Styles & Co.

Chapter Thirteen.

Authors Note: Hey, everyone! So, this chapter was a bit of an ehhh chapter for me, it was quite a struggle to write and not entirely what I had in mind, but it happens. I hope you guys are enjoying Styles & Co. Feel free to leave feedback or pitch thoughts and ideas. Xx

I sit up on the bed, my eyes sleepily glancing around the bedroom that is tranquil and still vague. I glance beside me; I expected to see Harry asleep beside me or a trace of him being in bed, but the bed is still made on his side. It seems as if he never came to bed, which makes me wonder... When did I get to bed?

I overhear his voice from somewhere outside our bedroom, I can only assume he is on the phone.

He unobtrusively walks into the room, pausing as he views me sitting up in the bed.

"You're awake." He states the obvious and I nod, my thoughts hazy. "How are you feeling?" His voice stays pleasant and coarse, being remarkably soothing to me,

"Not that great to be fucking honest, what time is it?" I mumble,

"Five in the morning," Harry enlightens me on the time, my body appearing sluggish and heavy—almost as if I have a hangover from hell.

I attempt to push myself to sit up, but all I manage to do is fall to my side with a grunt, unable to thoroughly sit myself up.

I don't know what the hell happened between last night and now, but I do know that it feels like hell, literal hell. I don't remember drinking excessively, I had one drink, that one drink that I did not even want. I took it out of politeness.

I breathe out, trying to force myself up on my arms, managing slightly just as I feel his hands press to my arms. Before I can attempt to scramble out of bed and press my feet to the flooring, my stomach turns vigorously, feeling like severe, surging waves erupting inside me, giving me no chance to even bat an eye—ultimately forcing me to get sick, staining the comforter with a new shade.

"Fucking neat." I hear Harry mutter, not too satisfied.

The minute I glare up at him, already weakened and disgusted with myself, his eyes soften. "Sorry, sweetheart." He sighs, "Let's get you cleaned up." He touches his hand delicately to my back, his other hand pulling my hair away from my face.

I let out a groan, permitting him to help me out of bed, my body for once in my life feeling fragile and precarious.

He helps me relax my body down on the icy tiles of the bathroom, kissing the top of my head, "I'm going to get you a change of clothes, I'll be back to rub your back." He assures me, my body already leaning over the bowl of the toilet.

In the midst of throwing up, I attempt to remember what left me in this state.

The last thing I recollect is Harry's hand on my shoulder as he arrived at the arranged location, Mr.Taylor ducking towards the bathroom, leaving me a moment with my drink and Harry. I remember something briefly about New York, and Harry not thinking things added up, but after that... it is a vague space of nothingness. I don't remember leaving, I don't remember getting home, or even going to bed.

My blood boils the moment I identify the sexist and degrading comments from Harry's 'client' a client that I sure as hell hope Harry drops from his business, exiling him all of Styles & Co.

Something about him tells me he has no damn business around us, his intentions don't come off as pleasant.

I'm drawn away from my thoughts and my struggling memory, Harry's hand pressing against my back, rubbing in a comforting circular motion, "I don't suppose you're feeling any better?" He sighs, crouching down beside me, doing his best to pull my hair away from my face.