Treasure [h.s]

| 38 - Sugar And Salt |

My day started the way it usually does.

Birds chirping obnoxiously loud, the blazing fucking sun shining directly in my face, and Harry holding me so close to him as though he was actually trying to use my skin as a sweatshirt.

On any other day, I would have enjoyed the natural movement of the awakening city. I would have enjoyed waking up with the man who loves me, in our beautiful home, with our beautiful view of the sunrise.

But not today. Today it was horrible. All of it.

It didn't start horrible. In fact, I woke up in a great mood. I had a good breakfast, I kissed Harry goodbye as he went off to work for the first time in days, I cleaned up the house, and I left to run some errands.

Everything was fine. I had not a single care in the world, and I was well on my way to completing my tasks and being able to wind down by midday to catch up on some writing. Some writing that, after today, might end up being the tale of a murder.

The perfect day: calm, relaxing, easy.

So how could such a tame morning turn into something that I had come to realize was really just a front? A fraud. A game. A fucking lie.

The mail came.

The mail usually comes at the same time, by the same mailman. I've spoken to him a handful of times. We've chatted about the weather, and weekend plans, but nothing of importance until today.

Today, however, I was congratulated by said mailman, and his joyous face was accompanied by a big, fat, white and gold envelope. Now, when I first saw this envelope, I thought nothing of it. I figured it was just some fluke that someone had sent now that Harry and I are together and living in the same house.

So, when I took this envelope with a confused look plastered on my face, the absolute last thing on my mind was the fact that maybe it wasn't a fluke. I was so unbothered by this letter that, until I opened it hours later, I forgot about the stupid thing.

You know what's really hard to forget?

Bold lettering, in real fucking gold that reads Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Styles!

At first glance, it seemed to be one of those scammy preapproval letters, the ones that try to make you max out credit cards and buy bullshit home improvements. Just as I was about to toss the paper, a set of black cards fell out.

To my surprise, they were new bank cards. One for Mr. Harry Styles, and one for his wife. Mrs. Brinna. Fucking. Styles.

Naturally, I called the bank immediately to get this fixed, seeing as how that's not my name and I shouldn't be on his bank account. After an hour-long back-and-forth conversation about how I was in fact supposed to be on there, with authorization from the man himself, I decided that the motherfucker was hiding something from me