Chapter 70
Harry – POV
I step into the bathroom quietly, the fluorescent light hums overhead. For a second, I think it's just another empty space where I can splash some water on my face and breathe without feeling like I'm being watched or sized up.
But then I see him.
Ivan.
The star of today's shoot. The one everyone whispers about in the hallways like he's not just a model, but a myth.
He stands near the sinks, calm and radiant and devastating. Not in a dramatic way. In that effortless, dangerous kind of beauty. The type that makes you feel like a wrong-colored smudge just by standing near it.
My stomach sinks.
I turn on my heel to leave.
But his voice stops me.
"Wait. I wanted to talk to you."
I freeze.
My fingers twitch on the handle.
I turn slowly, unsure why I'm even listening.
He's just standing there—cool, elegant, perfect.
Of course he is.
And suddenly, I feel so aware of the oversized hoodie hanging off my shoulders, the dullness under my eyes, the way I've faded quietly into someone I barely recognize.
"How are you doing?" he asks softly.
That's when it hits me.
Pity.
That's what this is.
And I hate it.
"I don't need your pity," I snap, jaw clenched, heat prickling behind my eyes.
He doesn't flinch. Just folds his arms, composed and unreadable.
"It's not pity. It's sympathy," he says quietly.
"I've been in your exact position. I know what it's like. It's hell."
I swallow hard. My hands clench into fists at my sides. I want to throw something. Scream. Maybe even sob.
But I do what I always do. I attack.
"I'm fine. Unlike you, I don't beg. I don't need attention. I can handle it."
A cruel thing to say. I meant it to hurt.
And maybe it does, but his expression doesn't change.
"If you're handling it so well," he says softly, "then why are your eyes so empty?"
That breaks something.
My throat tightens.I look away.
Tears burn, unwanted and humiliating. But… there's also something quietly horrifying about being seen. About someone noticing the way I've unraveled. And not looking away.
"You don't understand," I whisper.
"He's… been through things. He's not like other people. He doesn't understand emotions, love… he needs patience and understanding"
Even I hear the desperation in my voice.
Ivan exhales like someone who's heard this before—too many times.
"And how much of yourself are you going to lose in the process, Harry?" he asks gently.
I grit my teeth.
"You don't get it. I have nothing without him."
And I don't even realize I've said it aloud until the words hang there like broken glass.
He nods slowly, eyes dimming.
"That's exactly why he picks us."
His voice isn't angry. It's tired. Worn down from knowledge he didn't want to carry.
"You, me, and all the ones before us. Dorian chooses the ones who are already breaking. The orphans. The quiet ones. The debt-ridden. The overlooked. We're barely holding on, and he offers us something that looks like love but it's really just money. And then he breaks us further. Just enough so we don't know how to leave."
I want to scream.
I want to tell him to shut up.
Because everything he's saying…
I already know.
I just can't face it.
Not yet.
No.
If I admit it, then it means the last few years of my life were just survival in pretty clothes.
That it was all for nothing.
I turn to leave.
But his voice stops me one last time.
"When you go home tonight," Ivan says, stepping past me, "look in the mirror. Really look. And ask yourself if the person staring back is who you want to be for the rest of your life."
He taps my shoulder once.
And then he's gone.
The door swings shut behind him, and I'm left in a bathroom that suddenly feels far too quiet.