The limo purred through the dark streets of Paris, headlights slicing through the rain-speckled night like a promise. Inside, it was warm and quiet — a sanctuary wrapped in leather and low jazz. And in the back seat, Gemma and Harry sat side by side, both dressed to kill.

Harry adjusted the cuffs of his tailored navy suit, then glanced at his sister.

"You look gorgeous," he said, sincerely.

Gemma gave him a sideways glance, one brow arched like a well-aimed challenge. "Please. I'm going to outshine you and everyone knows it."

He smirked, biting back a laugh. "You wish."

"Oh, I don't need to wish," she said, flipping her hair dramatically. "I've seen the pictures from Rome. That frilly shirt? I'm doing the public a favour."

Harry groaned. "Leave the frills alone, they're iconic."

"Iconic disasters," she shot back, then winked. "Seriously though, you clean up well."

He tugged at his lapel. "Had a chat with the label. Told them I wanted to keep things toned down. No overexposure. Fewer forced press moments, no mystery dates, no drama."

Gemma blinked, mock-surprised. "You mean... a mature decision? My brother? Are you okay?"

He nudged her playfully. "Trying something new. Growth. Heard it's trending."

She smiled, softer this time. "I'm glad. You look happier. And not just because you're wearing fewer ridiculous fabrics."

He looked out the window as the glowing venue loomed in the distance. "It feels good. Growing in Europe. It's different here. I don't feel like I'm constantly on trial."

Gemma's voice was gentle. "Do you think you'll win?"

He turned to her then, eyes wide with that boyish glint she hadn't seen in a while — the one that always came before something big.

"I hope so," he admitted, almost shyly. "But honestly? Just being nominated... it's surreal."

She nodded. "Well, if you do win, you owe me something."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I'm your sister. And I spent years torturing you into being emotionally complex enough to write a heart-breaking album. You're welcome."

He laughed, loud and real. "What do you want then? A bag? A car?"

"A pony," she said without missing a beat.

"I'll put it on the list," he teased.

The car rolled to a gentle stop. The red carpet unfurled just beyond the tinted glass like a tongue of fire.

The door opened. Flashbulbs flared.

And suddenly, the world was watching again.

Gemma slid out first, striking in a velvet gown the colour of midnight storms. Harry followed, greeted by a wall of shouting photographers and the blinding buzz of attention.

He grinned, lifted a hand in a lazy wave, and leaned into the chaos like an old friend.

"Harry! Over here!"

"Harry, who are you wearing?"

"Harry, is Gemma your date tonight?"

He leaned into the mic of a reporter with a crooked grin. "She's the real star. I'm just her plus one."

Laughter followed him as they moved down the carpet, pausing for photos, posing like pros. He flashed peace signs. Blew kisses. Whispered something in Gemma's ear that made her snort with laughter.

And just before they reached the venue entrance, she grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Hey," she said, voice quiet in the swirl of noise. "Have fun in there. Seriously. You deserve it."

He looked at her, something bright and vulnerable flickering in his eyes.

"Thanks, Gem."

Then the doors opened, and the sound swallowed them whole.

The venue was a symphony of gold and midnight blue, the ceiling domed with glass like a planetarium filled with stars. Giant LED screens lit up every few minutes with flashes of nominees and crowd shots, and the stage itself was shaped like a sprawling spiral — modern, elegant, and just extravagant enough to remind everyone they were in the presence of pop royalty.

Harry let out a slow breath as he stepped inside. He'd been here before, but never like this. Not as a favourite. Not as a name whispered between categories with expectancy. The pressure could've been crushing.

But tonight? It didn't feel heavy.

Gemma nudged his side as they were shown to their seats. "Not bad for a kid who once cried because he couldn't get the high note in his school talent show."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for that."

The lights dimmed. The show began.

A rush of applause met the opening act — a fiery performance by Dua Lipa, glitter exploding from the stage like a storm of stars. Harry clapped along, genuinely impressed. She was magnetic.

Act after act rolled through with perfect timing. From edgy newcomers to legends with nothing left to prove, the room pulsed with talent. Harry sipped his drink, laughed at jokes, leaned over to whisper comments to Gemma. For the first time in months, he felt... like himself again.

He found himself chatting with a few familiar faces — Ed, always kind; Stormzy, who greeted him with a massive grin and a bear hug; even Rosalia, who complimented his suit and winked before disappearing into a sea of dancers.

He was lighter. Looser. There was no Camille at his side this time. No cloud of questions. No paparazzi hounding for a scandal. Just Harry. As he was.

The first major award went to Taylor Swift — Best Album — and the crowd rose in a standing ovation. Harry clapped earnestly, even whistled when she took the mic and made a dry, perfect joke about reinventing herself for the 37th time.

Next, Best Live Performance was awarded to Bruno Mars, who moonwalked his way up to the stage, clutching his trophy like it was made of fire.

Harry clapped again. But this time, his heart had started to pound. Because now... it was his category.

Best Song.

He barely heard the intro video that played — flashing between shots of all the nominees, lyrics floating across the screen like fragments of memory. And then:

"And now," came the voice over the sound system, "to present the award for Best Song... Beyoncé."

Harry's spine went straight. Gemma grabbed his arm and whispered, "Well. No pressure."

