Money is an ordinary thing for Harry Styles. He was born into it, was taught how to easily make it, and how to spend it wisely. His life has been given to him on a silver platter and he loves it. He started Songbird Studios because of it. It did so...
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"Banilla please." My son quips, resting his hands on the edge of the counter and hoisting himself up on his tippy-toes to see all the flavors of ice cream in front of him.
"Oli, it's vanilla," I correct, fixing my hold of Ivy who sits contently on my hip. "With a V."
"That's what I said, Daddy. Banilla." He rolls his eyes.
"Alright, then." I huff out, watching as the teenager behind the counter softly laughs at our banter before scooping his ice cream into a small cup. I look down at Arlo, who's glued himself to me since I picked all the kids up early from school. "Lo, what do you want?"
He doesn't answer, only shaking his head against my leg. Oliver ignores his brother, skipping to the farthest corner of the store and pulling napkins out of the holder. I gently rub Arlo's back before running my fingers through his curly hair.
"Lo likes cookie dough" Oliver shrugs, coming back with at least fifty napkins in his tiny hands.
"A scoop of cookie dough too, thanks," I say, giving a tight-lipped smile to the worker.
I pay for the ice creams and settle the kids into a table in the shop's back corner. Arlo eats his ice cream quietly, picking the small balls of dough out and plopping them into his mouth. I spoon-feed Ivy her ice cream, wiping her mouth free of all the melted vanilla smearing over her rosy cheeks. Oliver kneels on his chair while eating his ice cream, letting it melt all over his navy uniform top.
"Can we have more ice cream for dinner?" Oliver asks, wiping his sticky hands on his shirt. "I want chocolate next."
"We're gonna have dinner, so no more ice cream today," I say, cringing at his uniform shirt getting dirty. "What do you want to eat?"
"Is Princess Belle coming back?" he diverts the question. Arlo perks up from his brother's question, suddenly interested in our conversation.
"Who?" I ask, shoveling the last bit of ice cream into Ivy's mouth.
"Belle. She had pancakes with us and stole one of Lo's dinosaurs?" he shovels ice cream into his mouth, eyeing Arlo's full cup. "Are you gonna have that, Lo?"
Arlo shakes his head, sliding the cup full of dessert across the table. A beaming smile settles on Oliver's face, muttering out a small 'thank you' before devouring his second helping of ice cream.
"Belle isn't coming back," I say, watching all my kids frown.
"Why?" the boys ask in unison.
"Because..." I search for the answer because you weren't supposed to know about Princess Belle, to begin with. Because she's a new songwriter that the label needs desperately and I can't fire her, so I have to avoid her at all costs. Because your father is a stupid, ignorant cunt who slept with his new employee. Instead, I settle for, "Because she has to do princess stuff."
