After my mum's rather eventful introduction to Harry, things settled back into routine. Harry left for his scheduled shoots and fittings, and though his departure weighed on me, the sting was eased when my mum handed me two hundred euros—the exact amount I needed to visit him in Florence.

She called it a white flag gift to Harry, compensation for the sheer level of embarrassment she had inflicted on him. I was fairly sure she liked him—not just because he was, as she put it, "gifted" (though let's be honest, maybe that helped), but because she said she saw things in him that were priceless.

She liked his humour, how he could take a joke without letting his ego get in the way. She admired how he was with his sister—gentle, caring, unwavering. She respected his loyalty to Jimmy, their friendship stretching back to childhood.

But most of all, she adored the way he looked at me.

"He looks at you like you're his whole world, sweetheart," she said when we were alone. And by alone, I mean Jimmy was there too—because Jimmy was always there. Jimmy was family. 

"His eyes sparkle with every smile you give him, and he beams just from hearing his name coming from your lips. He looks at you like you are his whole world," she continued. "And from the looks of that boy, I'd say he's not exactly short on offers, is he?"

Jimmy, never one to let a moment go unruined, chimed in.

"He sees the whole world, huh?" He smirked.

"Yeah?" My mum answered, intrigued.

"In her eyes?" My mum nods.

"Well, I lost my car keys. Can he find them in her eyes or something? 'Cause I've looked everywhere."

The two of them cackled while I groaned, vowing to never have a heartfelt conversation in their presence again.

With the money my mum gave me, I booked my flight and spent five unforgettable days in Italy with Harry. He managed to carve out some time off, and we took a trip to Rome, finally soaking in the culture he hadn't had time to enjoy with his packed schedule.

We stayed in a quaint little bed and breakfast—cheap but charming—because I refused to let Harry pay for some expensive hotel. We ate so much pizza and pasta and had gelato for dessert every single night.

Now, between you and me? I much prefer pasta the way we make it back home, and Andy's pizza still beats the one with prosciutto and rocket leaves that Harry swore was life-changing. But in front of him, I acted like it was the holy grail of Italian cuisine. Because he was so happy—so damn cute—playing tour guide, introducing me to his little slice of Italy, and I didn't have it in me to ruin it for him.

Five days. Five nights.

Gone in seconds.

Like leaves in the autumn breeze. Funny how time drags when you're waiting for something, but when you want it to slow down, it races past like a Concorde breaking the sound barrier.

When it was time to leave, all I had left were the memories—sweet, lingering kisses, whispered confessions, tangled limbs in the moonlight. The ache of parting was suffocating, but the warmth of those moments kept me from completely falling apart.

And, of course, because the universe loves to play with me, the fashion world immediately caught wind of our little Roman getaway.

Paparazzi had snapped photos of us strolling through the piazzas, hand in hand. Soon, my face was printed in fashion blogs and glossy magazines alongside headlines about Brit sensation Harry Styles off the market as Miss Cameron steals his heart.

And right next to that? Another headline.

"Styles and Payne in Contract Negotiations: Gucci Model Duo Expected to Renew Another Year."

The reality of it all hit me like a fucking wrecking ball minus Miley naked on it because that would have been awkward even as a metaphor. Harry wasn't just in Florence—he was possibly staying in Florence. For another year. Another whole year of this—airport goodbyes, rushed weekends, FaceTime calls at ungodly hours.

I wanted this for him. I wanted him to succeed, to thrive, to live out his dreams. And if that meant I had to work my ass off, scrape together every last cent to afford plane tickets, I would.

As long as he loved me.

As long as he wanted me there.

So here I am now, at university, sitting on an old wooden bench that reminds me too much of the one at the back of the club, sipping bad, stale coffee from the canteen with Ed. The only thing that makes it remotely tolerable is the fact that it's cheap.

"Do you want to skip class with me?" Ed asks, raising an eyebrow mischievously.

"We don't have classes together, Ed. Didn't you just finish for the day?" I say, already drowning in boredom like it's my closest friend.

"Yeah... but I feel badass when I ask you to skip class with me, so play along."

"Oh, okay then."

"Sooo... do you want to skip class with me?" he asks again, smirking.

"Nope." I sip my coffee and grin.

"Your loss." He shrugs like he doesn't care, but I know him well enough to see the tiny smirk forming.

I glance at my watch. Ten minutes.

"Ten minutes before I get to sit next to my beloved Brenda, the girl I adore so much I would rather sit between an elephant and a poacher, a jaguar and an antelope, a... a... a Nazi and—"

My phone rings, cutting off my train of thought.

"Thank God for that," Ed sighs dramatically. "You and your similes, awkward as fuck." He chuckles to himself as I pull out my phone.

I don't recognize the number, but I usually answer unknown calls. They're mostly work-related—either the club or Teen Vogue—and the more gigs I take, the more money I make. The more money I make, the more days I get to spend with Harry. You get the drill.

"Hello?" I answer, my tone professional but slightly impatient.

"Is this Miss Cameron?"

"Speaking." The voice on the other end is deep and hoarse, and for some reason, it sends a small shiver down my spine.

"Lovely," he replies smoothly.

I pause. Who the hell starts a conversation like that?

"How can I help you?" I ask, checking my watch again—only a few minutes left before I have to endure Brenda's smug existence.

"I have a proposition for you," he continues.

"What kind of proposition? And who am I talking to?" My brows furrow. There's something about the way he speaks that makes me uneasy. Ed tilts his head, sensing my shift in mood.

"I work for Burberry, and we'd like to see you in person to discuss a project together." His words are carefully measured, and my initial tension fades—only to be replaced by confusion.

"Oh, Mr....?"

"Nicholas Ferguson."

"Mr. Ferguson," I repeat, still unsure where this is going. "Thank you for considering me, but I'm afraid I can't close deals over the phone just like that, because—"

"I can come by the club where you work, Miss Cameron," he cuts me off.

I freeze.

Why does he know that?

Ed narrows his eyes at me, reading the alarm on my face.

"I—" I hesitate before quickly regaining composure. "I'm sorry, but I think there's been a misunderstanding. When I book interviews, I'm obliged to do so through Teen Vogue. I can't freelance like that." My voice remains polite but firm.

"Miss Cameron, this has nothing to do with Teen Vogue, nor is it an interview of any kind. There's no need for them to be informed."

Okay, now I'm really lost.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand how I can help you."

Ed leans in slightly, his curiosity piqued.

"Oh, Miss Cameron..." Nicholas's voice holds the kind of smirk I can hear through the phone. "While we are aware of your writing potential, this isn't a writing gig."

My stomach drops.

"Then what is it?" I ask, my grip tightening around the phone.

He pauses just long enough to make my heart hammer in my chest.

"It's a modelling one."

I nearly drop the phone.