"Chase?" I repeat, caught somewhere between amusement and surprise.

"Yeah. Gemma seems to mention him a lot," Harry says, his tone clipped, like even saying his name annoys him.

"He's one of us now, Harry," I inform him, watching his expression shift.

"So I've been replaced in the group, huh?" He forces a weak smile, but I can tell he's not joking.

"Never!" I protest immediately, shaking my head. "You could never be replaced, Harry. We miss you terribly."

Something flickers in his eyes, but I can't quite place it.

"What about you?" he asks, voice quieter now.

I blink. "What about me?"

"Have you replaced me?" His voice is almost shy, his whole demeanour a far cry from the confident, successful model the world sees.

"Do you miss me?" he presses.

I freeze.

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? His girlfriend had literally answered the door half-naked just hours ago, and yet here he is, asking me if I miss him.

What's the right response? The honest one? The vague one? The safe one?

"Of course I miss you, Harry," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper. Because I have no fucking chill, apparently.

I look away, avoiding his gaze like my life depends on it. Because if I meet those green eyes now, I know I'll lose myself in them again. And there'll be no breadcrumbs to find my way back—just a long, dark path leading to inevitable heartbreak.

"And no, you haven't been replaced," I add, hoping to lighten the weight pressing down on us. "Chase is just... an addition to the gang. Not my addition, but an addition nonetheless."

I steal a quick glance at him and catch the small grin tugging at his lips.

"He's just a friend, nothing more," I clarify. And even though part of me wants to lie, to pretend there's something going on just to salvage the last shreds of my pride, I can't. Not with him.

"When Gemma mentioned him, I assumed you two were an item," Harry explains, his fingers fidgeting with his keys on the table, suddenly fascinated by them.

"No, we aren't," I reassure him. "You pretty much scared him off back then."

He chuckles, but there's something behind it—something unresolved.

"He knew I have a thing for you," I add, then quickly correct myself, fumbling, "had a thing for you."

His jaw tightens slightly. "I hated him," he admits.

I raise a brow. "Hated him? You saw him once, Harry."

"Didn't matter," he says flatly. "I hated him because... because he was good for you. And he wanted you." He pauses, inhaling deeply. "Any fool could see that."

I scoff. "He flirted, sure. But I never reciprocated. He got the point. He's a great guy, and he's funny. You'd like him."

"Did he ask you out when I left?" Harry asks, arching a brow.

I hesitate. "He did."

"Then I wouldn't like him." His voice is blunt, unbothered, like he's made his decision and that's final.

"Stop it," I say, my face warming.

"What?" he smirks, and just like that, my stomach does a full gymnastics routine.

Damn him. Damn that stupid T-less accent. Damn those dimples. Damn my entire life.

I need to get out of here before I completely self-destruct.

"So," I blurt out, desperate for a subject change. "How's Alessandro? Any tips you can give me?"

He leans back, considering my question. "Alessandro? Oh, man. He loves punctuality. He appreciates people who are articulate, committed, and opinionated. But he hates slackers and smartasses. He's witty and insanely creative. A bloody genius, really. The way he's reshaping the House—it's insane."

His passion shines through as he talks, his hands moving animatedly, completely in his element.

"Wow," I say, captivated. "Listening to you talk like that... it's—"

"It's?" he challenges playfully.

It's making me want to jump your bones right here on this table, but let's not say that out loud, Ella.

"It's... amazing," I settle on instead.

"Don't worry about him," Harry reassures me. "He'll love you."

"When's the interview?"

"Tomorrow, 11 AM," I answer.

"I'll be there from 9 to 1 for measurements, so I guess I'll see you there," he says casually. "I can introduce you, help you settle in."

"You'd do that?" I blink at him, surprised.

"Of course," he nods. "No problem."

"Thank you, Harry." I mean it. "It means a lot."

His gaze lingers on me.

"I'd do anything for you, Ella," he says softly.

And just like that, I'm gone.

I feel the warmth spread through my cheeks, my stomach, my entire being. Because, really, what the hell am I supposed to do with words like that?

I just sit there, beet-red and breathless, while Harry Styles—international model, Gucci muse, heartbreaker—watches me like I still belong to him.

"So, how long are you staying?" Harry asks eagerly.

"Just two more days," I say, watching as disappointment flickers across his face, mirroring my own feelings.

"That soon?" he murmurs, almost to himself.

I nod.

"Then we should make the best of it," he says with sudden enthusiasm, rubbing his hands over his jeans like a kid making mischief. "I'm taking you out tonight. Clubbing!"

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "But I have the interview tomorrow, and you have work."

"You don't even drink, and I'll only have one," he grins. "We'll leave early. Okay? Please, Ella?" His eyes shine with excitement, his expression reminiscent of a child begging for more playtime.

