hello guys. i've been thinking and i think it is best to write books as i feel it connecting with me. some books may fall into a series line up, and others will not. i will write because my heart desires to. if there is a large request for another book in a series, then i will write it!

so request for any of the ones above. Liam's storyline is actually already being written because i think he is so underrated and deserves so much more attention. he is literally the sweetest guy. how could someone not write something on him?

anyway, ill post this in all the books i've started that correspond with a series.

thank you for your support but back to the disclaimers!

now, we must list some disclaimers before it all starts:

[one] this is a mere work of fiction. that means, the characters & plot, are all figments of my imagination and I do have a rather large one.

[two] the book is placed in an alternate universe. the boys are not famous, and they do not act as if they do, or may appear, in real life.

[three] please do not steal or translate my work. i created this, thought of it, and wrote it for the enjoyment of others and my own. you will be reported if there is any instance that i am notified of stealing.

[four] all images used in the production of the covers are not mine, and do not belong to me. I only used them to produce a visual for the readers.

[five] please enjoy it as much as i did writing.

- dani xo

c h a p t e r o n e 

Thai food. I have never been a fan of its authentic flavors and spices that can hiss at the tongue, but since Liam insists on me finally trying it, I decided to entertain his notion. He recommended Kuay Teow Moo Daeng, or Red Pork Noodle Soup that he calls favorite. The methods of eating the dish was through chop sticks, which I'm actually not too bad at using, only because of my often consumption of Asian cuisine most nights.

Between the two narrow shaped wood sticks designed with carvings and different colors, the noodles were lifted to the entrance of my lips, a small blow of air emptying to cool down the freshly prepared delivery food.

Surrounding me, Liam sat, eyes tentatively watching me to either confirm he was right about enforcing this or damp his hope on convincing me to ditch Asian food for a while.

"Come on, V," He fussed, a few lines appearing between his eyebrows to indicate his edgy attitude. "Eat the food already."

"I'm only teasing," With that, I slurped up the noodles. I was surprised by the flavors that were bursting against my taste buds, but of course, I won't tell Liam just yet. For entertainment purposes.

"Well, how about it? Is it good?"

"It's alright," I waved my hand in the air, shrugging. "What's this place called?"

"V, this food is amazing. I know you are bloody joking," Liam ignored my question, stiffening his expression. When he doesn't get the answer he approves of, his face turns into a grumpy avenue of attitude and anger.

This was too much fun, not to continue. The sensation you get when you see his face is something that can never be replaced.

"Liam, for the first time ever, you are wrong," I touched his hand, which he quickly snatched away while frowning, turning my straight face to a simple giggle. "I'm kidding, Li. It's good."

He rolled his eyes, slurping more of his own Kuay Teow Moo Daeng. "I hate you."

Immediately, I drew my hands to grasp my chest for dramatic effect. "Liam James Payne," The chair I scooted closer to him around the circular table squeaked and screeched until we were shoulder to shoulder. "You can not hate your best friend."

He continued to slurp, keeping his eyelids low.

"Liam James Payne, stop this right now," I playfully ordered, poking his cheeks to enforce a smile to tug at this mouth.

Soon, within seconds, his dimpled grin appeared.

"There it is!" My hands fastened to his torso, embracing his light cologne of Marc Jacobs.

"You are lucky I love you, Vegas Adele Blacke,"

"Ew, stop," A familiar voice cut in, causing us to draw our attention to the incoming figure from the entrance of the break room.

Aleczandra, followed by Elise, filed to find their seats adjacent from Liam and I.

"Don't be jealous, Aleczandra," I taunted, narrowing my orbs in her direction. "At least Liam actually wants to be around me."

At Horan Publications, there are several occupations that must be filled. Editors, a major asset to the company, contribute a large amount of work. Liam, Elise, Aleczandra, and I were all hired at the same time for that position, four years ago. Despite the long period of time, I remember my interview as if it was yesterday.

