Gemma was a breath of fresh air. Lovely inside and out, she was a beautiful addition to the gang. Chrys, Gemma, and I hung out every afternoon after uni for the rest of the week—sometimes at our favourite café, sometimes at a playground, or just at Gemma's place. Natalie was always by her side, still a bit fragile from the whole ordeal. She clung to her mother, bursting into tears whenever Gemma even stepped out of the room. It was heartbreaking, but understandable.

Gemma, however, seemed happier. She was finally around people her own age again, laughing, unwinding. It was clear she hadn't had much of that in a long time. She told us about her plans to go back to school, how most of her friends had drifted away when things got tough—except for Rachel, her best friend, who was studying in France. She talked about how much she depended on Harry for everything and how, through it all, he never once complained. He had been there for her during her pregnancy, when she had Natalie, and every moment since.

I couldn't deny that if circumstances were different, I might have found that quite... endearing.

"So, is there a special someone in your life?" she asked suddenly, eyes flicking between Chrys and me as we built a house out of giant plastic blocks with Natalie.

"No one for me," Chrys answered quickly before I even had time to think.

Both their gazes shifted to me. I felt like a deer caught in headlights.

"No one for me either," I said casually, focusing on stacking two more blocks together, avoiding eye contact.

Gemma wasn't buying it. "Oh! Are you sure?" she teased, grinning in that way that instantly reminded me of her brother.

"Yep," I replied, keeping my focus on the blocks.

"She's lying," Chrys chimed in, flashing me a mischievous smile. "But I guess she'll tell us when she feels like it."

Gemma pouted dramatically. "That's too bad."

Chrys raised a brow. "Why?"

"Because I kinda liked you for my brother," she admitted with a giggle.

Well, that made things awkward.

"That's a shame, then," Chrys cut in, sensing my unease.

"I think he likes you," Gemma nudged me playfully.

"I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but he can't even stand me," I retorted, rolling my eyes.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, looking genuinely confused.

"If I know anyone, it's my brother, and I'm sure he can stand you just fine," she added, frowning slightly as she tried to piece things together.

"Let's just say they're both... intense," Chrys offered before my phone buzzed, signaling a text. Thank God for distractions.

Brenda.

Meet me at the venue. Manhunt rehearsals happening now. Need to coordinate.

Fantastic. Just what I needed—an excuse to run headfirst into a situation I'd been dreading. I had managed to avoid Harry all week, keeping our interactions limited to short, civil texts. But now, I was walking straight into his domain.

Well, if Brenda wanted an exclusive interview with him, she could have it. I'd happily let her deal with his mood swings.

Inside the Royal Hotel, where the Manhunt event would take place, chaos reigned. Music blasted from speakers, models and assistants rushed past us, phones rang incessantly, and half-dressed men strolled around as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Brenda, who thrived on order, looked a little overwhelmed.

With our press badges, we had full access, but since I had no interest in running into Charlie, I suggested heading backstage first. It was the lesser of two evils.

Backstage was just as lively—rows of young, toned men parading around, either in fittings or checking their reflections in the mirrors, talking to designers, or getting last-minute makeup and hair touch-ups.

Brenda, predictably, went into full work mode. "I'm going to grab more photos. You set up the first interview," she instructed before disappearing into the madness.

I found the designated interview area—a small, staged setting with a white leather couch for the models and a sleek red armchair for the interviewer. I set up my phone to record just as my first interviewee approached.

Chase Crawford.

Tall, broad shoulders, bright blue eyes, and a grin that could probably sell millions in fragrance ads. He exuded confidence but had a certain boyish charm that softened the whole look.

"Hey, you must be Chase," I greeted, motioning for him to sit.

"Yep. Chase Crawford," he introduced himself, extending a warm, firm handshake.

"Ella Cameron," I responded, shaking his hand before settling in.

I adjusted the recorder, glancing briefly to my left—and immediately regretted it.

Harry.

He was watching me.

The second our eyes met, he looked away, jaw tightening. I let out a slow breath and returned my focus to Chase. I had a job to do.

"So, Chase, are you ready?" I asked, pressing record.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he chuckled, but then leaned in slightly. "Not a fan of interviews, though. They make me nervous."

I smirked. "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

His lips twitched. "Promise?"

"Promise."

As the interview progressed, he relaxed. He was flirty but charming, smart but down-to-earth. It was refreshing.

"That's a wrap!" I announced, hitting stop.

"Already?" he asked, looking genuinely disappointed.

I laughed. "Yep!"

"That's too bad," he mused.

I raised a brow. "Why's that?"

"Well, I was enjoying talking to you," he admitted easily.

"Likewise," I said, feeling my cheeks warm slightly.

There was a brief pause before he spoke again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you a bartender?"

I blinked at the unexpected question. "Yeah... and a university student," I added quickly, because my job didn't define me.

"I knew I recognized you," he said, snapping his fingers. "I don't forget beautiful faces."

I chuckled. "Smooth."

He grinned, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Would it be okay if I asked for your number?"

I hesitated. Not because I wasn't interested—he was objectively attractive, easy to talk to, and had yet to piss me off—but because of the mess that was my life.

Then I remembered: I deserved to have some fun. A coffee wouldn't kill me.

"Sure," I said, taking his phone and typing in my number.

He smiled as he took it back. "One last question."

"Shoot."

"Why is Harry Styles sending me killer looks?"

I frowned and turned slightly—just in time to catch Harry staring me down.

This time, he didn't look away.

"We are friends," I lied.

"Were you anything other than that?" Chase asked, his attempt at subtlety not quite landing.

"No." My response was firm, leaving no room for doubt.

