CEO // Harry Styles

21

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The doors are a beautiful dark oak, something to be forgotten, or missed in my sleep hazed state. They catch the eye, like the purpose to the more than likely gorgeous rooms the block of wood shadows.

I open yet another door I had missed the night prior. There were too many.

I had discovered so many passageways this morning. Two separate bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms. Aside one particular bathroom was a large storage closet that seemed to hold newspaper articles.

What are these?

I quickly close the door at the sound of footsteps. Only a matter of time before I was caught.

I quickly close the door, cringing as it makes a rather loud bang while shutting. I haul in a bubble of air, turning around, and praying I don't see blazing, angry green eyes.

Luck seems to be on my side when I see lilac strands protruding from a messy bun. Thank god. "Adelaide?" She asks. Her voice is curt, and quiet, almost as if she'd just woken up. But I had no idea what time it was, so the possibility was in the air.

"Yes?" I'm squeaking now, in a very unattractive way.

"Harry has wondered where you slept. He has plans for the two of you today. He will be attending the Burberry Fashion Show, with you alongside as his date. A dress and such shall be placed on your bed. Go to the kitchen to get your stylist." She throws the information on me. A stylist? Burberry? Fashion show? It's all too much.

"Don't I have work?" I'm curious, and I'm surely sneaky Styles has weeded me out of my job for the day.

"Mr. Styles has taken care of that." She smiles knowingly. I wonder if she could have read my thoughts.

I nod at her, and find myself swerving through the home of an endless hallway, and range of doors.

"Through the doorway on the right." A voice calls, feminine, and I identity her as Lou.

I nod my head in thanks, but I realize she most likely can't hear me. I'm tempted to yell thank you, but I'm not sure who lurks these halls at whatever hour it may be. I pray Styles is out on business, or is hidden away in his secret office, not out in the open corrupting the world with his stunning good looks.

In the kitchen I find the brown haired boy with fish lips, whose name I had forgotten, though I shouldn't have, and a lacking Styles. Where was he?

"Do you know where Harry is?" I ask the boy. Today he is wearing a white button up, and black dress pants. I can't see his shoes, but I assume he's wearing them. Harry seems the type for those kind of rules.

"He's in his study." His voice is deep. Not as deep as Harry's, but a raspy, American tone that isn't enough to send you into shivers.

"Okay." I answer back. I feel as you should. It's polite. Although I'm the farthest from.

A women enters through a hallway I didn't know existed. What the hell?

She carries a walkie talkie, and a pair of scissors. Behind her, she holds on to a rack of clothing. I see dresses. The prints and patterns excite me as I realize who this lady is. She's my stylist for the event.

Holy shit.

"Ready to be glamorized Ms. Bronx?" She asks in posh accent. Geez. Why so fancy?

"Yes." I feel dumb. I feel underdressed in Harry's shirt. But despite my feelings I follow her down the hallway and into the bedroom next to where I had slept.

I'm dressed in a black dress. It's beautiful, and stylish. Certainly something wouldn't have picked out on my own. Maybe Louis. But he has a keen sense of style.

It a plain black dress; a sweetheart neckline, and surely shorter than what I usually wear. But above the neckline is mesh material with cuffed sleeves and collar. Two lines run across my collar bones, and I feel gorgeous as I slip it on.

My hair is done in a tight top knot bun. My dark locks pinned above my head in a sophisticated manner. Something I never do. I usually let them flow freely.

My makeup is gorgeous. Lou had done it, along with my hair. I swear, she has talent in the beauty industry. Why she works for Styles is beyond me.

I admire my cat eye in the mirror. Lou laughs at me. "I don't blame you." She winks at me.

"Thank you." I blush. I hadn't meant to be caught staring.

"Harry is already on his way to the venue. His driver will take you."

"That's okay. I can drive." I tell her. I hope she allows me. I don't want to have an awkward experience with a bald headed 40 year old virgin.

She gives me a sad smile. "I don't think I have permission to let you do that."

I nod my head. Why is he so damn controlling?

She flicks her head towards the doorway, and hands me a pair of black pumps, and a black crossover bag that I hang over my shoulder before I exit.

I make my way to the garage. Why is nobody escorting me? This place has higher security than the White House and I'm surprised.

I put my phone in the purse I had been provided. Inside I find black Lennon glasses. They are cute, but I have no need to put them on, for now.

"Would you like a drink?" A server asks me. He has a kind smile, and I'm not sure if he's interested or not. Although I'm here with a date. One I've yet to see..

I decide I need one if my mind continues to jump around so sporadically as it does at the moment. I nod my head, and I'm handed a champagne glass containing bubbly liquid.

"Thank you." I smile at him. He nods, and moves on. Okay. So not interested. Probably the better option for him anyways.

I explore more. Ever since I had arrived, this building had given me the creeps. I was directed inside by the driver. He was given specific directions about my whereabouts from the lord himself.

Many women are wearing grand costumes for the runway. I swear I see a pinch of Cara Delevingne's blonde hair.

She's gorgeous, but her eyebrows have always bugged me.

She's wearing grey jeans, a darker black top and black boots. She looks stunning, yet incredibly underdressed compared to the other models.

I decide the inside is boring, and I make my way outside.

Thousands of photographers are here. Fashion icons, and smiles are captured in the moment through the small lenses of paparazzi.

I wish Harry was here to rub my lower back. I'm extremely uncomfortable, and I don't feel like being here anymore. I don't even know why I was brought here. I haven't even seen the man of the hour yet.

I turn and gasp.

He looks so beautiful. So ravishing in his green designer pea coat. People are staring, and the cameras are a creepy déjà vu as I become blinded by the flashing lights.

He wears a proud smirk, but he's uninterested in the people surrounding him. He believes they are below him.

And if I didn't experience the paparazzi like I did so the night prior, I may have disagreed with his thoughts.

"Harry!" One photographer shouts. But it's a female. I can't pin point the voice, as there are too many women behind cameras to decipher.

"Harry is that your new girlfriend?" One voice screams at him in agony. He wants his question answered.

Flashes are hurting my eyes. I remember the glasses in my black bag, and pull them out to block out the harmful booms of light sent my direction.

"I thought you were with the publishing intern just weeks ago?" Another one voices. These last two questions have been heard, and caught my attention.

What? People know me?

I realize the first question was not about me. It was about a red head, whose hand was now taken into the curly headed fellows.

Again, I'm shocked to find that my boss is my lovers date.