Before gaining this opportunity, Liam and I knew each other since diapers. He, being the person that he is, has kept me in check and away from the idiots that attempted to border up their way into my life. The list includes the horrible exes, friends from my childhood, and the despicable Aleczandra.

He has a high radar for stupidity, and she falls under it each time as a prime suspect that could ruin anything I put effort into. I haven't done anything to harm her in any way, but that doesn't stop her from being obnoxious.

"If you don't want to be here, why don't you leave?" Liam snapped, quirking up his thick eyebrows in opposition.

"Elise, not you," Elise's eyes widened at the mention of her name from my lips.

She was the witch's younger sister, but she wasn't as nearly as cringeworthy. In fact, she offers meaningful advice about how I could fix any mistakes I make while in our daily meetings with Mr. Horan. She's a bit shy, but her smiles can be radiating and refreshing.

"Last time I remember, Blacke or Payne, wasn't written across the front of the building," Aleczandra remarked, unpacking her processed veggie burger that had a repulsive stench.

My retort was almost about to counter when Tammy, Mr. Horan's secretary, stood between the swivel door and the other side.

Her pencil skirt hugged at her thighs while her buttoned shirt practically revealed her large breasts of making people doubt their self esteem. Her makeup was perfectly put on her face and as her crimson colored red lips parted, we all prepared ourselves for one of her rare interruptions.

"Vegas, Mr. Horan would like to see you in his office immediately,"

Me? I've haven't done anything wrong for the last few weeks. My edits have been absolutely precise. Why would he want to see me?

"Any reason why?" I cleaned up my lunch, closing the container of food that I would dine on later in my private office.

"No, he didn't say much,"

Liam's eyes were weary with worry, watching as I followed out Tammy to the main hallway of the top floor, known as the executive sector. There, advisors and other investors met, and no one else was ever to proceed unless under important affairs that concerned Mr. Horan, and the targeted person.

Her heels' unflattering noise against the marble floors came to a halt as we came to the double doors of cherry oak aligned with gold embroidery.

Niall Horan, CEO and founder of Horan Publications, was written on the name plate outside the doorway. I marveled at his status and monetary funds that he received on the daily basis for merely producing some of the best sellers. The amount of money he is projected to earn is almost unrealistic.

"Just head inside,"

Vegas, don't get nervous. There is nothing to be nervous about, really.

With a push, the doors revealed an office I've only happened to see under unpleasant circumstances of my own fault. In the center of the room, his grand desk parked itself, organized with labeled manila folders, and color coded systems for each line of paperwork. His chair was empty, signaling his location to be unknown.

"Mr. Horan?" There was no sign of him in his main area, but I heard that he does have other rooms inside this massive room. "It's me, Vegas from the editing department,"

"I know who you are," His Irish accent barked from the left side which followed by his average frame came into view from a side door that proved the rumors true. "Sit."

His orders were not to be disobeyed or I could lose my only way to afford my penthouse on the south side of London. The pay here was impeccable, and there was no way I could find another job as great as this one.

My hands tucked my engorged skirt under my bum, where I parked myself to hear the rest of his instructions.

His footsteps were quick as if he was anger about something that previously happened. A coffee stained napkin was between his fingers as he furiously wiped away a pestering spot in his eyes.

If I found this silence appropriate to speak into, I would advise to add cold water to lift the stain from his tailored blazer that could easily buy my life away. Instead, I kept quiet, zipping my lips tight together to resist the urge to supply advice.

"I've called you here to give you an opportunity to take Aleczandra's job," He asserted, dropping the napkin after his failed attempts.

"Really?"

"Yes, Ms. Blacke," His sarcastic voice stated, before continuing, "Do you know of the best seller under our publication, Nightingale?"

Oh gee, do I? Nightingale was one of my favorite pastimes to read whenever I have the time to spare. The compelling story of the two star crossed lovers, an interracial couple, during the civil rights time period striking at the doors of the youth. One would think that the parents of that generation would have instilled a harsh opinion of African Americans, such as myself, but the protagonist's parents remained steady in their views of fighting against injustice.

