. But wanting and being able, they’re not the same.”

Her words sliced through him, sharper than rejection. Because he understood. Because he’d lived it. Because even as he stood there offering his strength, he knew he hadn’t faced his own shadows.

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Then Elena’s shoulders sagged. She looked away, her voice barely audible.

“Give me time. That’s all I can ask.”

Harry swallowed hard, nodded once. “Time,” he echoed. “But don’t shut me out.”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and searching. For a moment, neither moved. Then Elena turned, walking into the dark, her figure swallowed by the city’s hum.

Harry stood alone under the flickering streetlight, every muscle coiled, every memory pressing against him. She wanted him in her life, but the betrayal she’d endured it had pulled her backward.

And for the first time in years, Harry admitted to himself: maybe he wasn’t ready either.

He drew a long breath, staring at the night sky. Somewhere inside the lounge, the music had gone silent, leaving only the echo of their words hanging heavy in the air.