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You can't remember a time in your life when you'd felt more abandoned, more humiliated. The only reason you've been able to keep your hurt and angry tears from running down your face is the fact that you're in public and don't want your smudged makeup on some professional photographer's camera roll.
It has been obvious since you first began dating Harry that management didn't like you, and at first you tried everything in your power to convince them that you are worthy of him. After several months of being a loving and supportive presence in his life, avoiding any personal scandals and keeping a virtually squeaky clean record that even the tabloids couldn't skew, it became clear to you that it wasn't the fact that he was dating you that was the problem. It was the fact that he wasn't dating someone famous. As the band's star player, they focus their attention on trying to match Harry up with someone who would get people talking, someone glitzy, someone stunning and flashy in the public eye. It was disheartening, to say the least, to know that most of the people that sign your boyfriend's paychecks would be much happier if you were out of his life, but Harry had made it clear to you that he wasn't influenced by whatever management had to say, that he wanted you and only you.
It didn't stop them from taking every opportunity they could find to introduce Harry to women they found more suited for him. It was becoming a disturbingly frequent occurrence to see pictures of him 'hanging out' with Hollywood's new 'it' girl or the daughter of an industry mogul, along with headlines that hint at a 'blossoming romance' between the two. When confronted, Harry always swore up and down that the 'date' was sprung on him with next to no notice and that he didn't have any interest in any of them. He was just doing his job.
You just can't help but wonder how well he's doing his job sometimes.
Especially tonight, at this industry party, where for close to two hours you've been sitting alone on a couch in the corner while Harry shmoozes and mingles and spends a ridiculous amount of time with a very pretty, tall blonde woman that management wanted him to meet. You'd caught her name briefly and a quick search on your phone lended you a small bit of information that let you know she was an up and coming singer and former child star on some children's show you'd never heard of. Going to these functions was never your favorite activity anyway, seeing as you were a nobody in the eyes of nearly everyone attending, just the disappointingly boring girl that Harry Styles has on his arm. Everyone wanted to talk to and be around Harry, not you, and you learned early on that your boyfriend wouldn't always be there to be a buffer between you and the intimidating world of the entertainment industry, if only because usually he was there because he had a job to do, to be seen and noticed, to network and generally be the charismatic, handsome moneymaker that he was so often sold as.
You dealt with that fairly well, you'd say, knowing that it was as much of a burden on him as it was on you, and it wasn't the first time you'd been relegated to near invisibility while Harry was off being a rich and sought after popstar. But it was the first time you'd been literally bumped out of the way by a stout man you vaguely recognized as an exec from the record label, and suddenly you'd been replaced by the leggy woman who currently has her hand on your boyfriend's arm as she laughs at something he must have said.
"Miss? More champagne?" You blink, torn from your upset thoughts by the same waiter who's circled by you at least four times, and you give him a bland thanks as you except the flute of champagne he's holding out to you on a tray. At least there's free alcohol.
You nearly down the entire glass in one gulp, checking the time again to see that it's nearing ten o'clock; you're tired, more than just physically, and as you miserably look down at your dress, the best and most expensive one you own, getting wrinkled from slouching in it on this couch all night, you hear a gruff, vaguely familiar voice say your name. It's Jason, Harry's bodyguard for the evening, and he's informing you that Harry's almost done and will meet you in the car. You glance around for a glimpse at your boyfriend who couldn't have come to tell you this himself, finding him still surrounded by colleagues and women (including, of course, the pretty singer) as he lingers with one of his friends who's just pulled on his coat and looks prepared to leave as well. You take in a deep breath, finish the rest of your champagne, and then accept Jason's hand when he offers to help you up.