Overall, the book is a mere masterpiece. No one knows who wrote it; the author deciding to leave themselves under a strict unrecognizable pen name. There is no decoding it, either.

"Of course, Mr. Horan," I nodded.

"Great. You should know," He found his place in the large office chair constructed strictly for him, and leaned back with his eyes glaring at me. "By popular demand, the readers want a sequel to the book because of the cliffhanger ending,"

I mean, who wouldn't? I've seen petitions online to hurry up the process. Guess my signature made a difference.

"How would there be? The author's information is unknown because of the pen name," I mentioned, contracting my eyebrows together in thought.

"That's where you come in," He perched up, his hands folding and resting on the desk's surface in front of him. "Under confidential ties, you will be going to the author's house. I have his information,"

His..So it's a male who has written it! Wow, he must be passionate about the topic. So intriguing, not many people decide to write that sensitive time period.  

A slam of a manila folder, like the ones I saw earlier on his desk, snapped me out of my fan girl thoughts, moving me to pick up the file.

Inside, I read the words, my eyes searching for the name of such an iconic writer of this time.

Harry Styles, age twenty four..He's pretty young, wonder what he looks like, then.

"You will go to his house and request him to write another novel under this publication," He instructed, catching my eye contact when I glanced up from the documents. "Understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Horan,"

"Great. Head there tomorrow to start the process," He advised, standing and collecting himself to stand and overlook the city from his high-end office location. "You may go,"

Without any further attributes or instruction, I started towards the door. Once I was outside of his tension atmosphere, my feet raised from the ground, leaping for joy for finally obtaining a chance to shove Aleczandra's running tongue down her throat. As evil and incriminating as that sounds.

Per usual, Liam was back under his work schedule, his eyes glazing over pages and pages of words to scoot out any misspellings. You always have to be precise when it comes to being an editor. You are proofreading a book that could push Mr. Horan's net worth up a notch.

As much as he hates it when I force him to pause his tedious work, my nude pumps pranced inside his carpeted office. His eyes glanced up, seeing me and nearly jumping out of his turning chair. 

"Vegas, you better tell me what happened," Liam enticed, his large palms grasping my biceps under my loose baby blue blouse. "No jokes this time,"

"I have a opportunity to take Aleczandra's executive position right from under her disgusting toes," I kept my voice low, leading him by his very fingers, to the patent leather couch in the rear of his office. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, Mr. Horan said, I have to visit E. Stein," Liam's face lit up with curiosity. He has most likely heard about the piece of fiction, obviously. He is one of the biggest bookworm there is. 

"How? No one knows-"

I plopped the file on his lap in the middle of his statement, and his hands clutched it. His Adam's apple vividly moved as he gulped down his fear of reading the secret file that Mr. Horan has knew of this entire time. 

"Because you are my best friend, I decided to allow your eyes to lay on it," My notable spirit fingers wiggled in his face until he slapped them away to focus on the words printed on the pages of classified facts. 

The room was quiet enough for his eyes to scan. He paused when the task was done, his wide auburn eyes staring in my direction. 

"This is bloody huge, V," His voice was low as his Wolverhampton accent fanned in the air. "You are messing with the big leagues now,"

"I know," I replied, gasping internally. "He says I have to go tomorrow,"

"Want me to come along?" 

"I'll be fine, but can you help me find the address?" It says he's in Holmes Chapel and I have no idea where that is, to be honest. 

He stood, and sat back down at his Apple computer's monitor. He typed away, the well-lit screen reflecting in his eyes. "V, you might want to take a look at this,"

"What-" 

On the screen, a picture of a nearly abandoned wooden house that could be casted as the close second to that childish cartoon, Monster House, I saw with my little nieces last weekend. They were frightened out of their minds, enough to cause nightmares for a week. 

