HERMIONE
I woke up to the scent of something warm and rich—coffee, maybe. For a moment, I forgot where I was. The bed beneath me was still too plush, too perfect, and the sunlight streaming through the barely parted curtains was softer than it ever was in my apartment.
Then I turned my head.
He was sitting in the armchair by the window.
Dylan.
His black T-shirt was slightly rumpled, and he had a mug in one hand, his phone in the other. He hadn't seen me stir yet. He looked… relaxed. The sharp angles of his face had softened in the morning light, and there was a quiet ease in the way he sat, one ankle resting on his knee, brow slightly furrowed as he scrolled.
I watched him for a moment, silently. It felt like spying on something sacred.
And then he looked up—like he felt me watching.
A slow smile curved his lips. "Morning."
His voice was rough with sleep, low and warm, and it tugged something deep inside me.
"Morning," I whispered back, voice raspy.
"Did you sleep okay?" he asked, setting his phone aside and standing.
"Eventually," I said, stretching a little beneath the covers.
He came over and sat on the edge of the bed, handing me a fresh cup of coffee from the tray I hadn't noticed on the nightstand.
"For you."
I took it carefully, fingers brushing his. "You made this?"
He shrugged like it was no big deal, but there was something in his eyes that said it was.
"I remembered how you like it. One sugar, splash of cream."
My heart did a little somersault. "You remembered?"
"I remember everything about you."
His tone was quiet but sure, and I couldn't look away.
God, what was he doing to me?
I sipped the coffee just to break the intensity, letting the warmth coat my throat and distract me.
He watched me, eyes flicking over my face like he was memorizing me all over again.
"Want breakfast?" he asked. "I can make something. Or we can order in."
"You cook?"
He smirked. "I own five restaurants. I can definitely cook."
"Well," I said with a teasing smile, "this I have to see."
But just as he leaned in like he was about to say something back—his phone buzzed on the table.
He glanced at it, and for a second, his jaw tightened.
"What is it?" I asked gently.
He picked it up and sighed, the easy morning energy shifting.
"My father."
The way he said it—flat, heavy—made my heart sink a little.
He didn't say more, but he didn't have to.
I reached for his hand. "You don't have to answer."
He looked down at our joined fingers, then back at me, some of the tension melting.
"I know. But I should."
He kissed the back of my hand softly, then stood.
"I'll take it in the other room. Don't go anywhere."
I nodded, watching him walk away.
And just like that, the outside world slipped in through the cracks.
But the warmth lingered. The coffee in my hand. The faint scent of him on the pillow beside me. The memory of his voice saying, I remember everything about you.
Even if the day ahead wasn't perfect, this morning had been. And I'd hold onto that.
DYLAN
I step into my private study, shutting the door behind me. The second it clicks shut, I answer.
"Father."
"Dylan," he greets, voice clipped and always a bit impatient. "We need to discuss the Voss & Carrington merger. Their board is pushing back on our latest clause. If we don't get them to agree by Monday, the entire schedule will shift."
I exhale slowly, glancing out the tall windows at the skyline. "Then push harder. They need this merger more than we do. Offer a revised clause—slightly adjusted equity terms, but we retain all controlling shares."
A pause.
"Hm." The old man always pauses before he concedes that I'm right. "I'll have the legal team draft a new outline. You'll need to be on the call with the Carringtons at eight tomorrow."
"Done."
I hear him grumble something under his breath—likely about me being too calm for his liking.
Then, unexpectedly, a new voice cuts in.
"Dylan, sweetheart?"
My spine straightens instantly. "Mom?"
"She snatched the phone out of my hand," my father mutters in the background. "As usual."
I hear her soft chuckle before she clears her throat. "Your father thinks numbers are the most important thing in life. I disagree."
"Of course you do," I say with a smirk, sinking into the leather chair behind the desk.
"You're thirty-one, Dylan," she begins. "You have more power than any man your age. You've taken the company global. You fly private. You sit on every important board. But tell me—what do you really come home to?"
I sigh. "We're doing this again?"
"Yes. Because every time I ask, you dodge me." Her voice becomes softer, sneakier. "It's time you started building a family, darling. A real one. I want grandchildren. I want to see you come home to someone who actually makes you smile—not those models your father sends to every party."
My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in being matched up like a royal prince."
"Then stop making me wonder if you're secretly married to the job. At least date someone real, Dylan. Someone who doesn't treat you like an ATM."
I pause.
"...I already have a girlfriend."
Silence.
Then, "What?"
"I said I have a girlfriend."
Another pause—this one more theatrical.
"You? Dylan Alexander Voss? Have a girlfriend?"
"Yes."
"Is she real or one of those glorified PR decoys you use at galas?"
"She's real. She's… smart. Strong. Beautiful."
"Oh, so she's fictional," she teases.
I roll my eyes. "Her name is Hermione."
A soft gasp. "A name. Well, now I definitely need to meet her. What does she do?"
"She's a lawyer. Brilliant one. She's the new head legal at the company headquaters."
My mother's voice turns sly, impressed. "So you brought her into the empire. Bold."
"Careful," I say lightly. "You're starting to sound like Father."
"You watch your mouth," she fires back playfully. "I'm on your side. Unlike him, I actually want to see you happy."
There's a beat of quiet.
Then her tone softens again.
"Can I meet her?"
I swallow.
"Not yet," I say honestly. "It's… new. But it's important."
"Well, you know me. I'll be patient. But not forever. And neither will your heart."
I nod, even though she can't see it. "I know."
"And Dylan?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you."
That undoes me more than anything else.
"Thanks, Mom."
She hums, satisfied, and hands the phone back to my father, who immediately starts grumbling about deadlines and contracts again.
But my thoughts have already drifted back… to the woman asleep in my bed.
The woman who's changing everything.