The Contract // H.S.

Chapter One //

"Sam!" I huff exasperatedly, kneeling on the floor of my closet.

"Where the fuck are my ankle boots?! I swear to God if she borrowed them again without asking-" I mutter to myself.

"Chloe, take a breath, Jesus, they're right here," Sam stands in the doorway of the closet, holding my black suede ankle boots in her hands.

"Thanks," I grab the shoes and push past her into my bedroom. Sitting on the blush colored bench next to my white vanity I bend down to begin putting them on my feet. I'm tense. ugh.Samantha Hawkins is my best friend and roommate. We became roommates two years ago, after our mutual friend Danny introduced us. I didn't necessarily need a roommate, but she had just moved to Los Angeles to take her modeling career to the next level. She needed a place to stay, and with me having recently kicked my cheating asshole boyfriend, Nick Miller, out of the house, I was feeling lonely and more than happy to share my bungalow in Los Feliz with this tall, blonde bombshell with a pixie cut. Sam and I hit it off right away, but we are complete opposites. Sam is a party girl, which balances out my seriousness. She's always dragging me out to a boujee Hollywood party, the newest trendy lounge, and introducing me to her model friends. I can't say I mind completely, I have a tendency to become too much of a hermit sometimes.

Sam speaks, snapping my thoughts back to this dimension, "Why are you so stressed about this audition? You're never stressed about these. Maybe you need to smoke some weed before you go," Sam states, flopping her 5'9" lithe body onto my bed, hands behind her platinum blonde head.

I turn to her and glare, "Yes, Samantha, I'm sure Diane fucking Williamson will cast me on the spot if I smell like a marijiana store. Why didn't I think of that?"

She sits up on her forearms, her brow creasing. "Okaaaaay asshole, don't say I didn't try to help. Wait - Diane Williamson is the director for this thing? Holy shit! You better invite me on set when you land this role."

I stand up, walking over to my full length mirror on the adjacent wall and sigh, "I'm glad one of us is confident. Ugh, Do I look okay? like I belong in a blockbuster Hollywood film next to Harry Styles?" I straighten out my black sweater and pull on the shirt underneath, letting my hands fall to my sides."CHLOE DID YOU JUST SAY HARRY FUCKING STYLES?!? HOW COULD YOU WITHHOLD THIS INFORMATION FROM ME?" Sam scrambles off the bed and over to me, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me slightly.

"I didn't 'withhold' anything. I just didn't, um, didn't say anything. Anyway, It's just a rumor, Caroline said it was thrown out accidentally at an industry social hour last week," I bite the corner of my lip and raise an eyebrow at her. "Since when are you a Harry Styles fan anyway? You hate that kind of music. "

She scoffs and rolls her hazel eyes at me as she begins to walk out of my room, "Girl, his music is the last thing on my mind," wiggling her eyebrows, she turns around, exiting the doorway and down the hall. I hear her yell "Break a leg! Margaritas when you get home!"

"You're disgusting!" I yell after her.

I laugh quietly to myself, shake my head and turn my attention back on my reflection. I take a deep breath and blow the oxygen out of my mouth in an O shape. Before I can give my anxious mind time to think of 800 scenarios that all end with me humiliating myself, I grab my purse and keys and exit my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

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The drive to the audition was uneventful. I kept going over the lines Caroline sent me this morning, making sure I had it memorized. The last thing I need is to forget the lines and clam up. Sam was right, I don't usually get this nervous. I just really need this part. Up til now I've only been in a handful of indie films and although they've done amazingly well, for indies, my agent Caroline and I are still trying to get my "big break". I've been putting on a show since I was in my kindergarten Christmas play, and my love for acting just got bigger as I got into high school. I'm 25 now and three years into my career in LA. When I moved to the west coast from my small town in north Texas, with my entire life packed into my Volkswagen beetle, I had stars in my eyes. Now, not so much. It's hard to keep going after so many rejections. You get a little jaded, yknow? I've heard it all. You're not thin enough. Too curvy. Not the right hair color. Not the right skin color. You'd think talent mattered above everything else but that's just not the case in Hollywood. There's always someone to schmooze or some event to be seen at, and you really don't get anywhere in this industry without networking. Especially if you're a nobody like I am.

I guess I have always kept going because every time I had to face yet another rejection, all I could hear in my head was my dad in his sweet southern drawl saying, "Baby, don't let them win. Don't let them take your sparkle. We are Bennetts, we don't quit."

He always believed in me. My biggest fan.

Now, sitting in this sterile looking, long white hallway surrounded by around thirty other actors, fluorescent lights glaring down at us and making visible every imperfection in our skin, all I want to do is make him proud to be looking down on me.

"Chloe Bennett?" I hear my name being called by a short, round looking woman with thick glasses on a string around her neck, clipboard in hand.

I stand up, grabbing my bag from the seat next to me. "Yes, that's me," I walk to the woman and smile. She doesn't return my gesture. Her blank stare tells me all I need to know about how her day has been going.

"This way please, there's a table right inside the room where you can set your things. Do you need a copy of the selection you're supposed to be reading?" her nasaly monotone voice really isn't helping my nerves.

"Erhm, no, I don't. I've got them right here, thanks."

She grunts and walks me to another door, as she opens it and walks in she states simply, "Chloe Bennett, 25 years old. 5 feet 5 inches tall, 136.4 pounds, dress size 6." She walks forward and places the paper on the long panel-like table in front of her.

Gee thanks for pointing out my weight, Karen. You could have at least rounded down.

She turns around, the sound of the door shutting makes me flinch a bit and I look towards the four individuals sitting at the table in front of me.

Wait, four? Usually there's only three at the most. I recognize Diane Williamson, the director, her light brown hair neatly stacked on top of her head in a bun, lips painted red and face full of makeup. Next to her is a raven-haired man with tiny circular glasses and a mustache who I assume to be the casting director, he is consumed by whatever is in front of him and doesn't even look up at me as I take a couple steps forward. Ben Andreson sits next to him, the producer for this movie.

My eyes glance at each of them from left to right as I introduce myself nervously. "Hi, um, well she already told you but my name is Chloe and-" my eyes rest on the fourth and final person sitting at the table and I forget my words. He leans back in his chair, pushing his slightly curly brown hair back with his hand, a ring on each finger. His face gives nothing away, eyebrows drawn together creating a deep crease in between them. One of his arms lays across his stomach, the other elbow resting on it as the hand he used to touch his hair now goes to grab his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger. His green eyes bore into me and I can't tell if he's angry or just has a serious case of resting bitch face.

Harry fucking Styles. Shit.

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A/N hi guys! this is my first time trying to write a Harry fic, this idea has been swimming around in my head for a while so I finally decided to do something about it! I've got tons of plans for this adventure so buckle up!!

tpwk
-Jen