The Google Earth image was much like the movie, and I almost peed in my underwear, to be on the graphic side. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to come along?" Liam reassured his question, my leveled vision turning to face his withered expression of fear for my life. "I could just wait in the car,"

To be frank, I couldn't properly focus on Liam and his offer. I was stuck on the fact that I was to encounter the owner of that..that..haunted house! I shivered, my hands warming the part of my arms, the hairs practically sticking up while the goosebumps chilled over my skin. 

There is no way I could possibly come out of that predicament alive. Or with the request fulfilled to the sequel.

Vegas, you better eat the last of your Asian tonight because you ain't getting any in the grave. 

. . . 

c h a p t e r t w o 

Before today, my daily trips to Urban Decaf to score a cappuccino were always ordinary.

The shop wouldn't be crowded during the morning hours, which made my morning even easier. I was one of the shop's usuals, along with Sara, the future med-student who couldn't stop drinking her espresso, not for a minute when her finals were biting her in the rear.

Ashton, my neighbor and friend, worked from the break of dawn to serve customers like myself. I couldn't find anyone who actually wants to get up at four in the morning besides her, but she is a rather strange person anyhow.

As of now, Mr. Horan sent me a chilling email while I was sitting in the shop, practically saying that he was expecting me to actually question this Harry Styles, and to be quite frank, I don't want to. For all I know, he could murder me.

Liam attempted to reconcile, soothing my fears with his second offer to drive me. But again, I denied, seeing that I have to do this on my own, if I really want the job.

I'm starting to question my sense now.

"Vegas, you alright?" In the middle of a gulp of my second cappuccino, Ashton's South Shields' accent interjected.

I paused, my eyes jetting up to view her shaken expression.

"Ah, y-yeah," My fingers clamped to the glass mug, the warmth nearly gone.

"You don't seem too sure," She slid into the booth, placing her wooden tray to the table in the center of us. "What's the dealo?"

For a few seconds, I actually questioned whether or not, I should tell her the information. Ashton is a reliable listener, and makes the person of the hour a priority. Regardless of her job's demands.

Maybe, she will listen...

"I have to go to a certain address for my job," I told, taking a duration of the seconds of silence to swirl around the remaining coffee in a trembling circle.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"The house is in Holmes Chapel, and its in one of those houses in the scary movies," I referenced, hoping she would get it, and agree with me.

"And you are going alone?" She seemed concerned like a true friend should.

The pad of my finger circled the rim of my mug, an obvious object to imprint with my nervousness. "Liam offered to come along, but he has loads of work,"

As I turn my attention to view Ashton, her eyebrows were kneaded together. When she's thinking, she does this obscured thing of rubbing her chin as if she is in one of those cartoons. If she comes up with a helpful idea, she taps her own nose and her thrilling idea is spilled from her lips.

Like, now.

Just like I said, she poked her own nose, then lit up with a spark of intelligence.

"Why don't you just go to the house, then have your phone on standby to call the cops if anything happens?"

Not her best idea, but it's decent.

"I'll try that."

Within a couple minutes, Ashton is then called back to work. A few customers are begging for her to refill their mugs of the various coffee combinations and types. She said her goodbyes, leaving me to relish on her idea further.

For now, his house is awaiting, along with my future that it holds.

. . .

112 Old Bexley Lane, the nameplate that read the address was plastered on the gate of the luxurious Victorian style home.

I stared at the letters that marked his family's crest and supposedly, notable name. The winter's blast of wind caused me to huddle inside of my fur, windbreaker jacket, hands cozied up in the gloves my mother gave me last Christmas.

London was occasionally chilling, always playing in my favor, unlike today.

Along the wire of the gate, a steel lock hung. From the looks of this, this place could be abandoned for all I know. Now that would replace the favor the weather usually grants.

Near the nameplate, my fingertip applied pressure to the small button. A sharp, ringing alarm flinched at my nerves as I stiffened my posture.

"The Duke is not accepting any guests today," The robotically generated voice reported. "Please go home, and come back another time. Thank you."

Duke? Mr. Horan said nothing about that. Do I have the wrong address? I swear I checked several times before typing it in my GPS.