"Good," he said, his expression shifting to satisfaction, like he had won some silent competition I hadn't realized we were playing.

"I'll call you later." He shook my hand one last time, and before I could even turn around, Harry was there.

Right beside me.

"Ella," he murmured, his gaze locked on Chase's retreating figure.

"Hello, Harry," I replied, my tone deliberately cool.

"I need to be interviewed right away. I have an appointment out of town," he said, skipping straight to the point.

"Sure, let me call Brenda and switch the schedule."

"You're not interviewing me?" He blinked, as if that hadn't occurred to him.

"No. We had too many people, so we split them up," I explained, keeping it professional.

He didn't buy it for a second.

I typed a quick text to Brenda. Just as I was about to put my phone away, another message popped up.

Unknown number: Is it too early to ask you out for coffee later when this madness ends?

Harry was close enough to read it. Of course he did.

I quickly typed back:
I'm sorry, working tonight. Some other time perhaps?

Then, without even glancing at him, I saved the number to my contacts.

A second later, another message:
How about I come by where you work? Is that too much?

"Loverboy is eager," Harry muttered.

"And you're nosy." I shot him a glare. "Ever heard of privacy?"

"Whatever." He exhaled sharply, shoving his hands in his pockets. "So when is Brenda getting here?"

"Five minutes." I stared at my screen, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that he was still watching me.

"Baby, everything alright?"

That fucking voice.

"He needs his milk," I muttered, still not looking up.

"Excuse me?"

"Excused," I said, casually grabbing my bag from the table, still refusing to acknowledge her existence.

Charlie, standing beside Harry in a black sparkly dress, high heels, and an ego that could rival the size of the entire venue, ignored my dig and wrapped herself tighter around his waist. "Did you manage to reschedule, baby, or do you want me to handle it?"

Jesus Christ. She acted like he was some helpless child who couldn't function without her.

"Yeah, it's fine," he muttered.

"Hey, Ella! Is it Harry Styles who wants to change his interview slot?" Brenda appeared, clutching her notepad and pen.

"Yeah," I forced myself to answer.

And then it happened.

Charlie leaned in and kissed him. Really kissed him. Right there in front of me. Tongue, hands, the whole show. Like she wanted to make sure I saw it, just in case her constant condescending attitude hadn't already made it clear that she had him.

What was worse?

He let her.

So much for the whole Harry's only doing this for his niece theory.

I felt sick. Like my stomach had been twisted inside out. My feelings were at war with my reason, and I had no choice but to accept the truth.

Charlie had won.

She had probably won long ago, making this little demonstration completely unnecessary. But still, she had to rub it in. To show off. To prove that Harry Styles—the boy with the mesmerizing green eyes and the cocky smirk—was not for me.

And he had made that crystal clear, hadn't he? Accusing me of using his sister to get to him? Acting like I was desperate for his attention? He had never cared about me. Not really.

It hurt like hell, but there was a silver lining: at least now I knew. I could move on.

And maybe Chase wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Hanging out with him might help take my mind off all this. Worst case scenario? We didn't hit it off, and I gained a friend. No harm, no foul.

The rest of the day passed relatively easily. Brenda and I wrapped up our assigned interviews, and Harry stormed off to his oh-so-important appointment. Odd. One would think he'd want to stick around, network with the committee, play the PR game. The contest was tomorrow, after all. With the competitors I'd seen, he actually had a good shot at winning.

Not that I cared.

Chase came to say goodbye, letting me know he'd stop by the club later. I figured it wouldn't hurt to let myself have some fun, even if just a little. Models and bartenders... well, let's just say they weren't so different. I'd take baby steps with him.

By the time Chrys, Ed, and I arrived at the club, I was exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

The pounding music wasn't helping.

When Jimmy handed me two Panadol, I almost kissed him.

It wasn't our busiest night, but it was busy enough.

"Can I have a vodka shot?"

I glanced up and was met with a familiar, dimpled grin.

"Chase. A man of your word," I teased.

"That I am," he flirted right back.

"You look incredible," he added.

"Likewise." I reached for the Absolut bottle, but before I could pour, he stopped me.

"Can I have Stoli instead?" he grinned.

"But Absolut is—" I started, ready to defend my drink of choice.

Then I reconsidered. "You know what? Yes, you can."

I grabbed the Stolichnaya instead and poured him a shot.

He stayed in front of my bar, talking and flirting. After some time, I asked if he was waiting for anyone. "Nope. Came alone," he admitted.

With his looks, he didn't need a wingman.

He was confident but not overbearing, flirty but not sleazy. He made me feel seen in a way I hadn't in a long time. And maybe—just maybe—I needed that tonight.

The Panadol had kicked in, or maybe it was just the effect of being admired by someone who wasn't emotionally exhausting. Either way, I felt better.

The DJ was killing it. Even I couldn't resist moving to the beat behind the bar.

When Chase excused himself to use the restroom, Jimmy took his chance. "Dance?" he asked, offering his hand.

I accepted.

Within seconds, we were back to our silly, over-the-top moves, twirling and laughing. It felt good. Freeing.

Then it happened.

Like a shift in the air.

Like a goddamn hurricane sweeping through the club.

Before I could process it, he appeared—jumping up on the bar like it was his goddamn stage before vaulting over and landing directly behind me.

His hand wrapped around my arm. Hard.

Jimmy started to step in, but Harry shot him a look that kept him rooted in place.

"Harry, what the—"

"Don't," he spat coldly.

And then—he showed me his phone.

On the screen was an image of an office. Chrys's dad's office.

In the centre of the frame was a photo of Chrys, her dad... and me.

Taken at a charity gala.

My stomach dropped.

"Care to fucking explain?"