Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER10.

I can't believe what I'm seeing - it feels like a dream, or rather, a nightmare. Harry Styles is on stage, completely illuminated by the spotlight, and he stands there with impressive confidence.

The audience is going wild, like they've lost their minds.

It's been almost a year since he disappeared from the music scene, and nobody expected him to come back like this. Some didn't even think he would make a comeback at all, given the speculations about his alleged death or him fleeing to shut down the rumors about him.

But here he is, in all his majestic glory.

He can't be the client for my contract.

There must be a mistake.

Nellie wouldn't have lied to me about the client's identity, especially after involving me in this. I'm sure someone from the New York City Ballet is about to come on stage any moment.

Right?

The crowd hangs on to every move Harry makes while staying at the center of the stage. His movements are feline, swift, almost reflecting the desperate screams flooding from the audience. He has changed slightly since I last saw him - his hair is a bit longer, forming curls that cascade just above his shoulders; from his almost completely unbuttoned shirt, numerous tattoos peek through, including a butterfly on his stomach that still looks rather fresh and reddish. He still wears a hoop earring, and a couple of necklaces dangle from his neck, their pendants not clearly visible to me.

Just as the audience is going wild for an artist they probably adore or have been following for a long time, I feel like the world is crashing down on me. What I'm witnessing isn't the fulfillment of a dream, but the enactment of a long-held nightmare.

Harry stands still in the center of the stage, soaking in the excited cheers from the audience, enjoying their enthusiastic welcome after his long absence. A satisfied smirk appears on his lips as he tilts his head back.

Amidst the general euphoria, Harry takes a few steps toward the microphone, gripping it firmly as he brushes his lips against it, while absorbing the crowd's excitement, relishing the uproar his presence has caused. Then, he speaks again.

"I'm Harry Styles," he says, "and this is my new single."

The noise, which I thought couldn't get any louder, intensifies even further, shaking the entire arena where the concert is taking place. The bass thumps, and there's a strong mix of weed, alcohol and sweat in the air, making me feel even more disoriented. Harry is dangerously close, and with what I assume to be part of his management – the nameless sleazy guy and Louis – I fear he might notice me or remember the harm I caused him exactly 313 days ago.

On stage, black curtains open, revealing the other band members who had been hidden until that moment. They remain in the shadows, illuminated by a dim yet fiery light, and begin playing their instruments as an unfamiliar melody fills the air.

"I take the whip out for a bike..."

He sings, and his voice is smooth as silk. I wish I could resist his alluring tone, but instead, I'm captivated as if I'm listening to a mesmerizing, yet deathly siren song.
I take a step toward Nellie, fueled by the energy the music has given me.

"What about the dancer?" I ask Nellie, who keeps her gaze fixed on Harry.
"Oh, Mabel, sweetheart. There's no dancer."

"...I've been moving lightspeed, lightspeed, lightspeed, lightspeed..."

"What do you mean? You told me..."

I don't expect an answer to my question. Deep down, I know exactly what Nellie is referring to, but I want to escape that harsh truth. I can't process or accept the reality unfolding before me, a reality in which I've been trapped. Mabel Donovan's death sentence, executed by a stroke of the pen bearing my signature, sacrificed on the altar of Harry Styles' fame.