"I am Vegas Blacke, from Horan Publications," I continued after my teeth shattered from the cold, "I would just like a word with Harry Styles?"

Silence.

"Hello? I need to speak with someone. Anyone would be perfect."

More stupid silence.

"I'm not leaving from this spot until I speak to an actual human,"

I assume this was a final straw for the person inside, because they began to ruffle through the intercom. They released a rushed breath, clearly bothered by my visit, but I could care less.

Now that I'm here, I can not mess up this chance for a spike in pay, and the irreplaceable and priceless look that Aleczandra would provide.

"Fine. What is your name again?" This time, a female voice, someone in their mid-forties, answered.

"Vegas Blacke from Horan Publications."

Within seconds, a clicking sound loosened the lock on the gate, dropping it to the concrete below. I leapt back a few inches, before realizing the slightly rude invitation the lady gave as she stood on the steps of the large home.

"Hurry in, child," Her hand waved, pushing my steps to trail behind her elongated dress of antique fashions.

Inside of the home, the color of the drab wallpaper was repellent; the shades of black and gray almost revolting because of the lack of color or a scent of emotion besides sadness or despair. The decorative portraits of rather odd people were hung above the two descending staircase.

I was curious as to who could possibly live within a home that was completely hideous.

Nevertheless, I kept my opinions to myself. This is a potential returning client that could make Mr. Horan less..intimidating towards me.

"Welcome to the Styles' Estate," The lady finally spoke to me, holding her chin high with a sharp glare. "I am Martha, the head maid."

"Hello.." I croaked, nodding with uncertainty of words.

"Yes," She scanned my attire, consisting of a midnight black mini sweater dress, paired with the pair of knee high boots I found in a thrift store half its retail price. I was proud of the ensemble that I threw together out of nervousness this morning, but telling by her look, she disapproved. Her bold eyes remained on me until she broke the line of contact away. "Well, follow me to Mr. Styles' office,"

The rest of the decor was sprawling with more creepy portraits. I've read that England is famous for hanging the pictures of their ancestors, whether their history be proud or not.

This home had fallen into this category, along with a failing attempt to actually appeal to guests. 

Martha spoke no more, forcing me to make conversation. Hopefully, she will provide some details on how to approach the man of Mr. Horan's future fortune. Like he needs money anyway.

"Is he scary?" I intruded, the heating warming my chilled hands, even inside of my knitted gloves.

"Mr. Styles is a rather..stern man," She honestly responded, continuing her path down the narrow hallways of this building. "Please do not irritate him."

"I will only ask a few questions."

"Sometimes constant questions can irritate a person, Ms. Blacke," She shut down any further input from me, zipping my timid lips.

She halted in her steps, coming to a pair of double doors, much like Mr. Horan's, but on a larger scale.

"You may go inside, but remember what I advised," She whisked away, her figure disappearing into the hollowed shadows down the hall.

As I observed the landscape, I was now alone. The only thing that kept me from this mysterious man was these doors. He was waiting on the other side, possibly twirling his favorite butcher knife. I'm being dramatic, but who wouldn't in this case?

With a bit of pressure, the two portals widened, creaking with tension and uneasiness, I was propelled into the thick atmosphere of sorrow.

My eyes cruised over the setting of the office, seeing nothing but a subtle light coming from the only window in the room behind the antique oak desk, twice as large as Mr. Horan's. There was a scatter of discarded paperwork, and books of all sorts; some of the covers I could not read from where I was standing completely, and utterly still.

"Hello-"

"Who are you again?" The voice of the air split clean through my greeting, and targeted a question directly at me. Still, there was no one to be found.

The accent was heavier than usual, presuming that he was taught as all royalty should in the speech of old England. The undertones of his voice were raspy, climbing with deep, darkened breaths after the finishing of his question.

"I-I'm Vegas Blacke from Horan Publications. I came to-"

"I didn't ask what you came for," He scolded, a pair of footsteps leading me to believe that he was going to show himself as an aged man, someone near the peak of his death, but oh, how I was wrong..

