"Email... which one? Oh yeah, here it is. Found it, Liz—just give me a minute," I say to Elizabeth as I finally open the email in question.

"You are invited to..." I skim through the text. "Anti-bullying campaign... convention..." I scroll quickly until I reach the important details. "Taking place in L.A., USA, on the 20th of June, 2015. Please reply ASAP."

"Okay Liz, pack your bags—we're going to L.A. this time, girl. Yeah, yeah, we need to meet this week and go over the details. We've got time—it's a month away, sugar. Hey, don't get so excited! Yes, I know it's at the bloody Four Seasons—stop screaming in my ear! Bye, Liz."

I hang up, unable to wipe the smile off my face at her excitement.

Elizabeth is a member of the government-funded anti-bullying project team. I met her three years ago and we just... clicked. We're polar opposites, which I suppose is why we work so well together. She's expressive, animated, loud at times, and utterly unfiltered. She's even managed to get us into trouble mid-speech—like that one time at the European Council. But I find her refreshing. And Anzette just calls her "fun."

After Jason passed away, Liz became a breath of fresh air in our lives. She helped me see things from another angle—less weighed down, more open. She lives in the moment, her mantra being a very firm Carpe Diem. She's witty, bold, and although she's a book lover at heart, she jumps at anything extreme—bungee jumping, water sports, you name it. Somehow, she's even converted me a little. With Liz, there's no such thing as a dull moment.

This trip is important. We're expanding the campaign from the European Union to the States, which could be ground-breaking. But if we're being honest, it's also an excuse to enjoy a bit of sun, some luxury, and good company—all expenses paid.

Anzette will stay with my mother, as usual, and if the trip runs longer than expected, I'll fly her over.
Yeah... I'm excited too.
We're going to have fun. That much is guaranteed.

+++

"Hey Monet... are you okay, darling?" I ask as I enter the office, two cappuccinos in hand. I set one in front of her before switching on my computer.

"Yes... same old, same old," she says flatly, and I'm instantly concerned.

"Meaning?" I turn to face her, giving her my full attention.

"Dan and I had a fight..." she mutters.

"Again?" I sigh, unable to hide my frustration. Her eyes fall to the desk. I hate making her feel worse, but that relationship is... toxic, to say the least.

"Please don't start with the psychological mumbo jumbo, Ash," she whines, and I hold my tongue.

"I know what you and Jason had was wonderful, but not everyone is that lucky," she adds, and I can't help but smile at the mention of Jason. Instinctively, my eyes drift to the framed photo on the right corner of my desk—Jason, Anzette, and me, camping in a forest in Greece. The ache returns. Not as sharp. But still there.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, and let it go.

"Me too," she says quietly, and the conversation shifts.

"So," she continues, pulling up her notes, "you're leaving tomorrow afternoon at 17:15. Someone will collect you both at LAX—you'll see him holding a sign, standard protocol. You'll meet Mr. Davy, head of the project in California. He'll introduce you to the celebrities involved..."

"Who is it this time?" I exhale, my tone wary. Experience has taught me that working with celebrities isn't always glamorous.

"Who do you want it to be?" she grins.

"Do you really have to ask? Sting, the king. Or Robbie—oh my God, that would be amazing!" I throw my hands up dramatically, trying to lift the mood.

She laughs, eyes scrunching. "No such luck! It's a boy band. One Direction!" she squeals.

"One who?" The name rings a bell.

"You've got to be kidding me," she groans, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

I shrug, and she laughs again.

"Jesus, Ashley... they're huge. All over the world. They're from here—British, I mean."

"The name's familiar... I think Anzette likes them. Yeah... Can't say I know much about them."

"Obviously," she mutters.

"Are they full of themselves? God, I hate dealing with those so-called stars," I say, adding air quotes for emphasis.

"On the contrary—word is, they're actually pretty cool."

"We'll find out soon enough," I say, gathering my things for the library.

As I walk past, I gently squeeze her cheek.

"Aaaaash!" she yells, swatting at me as I disappear through the door.

+++

Saying goodbye to Anzette wasn't difficult—at least not anymore. We're used to time apart, and since losing Jason, I've done my best to raise her to be independent and self-reliant. Life is unpredictable, and as her only parent, I feel a quiet urgency to prepare her for that.

Aside from the occasional pimple, mood swing, and questionable music taste, Anzette isn't your typical teen. She's more like a young adult who's been forced to grow up too soon. She doesn't complain. She doesn't stir up trouble. She just... gets on with it.

At LAX, Liz is practically vibrating—not about the potential impact of the campaign, but because she's dying to wear her new bikini.

I ruffle her short blonde hair playfully and nod toward a man holding a sign with my name on it.

The driver loads our bags into the boot, and we settle into the back seat. I always feel slightly disoriented in the U.S.—the whole driving-on-the-right thing makes me think we're going to crash at every turn, but I'll adjust.

Liz grins out the window, her eyes wide with excitement.

"So how's the hotel, sir?" she asks, practically bouncing.

"Call me Mark, miss. It's... well, beautiful, of course. But I should warn you—" he chuckles, "—things are a bit chaotic at the moment."

"Why's that, Mark?" I ask, warming instantly to his sweet, polite demeanor.

"There are paparazzi outside. Staff's on call around the clock."

"Paps?" Liz blinks. "What for?"

"I'm afraid I can't give out that kind of information," he replies, still smiling.

"Oh... okay then." She looks puzzled.

I grin, already guessing the reason behind the fuss. But I don't say a word. I love seeing Liz like this—wide-eyed, curious, completely unprepared. So I decide to let the surprise unfold naturally.

As we approach the hotel, it's clear Mark wasn't exaggerating—at least fifty paparazzi crowd the entrance. We manage to slip in unnoticed, but the scene inside is just as intense. The receptionists are distracted, staff members rushing up and down the lobby, ignoring us completely. Security men in suits and earpieces stand in every corner.

I've worked with prime ministers who had less protection.

Liz is completely entranced, trying to take it all in. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head.

"What the fuck is going on?" she hisses, turning to me. "Who's here?"

I smile, saying nothing.

"Ashley... who the fuck is here, girl?" she insists.

"It's just a band," I say casually, walking toward the lift.

"What band?" she presses, but just then, the elevator doors slide open—revealing a blue-eyed young man with messy hair and a warm, easy smile.

"Hello," I say breezily as I step in. He steps out, nodding politely.

"Hello," he replies, giving a small wave. His grin widens as he notices Liz staring like she's seen a ghost.

"Hello, love," he says directly to her. She whispers back a stunned, breathless, "Hi," frozen in place.

"Liz, come on," I call, tugging her into the lift just as he walks away toward a nearby security guard.

As soon as the doors close, she lets out a scream.

"Louis fucking Tomlinson just said hi to me!"

I blink, stunned. "Louis who?"