"I'm taking a course on fashion history," he begins, a small smile tugging at his lips. "And I don't know…" He lets out a short chuckle. "I guess the lectures were so captivating that I started revisiting my old designs. The ones I'd nearly forgotten. And somewhere along the way, I realized—I missed it. So I've decided to go back."
Harrison tilts his head slightly, gaze narrowing with curiosity.
"So it started from a lecture. From a professor, I assume. Someone who managed to pull you back into the world you walked away from."
He squints a little, as if trying to picture the figure.
Harry laughs lightly, the tension easing from his shoulders.
"You probably know him. He's already a pretty big name in the industry."
Harrison arches a brow.
"Who?"
"Julian Lenter."
The name lands like a soft drop in still water. Harrison pauses, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then he repeats slowly, as if to confirm he heard correctly.
"Julian Lenter?"
"Yeah."
"Wow."
Harrison leans back in the leather chair, crossing one leg over the other. His eyebrows lift, his expression lit with awe.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
Harry smirks, relaxed in his seat.
"Well… because we don't really talk?"
"Haha, I can't deny that. Well, Julian," he begins, voice rising with admiration, "he's a genius—even though he's young. An outstanding fashion designer. Sure, he stepped away from the industry for now, but still—he's brilliant."
Harry nods, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I know that, Dad. You probably think I've been clueless about fashion—and I'll admit, I have been. But I still know Julian. I mean, who doesn't?"
As he speaks, a sudden image of Grace flashes through his mind. He chuckles quietly to himself.
Right… Grace said she didn't even know Julian was famous. Only Grace would admit that so casually.
Harrison claps his hands together with a burst of joy.
"So you finally met a good mentor! And now—at last—you're coming into the family business!"
Harry's smile fades slightly as he straightens his back. He shakes his head slowly, arching his brows.
"No, Dad. I've already made that clear. I'm not joining your company."
Harrison narrows his eyes.
"It's our company, Son."
Harry meets his gaze and repeats, firmer this time, "No. It's your company."
The air stills for a moment. Harrison studies his son, his lips pressing into a line.
"Why don't you want to be part of our fashion group?" he asks, his tone quieter now—but not less insistent. "Out of all our brands, surely one of them aligns with your style. You could start with that. Get your feet wet. Ease into it."
Harry sighs, already anticipating the pitch before it begins.
"I know what you want for me. You want me to take over. But, Dad…" He shakes his head. "I couldn't care less about that."
Harrison frowns, locking eyes with his son. There's a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. Then—suddenly—he breaks into laughter. Deep, full-bellied laughter that fills the study.
"Wait, wait." He holds up a hand, still laughing. "Harry, you think this is about money?"
Harry stays quiet, watching him carefully.
"You think I'm trying to pass everything down to you because I care so much about the money? That I want you to inherit the empire so the family can… what? Expand our wealth?" Harrison throws his head back with another roaring laugh.
Harry doesn't join in. His silence stretches.
But Harrison only laughs harder.
"You've really mistaken that one." Harrison's voice lowers, more raw than before. He leans forward, scooping his head down until his eyes are level with Harry's. His gaze is unflinching. "It's not about the money."
A heavy pause.
Then, with measured intensity, he continues, "I've poured everything into this. My youth, my middle age, the best years of my life—gone into building this company from the ground up. I can't just hand it off to anyone else. I built this… for you. Because you're my son."
Harry blinks, and for a second, he can't breathe. Something lodges itself deep in his throat—a sharp, invisible weight pressing against his chest.
"No, Dad…" His voice cracks at the edges.
He ducks his head down slightly, rubbing his temples before exhaling long and hard.
"You really think that company is yours?"
Harrison stiffens, arching his brows, confusion flashing across his face.
"Then whose is it?" he demands, leaning back slightly. "It's Harrison Fashion Group, my son. Not someone else's."
Harry lifts his eyes and locks them onto his father's.
His voice lowers to a steady, biting calm. "Can't you remember all the people who worked themselves to the bone for that company? The ones who designed the brands you take credit for? Who came up with the lines, the concepts, the very soul of the clothes?"
His hands tremble slightly, and a wave of nausea washes over him. He swallows hard.
"You're just… too full of yourself."
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Harrison's eyes narrow. A flush of color rises in his cheeks, his jaw tightens. Disappointment mixes with a growing flame of rage in his face.
"Don't you dare downplay the effort I've put into that company." His voice sharpens, louder now. "Do you even know why I did all this? For you, Harry! So I could pass it down to you! Everything I've worked for was for you! So you could have something solid—something lasting."
Harry presses a hand to his stomach. It churns.
"No, Dad." His voice is quieter, but every syllable slices through the tension like a blade. "You didn't do it for me. You did it for yourself. So you could hold on to this illusion that the company is yours—forever yours."
He pauses, breathing in deeply.
"But nothing on this planet lasts forever. There's no such thing as eternal ownership." His eyes shine, fierce and unwavering. "God gave you that company, Dad. And He gave it to you for people. Not for pride. Not for stocks. Not for industry dominance."
Harrison's face twitches. He opens his mouth but no words come out.
"Don't you remember how you started?" Harry continues, voice rising with conviction. "You made clothes that were affordable, high quality—fashion people could actually wear without worrying about money. That was your heart. That was your mission. You said you wanted to do that as a child of God."
He stops himself, his throat tightening.
"But look at you now. All you care about is market share, headlines, stock values…"
Harrison still says nothing. His expression changes—just slightly. The anger fades, replaced by something quieter, more fragile. There's a sadness in his eyes now. A deep, stunned kind of sorrow.
Harry feels that his father's hurt, raw and shaken.
"I'm sorry, Dad." Harry's voice is quieter now—tired, but steady. "I shouldn't have come in the first place."
He lingers for a breath, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "I'll leave for now. Have a good night."
He rises from the sofa slowly, almost like he's peeling himself away from something sticky and invisible. Without waiting for a response, he walks toward the front door, his footsteps soft against the marble flooring.
Behind him, Harrison doesn't move. He doesn't even tilt his head to watch his son go. He just sits there, frozen in that wide, elegant chair, his eyes locked on a large, gold-framed painting across the room—an abstract splash of luxury that says nothing but costs too much. His lips remain pressed together, his hands resting like stone in his lap.
For once, the man who always had something to say has nothing left to offer.
Harry steps outside. The cool night air greets him like a quiet friend. He walks across the sprawling garden—manicured hedges, glowing path lights, white pebbles arranged in patterns no one walks on. It's the kind of beauty that only money can sustain, almost too perfect to feel alive.
He passes the fountain in the middle, the one with marble cherubs and glistening water that dances for no audience. He doesn't look back. He just keeps walking until the iron gate opens with a low mechanical hum, and he steps onto the quiet, empty street.
There, Harry pauses.
He lifts his head.
Above him, the night sky stretches wide—deep, dark, and endless. Stars glisten quietly across the heavens, distant and indifferent. But still beautiful. Still watching.
And in that moment, a memory surfaces like a ripple through still water.
"Harry, you're good at riding bikes!" His father's voice, light with laughter, rides the wind of a sunny day from years ago.
A younger Harrison pedals next to a tiny, helmeted Harry, both of them wobbling slightly down the narrow path of a neighborhood park.
"It's because you taught me so well, Dad!"
Little Harry beams, gripping the handlebars tight, legs pumping fast and full of trust.
The memory flashes—bright and uninvited—and vanishes again into the stars.
Harry lets out a laugh. Soft. Dry. Resigned.
The kind of laugh that isn't born from joy but from the ache of something once beautiful now long lost.
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and starts walking, the sky still open above him, silent and far away.