Instead, his shoulders were broad and aligned with the custom design for his physique. The length of his hair was longer than I've seen on a man in years; the locks forming a selective pool of strands.

Those eyes..

I could only make out a darken color of emerald hinted around his pupils, diluted from some sort of cause that was unknown to me. He was dressed in a suit, highly likely for a notable gentleman such as himself.

I bought my tote closer to my chest in a bit of fear, seeing that his fingers were stuffed in his trousers' pocket.

As he proceeded closer to the only light source, his fairly tanned skin could be decoded, along with his stiffen look when he glared at the people down below that traveled the ways of the neighborhood.

"Why does Mr. Horan send someone to pressure me?" This question was possibly rhetoric, but being an idiot at the time, I couldn't help but answer his wandering mind.

"He would like to request something from you,"

He was stricken by my choice to actually speak up. "And what is this request?"

"By popular demand, your debut novel, Nightingale, has been targeted by your audience to produce a sequel,"

Mr. Styles said nothing more, trailing his steps to the lingering bottle of Scotch on the table, an array of glasses surrounding it.

As the brown liquor filled his small glass half way, he stood perched in the center of the room, sipping and scanning me for any errors.

"Are you of any importance to the company?" He asked once he swallowed more of the liquid.

"I'm a junior editor,"

His chuckle roared deeply throughout as if he wanted to make sure that I was mocked because of my lack of authority.

"He sent an amateur to request my work? How absurd," He remarked, shaking his head with no further comment.

"To be quite frank, I am very good at what I do, Mr. Styles," I countered, relaxing my tensing grip on my tote bag. "He gave me this opportunity to serve as a chance to promote me."

"I beg to differ. I think he sent you to do the dirty work, while his best employees are hard at work, Ms. Blacke," He tipped his glass to me, placing it on the desk just behind him.

"I beg your pardon?" How dare he!

I was caught at a stand still. He was clearly angered by my opposition to his thoughts, taking a few steps to head closer to my cowardly figure.

When he was close enough, the influential scent that swirled around his clothing connected with my sense of smell. There was a hint of alcohol that was tied into it, which would make sense.

My knees were buckling, wobbling even, as he took one last step to be directly in front of me.

"Ms. Blacke, are you scared?"

"N-No.." Liar.

"Let me ask you another question. Do you enjoy lying to my face, a potential client for your superior?"

I gulped down the slight amount of saliva that was still available in my mouth. Surprisingly, I was undergoing a drought in there, but yet sweat was appearing on the brim of my forehead.

"N-No, sir."

A low chuckle spilt from the pair of plump, pink lips that were only a few inches from my own. He kept his vision low, his hands appearing near the lining of my waist.

At his touch, I jolted back, hitting the terrible wallpaper that was plastered around the office. He laughed as if he was mocking me, mocking my nervousness.

With a hint of humor, his hands slid up against my backside, stripping away from my confidence to stand up against myself.

"M-Mr. Styles..please,"

"Please what?"

"Y-You are touching me.."

"And?"

I can't speak up. I can't or he won't deliver the request to the book. Mr. Horan will fire me for sure, and I won't nearly afford enough for my apartment with a job at Lydia's coffee shop.

She has offered me a job there several times, and surely because we are neighbors, we can work together...

Vegas, you cannot supplement yourself to this treatment. React or you will suffer from inferiority the rest of your daring life.

I had a small amount of courage, and with that, I shoved his stronghold away. He shifted in his steps, surprised by the stiffness I illuminated.

"Do not touch me ever like that again. I frankly don't care whether or not you actually write a sequel," I struck in my speech, fixing the existence of my dress. "Goodbye, Mr. Styles."

"You want to lose your job?"

"I don't freaking care," The door slammed behind me, stomping down the frightening steps and turns of his house until the cold London air swept against my face.

Well, looks like I'll be a barista. Hope they carry wide aprons, because my hips can't hold normal ones.

. . .