I sigh, knowing full well I'm doomed. "Okay," I give in, momentarily forgetting that a certain blonde goddess is waiting for him at home.

We argue over the bill, but he's adamant about paying, so I let him. As he walks toward the counter, I can't help but admire him—the way he moves, the confidence in his stride. Modeling is definitely his calling, the way his muscles flex effortlessly beneath his shirt, his hair falling in soft waves over his shoulders.

I quickly compose myself before he turns back, flashing that devastating, dimpled smile that destroys me.

He hands me his Italian number, and I tell him where I'm staying so he can pick me up around ten. There's an unspoken buzz of excitement between us, but it's tainted by a quiet worry—the knowledge that, soon, this will be over again. I push the thought aside. I refuse to ruin what little time we do have.

As we walk through the narrow, picturesque alleys of Florence, I begin to see why he loves this city. The people are alive—vivacious and expressive, their conversations sounding like arguments until they burst into laughter, their hands constantly moving, emphasizing every word.

I notice Harry has picked up some of their mannerisms, the slight shrugs, the way his hands move when he talks. It's adorable, and it makes me love him even more.

Yes, love him, because there hasn't been a single day I haven't thought about him. Not a single night where I haven't whispered goodnight to the moon, telling him I love you to the moon and back.

But I had to let him go.

By doing that, I pushed him into the arms of another woman—someone who could be there for him, someone who understood his world better than I ever could.

Some people call me stupid. I don't care.

Maybe it was Michael who gave me trust issues, but the truth is, I was scared. Scared to invest in something so uncertain. Scared that Harry—who spent his life indulging in fleeting romances, in one-night stands and whispered promises—wouldn't be able to hold on. I hadn't been with him long enough to know if what we had was strong enough to survive the distance.

But damn it, I miss him.

And right now, I don't even want to blink, afraid I'll miss something—a second, a look, a smirk, a touch.

As he drives through Firenze, the name rolling off his tongue in perfect Italian, he acts as my personal tour guide, pointing out landmarks and hidden gems.

"You're lucky," he tells me. "The Savoy is right in the historical center. You'll love it."

He parks in the hotel lot, kills the engine, and leans back in his seat, looking at me.

"God, Ella," he sighs. "You look stunning. I love this little skirt you have on."

I mumble a thank you, reaching for the door handle, but he touches my arm lightly, making me pause.

"I usually hate surprises," he admits. "I like knowing what's going to happen in my life. But not this one. Thank you for coming to see me."

I swallow hard. Even with his sunglasses on, he's too intense—too much.

"No problem," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"See you at ten?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, I'll text you."

And then, slowly, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.

My eyes start to sting, so I quickly step out of the car, slipping my sunglasses back on before he can see. I wave goodbye and walk toward the hotel without looking back—because if I do, I know I'll shatter into pieces.

In moments like these, I hate that I don't drink.

The minibar taunts me from across the room, but I refuse to give in. Instead, I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the entire day in my head.

Harry. My Harry.

He's living with Nadine.

Nice Nadine.

Polite, beautiful, perfect Nadine.

And worst of all—she's there. She's in his world, living the life that I let go of.

I'll see them together tonight, and I need to be prepared. I need to keep my distance, to make sure she knows I'm not trying to win him back.

But what does she know? Does she even know about me?

I forgot to ask.

With a sigh, I get up and lay out the black dress I packed. It'll have to do.

I order a light dinner from room service and take a nap, but by the time my phone pings with We're here, my nerves are back in full force.

The pronoun in that message is enough to make my heart clench.

We're here.

Not I'm here.

I respond: I'll be right down.

Taking a deep breath, I glance at my reflection one last time.

"Get it together, Ella. You can do this."

I force a perfect, fake smile and step outside.

The moment I reach the car, my breath catches.

Not one, but two people accompany Harry.

Liam Payne, the Manhunt winner, is sitting up front next to Harry, while Nadine sits in the back.

I slide in beside her, smiling politely at everyone, barely registering what they're wearing—because their faces alone are enough to make me question my entire existence.

"Hey, Ella," Harry greets me with a grin.

"This is my roommate, Liam. You remember him, right? We signed with Gucci together. And of course, you've already met Nadine."

He introduces me like I haven't just walked into my own worst nightmare.

"Nice to meet you guys," I say, keeping my voice as light as possible, though inside, I feel like I'm standing on a fault line moments before an earthquake.

"So this is Ella," Liam says, turning in his seat, a knowing smirk on his lips.

I frown. "Uh... yeah?"

Liam chuckles. "Welcome to Firenze, darling!" he exclaims in a thick, exaggerated Italian accent.

And with that, we drive off into a night I already know I'll never forget.