Beyoncé, in a floor-length bronze gown that shimmered like she'd been carved from sunlight itself, smiled with that mix of elegance and warmth only she could master.

"This next award," she said, her voice smooth, commanding, "goes to a song that moved the world. A song about time. About truth. About waiting. And surviving. And letting go."

She opened the envelope.

Harry didn't breathe.

"Harry Styles — 'Sign of the Times.'"

It was like his name echoed through water. Muffled. Distant. Until Gemma shoved him, grinning, and he stumbled to his feet, blinking as the room erupted around him.

People stood.

People clapped.

Some even cheered his name.

And for a moment, he stood there, completely stunned.

Then he moved.

His steps up to the stage were a blur. His fingers gripped the rail too tight. When he reached Beyoncé, she pulled him into a hug, whispered something into his ear — something he couldn't quite process — and handed him the award.

It was heavier than he thought it'd be.

He walked to the mic. The lights blazed down on him. Cameras. Screens. A crowd of thousands. Millions watching at home.

His mouth felt dry.

He looked down at the trophy, then up again.

And smiled.

"I, um... I don't even know what to say," he began, voice cracking a little. "I didn't expect this. Honestly. I don't think I ever expected to be standing here with this kind of recognition. So, thank you."

The crowd clapped. Some yelled his name.

He went on.

"This song... it came from a place I didn't always know how to talk about. From a feeling I didn't always know how to explain. But I had people around me — my team, my friends, my sister — who believed in the music, even when I didn't believe in myself."

He glanced down at Gemma, who was now openly wiping her eyes and flipping him off simultaneously.

"And to the people who helped shape this sound — who sat with me in a room when I had nothing but a few words and a broken melody — thank you for pushing me. For trusting me."

He paused.

Smiled again. Slower now.

"And lastly... to the one who heard the choir in this before I ever did — thank you. You know who you are."

It wasn't a name.

It didn't have to be.

But it felt like her.

"I'll try to keep doing this honestly," he finished. "As long as people keep listening. Thank you."

He held the trophy up just slightly, then stepped back as the applause washed over him again. Not deafening. But meaningful.

And for the first time, it didn't feel like a performance.

It felt like arrival.

Backstage buzzed like a wasp's nest.

Harry stood off to the side of the stage, trophy still tucked under one arm, the adrenaline of the win still thrumming through his chest. The producers were lining him up for his presenter slot — last-minute adjustments to the mic, a run-through of the prompt card, someone powdering his face even though he swatted their hand away twice.

"Okay, Harry," said the showrunner, a sharp woman with a headset and a clipboard, "you're on in less than five. You've got two lines, three if you want to ad-lib something cheeky, then announce the winner. Easy."

He nodded, flipping the card over.

Category: Best Greek Artist.

He blinked.

"Wait — Greece?" he asked, looking up.

"Yeah," she said without glancing at him. "Your label picked it. You're not that big in Greece yet — this is PR gold. New market."

"Right," he muttered, staring at the card.

He went over the lines once. Then again. His fingers tightened around the card.

From the wings, he heard the host's voice booming through the venue.

"And now, please welcome to the stage — fresh off his win for Best Song — Harry Styles!"

The applause roared as he stepped into the spotlight again.

The glare of it was blinding, but his smile didn't falter. He walked to the mic like it was second nature now, like the stage had always been home.

"Hello again," he said, voice smooth, casual, cheeky. "I've just been told I get to present the award for Best Greek Artist, which is very exciting because I've never performed in Greece... but I do eat a lot of feta, so I feel connected in spirit."

The audience chuckled.

He winked. "Anyway. I'll shut up now."

He opened the envelope with a practiced flick.

Demy.

"The Best Greek Artist of the year goes to..." he paused, heartbeat like a war drum in his ears, "...Demy."

He clapped along with the audience, gaze shifting instinctively toward the stairs leading to the stage.

And then he stopped clapping.

His hands froze mid-air.

His chest tightened.

Because walking up those stairs — calm, radiant, ethereal — was her.

D.

Not Demy.

Demetra.

His D.

Hair down in glossy waves, a midnight-black gown hugging her figure, heels clicking with unhurried confidence, lips curved in that smile he used to chase across sunlit beaches.

She was halfway to him before it truly hit.

Demy was D.

He stumbled backward half a step, as if someone had knocked the breath out of his lungs.

She reached him at centre stage, nodded politely as she took the award from his hands, the tips of her fingers brushing his.

The shock of it rippled down his spine.

Then she turned to the mic.

"Wow," she began, her voice steady. Measured. "This is... unexpected. Thank you to everyone who's been part of this journey. It's been a year full of surprises. Beautiful ones. Painful ones. But tonight... I'm grateful. Thank you to the fans. To my team back home. And to the people who believed in me — even when they didn't know who I really was."

Her eyes flicked to him then.

Only for a second.

But it was enough.

Something cracked open inside him.

She finished with grace, nodded to the crowd, then turned from the mic.

As she passed him — just close enough to smell like sea air and jasmine and August — she paused.

Her mouth barely moved.

"Hi, Harry," she whispered.

++++

I envisioned this chapter before I even thought about anything else regarding this story. Let me hear your thoughts! Filia xxx