RUN AWAY || H.S

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟕*

Harry's POV.

"I am telling you baby bug, I am gonna fuck it up"

"And I am telling you, you won't," she said assuringly.

"But what if I do?"

She looked at me with furrowed eyes, throwing daggers at me before huffing and mumbles "Then you will be the ultimate poopy pants"

Right now we are in my penthouse bathroom, getting ready for work. Well, I am supposed to go to work but Alana decided to tag along with me to give some 'moral support'.

Today, the CEO's of Tomlinson Life Insurance and Northwell Health is going to be there at Styles Inc. to sign off a deal. A deal I am supposed to pitch today.

It's not like I haven't pitched deals before, I have, all successful except one. And that deal was with Art Fart the Owner and CEO of Northwell Health.

Arthur Northwell is a 54 something years old fart. He is one of the successful and rich companies. He plays in billions. Even though he is been in the business for more than 20 years, never once he has lost any deals, people fall on his feet. He and my dad were friends so obviously they did business together. People who know and love him call him Art since he beside business he involves himself in arts, all kinds of arts, painting, drawing, sculpting, Literature, and the music industry.

Anyways, a few years ago, I was hungover and was in a woman's bed, a woman who now I don't remember her name and I had a big project pitching to do and I was already late. And I was an hour away from my home so I asked the woman if she had anything appropriate for me to wear for a meeting. Luckily, she had a suit of her brother's. The suit was actually good, the dress pant a bit saggy on me but it was overall okay.

I was so in a rush that, when I reached the company I slipped on my own two fucking feet and fell on a chocolate ice-cream that a kid accidentally dropped it. So, when I got up, my pants were ruined, I didn't have much time to change and neither did I have a pair to change into, so I somehow cleaned my pants as much as I could and thought that I won't turn my back toward anyone in the meeting and quickly get over with pitching.

Halfway through the pitching when I was showing the possible statistics to everyone, I fucking turned, not all the way but enough for the person sitting in the front to notice the chocolate patch on my grey saggy pants. And since the light coming from the presentation screen was dim, it looked like I have pooped my pants. And he didn't even try to hide it or be discrete about it. Nope. The fucker said Mr. Styles, I think you pooped your pants. You need to clear your shit first.

And guess who that person was?

Yes! It was Motherfucking Arthur Northwell.

That day he embarrassed me in front of my own fucking colleagues by calling me poopy pants. And that's not it. He has nicknamed me as poopy pants. That motherfucker doesn't call me by my name anymore. Even if we are in a fucking event or gala he approaches me or introduces me as Mr. Poopy Pants.

And that day I named is as Art Fart. I am not a mean person. I am always respectful to everyone but he had upset me too much so I gave him a name too. And it's not like it's a lie or anything, that assholes farts like 50 times in a day, loud.

I know, how childish of me?

Anyway, today I have to pitch again and I am scared that history will repeat itself. And that has been stressing me out. Alana has been trying to assure me that nothing wrong will happen.

"Babe, seriously. Stop thinking about it," I turned my head at Alana's voice who was entering the bathroom wearing her skirt, her shirt missing, her breasts squeezed in her lacy bra "And stop staring at my boobs" I snapped my eyes to hers at that smiling cheekily at her making her chuckle.