By: Icy Daenerys Targaryen Queen aka Abdul Raheem Hussain.

Hello Everyone, I have been inspired by reading the following books: Twilight, Game of Thrones, Me Before You, Harry Potter, Hunger Games, Jacqueline Wilson, 

IT, The shining etc.

This is a draft meaning that there will be grammatical errors and spelling errors.

Than you.

:3

Every soul shall taste death: no soul shall suffice over another.

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness. - Friar Lawrence, act 2, scene 6. (Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare.)

I scowl in the mirror confused and annoyed.

Damn my hair: it looks uneven, one hair strand different from one - another: My cherry lips, dry like sandpaper, I apply strawberry seduction scented (chopstick.)

Damn for Ingela putting me through this ordeal.

I look at my figure in the mirror, I saw a petite woman looking back at me. I was skinny, I only eat one banana in the morning for breakfast, after - noon I have dark black tea with buttered toast, it oozes with oil, for supper I have nothing - I skip it on a regular basis. I fear that I will gain weight, that I will turn morbidly obese. I took  a glimpse in the mirror again: I was horrified at what I saw, I saw something that I cannot change; I saw myself I had very little meat on my bones, I had barely any meat on my skin. I didn’t like to eat a lot, It’s not my fault that I have an eating disorder, that consumed my life like a black hole, void. I only saw darkness, my life was shrouded in ominous darkness - There was no light at the end of the tunnel. I was forever in a sinister place.

I always dreamt of being like other girls: the ones that are models, singers, actors they have the perfect body that I dreamed of having, they were trendsetters, they always get the hot, naughty, arousing bad boys they win men over with their entrancing looks and by their bright smile, their immaculate sense of clothing. They didn’t have to work hard for anything, they would get given anything their hearts desired.

“Why did I sign up for medical school”, I said to myself in my unhinged, solitary mind. I bet they would reject me on how I looked, how my personality was, if I looked mesmerizing, I would accepted straight away.

Why do I even bother I would get rejected as soon as I walk through the door, people would laugh at my body - size, the type of clothing that I wore as an individual.

I look at my hideous reflection in the mirror, I cut myself with a sharp razor blade it was the only way I could endure all of this, why couldn’t I be born with the perfect body, If I had the perfect body I could win men over, I wish I had a boyfriend who could tell me how beautiful I looked in clothing.

I guess I’m not meant for that, If you approached me you would burst out laughing, if you saw me you wouldn’t even talk to me, you would mock my inner - feelings, Nobody cares about me.

Why couldn’t my Mother abort me, before I was born.

She has to live with me, I’m a burden to her. I lean on my beautiful mother for support, but she has work to do, she’s too busy with office work. My brothers are busy chasing, running after youthful harlots.

I sigh deeply, I was disappointed in myself, can’t things get better? They won’t, they never will - God himself hates me.

I remember in high school how people judged me by my appearance they would call me: ‘skinny’, ‘introvert’, ‘nerd’. I never had the dazzling opportunity to go to prom to dance across the vast ballroom: I wish I could glide across the floor like an angelic angel. 

I fantasized about it, I was infatuated, I would wear a long, silky, pearly white dress: my hair straight, I could be the or dancing across the metallic floor. I would soar across the fluffy, cotton clouds like a majestic eagle, but I was rejected, refused a place - you had to follow certain rules.

You must not be a virgin.

You had to be hot.

I wish I could feel what ‘passion’ felt like, my body was unproportioned, I cry every day: I yearn to be loved.

I tried to overdose on sweet, sleeping pills: I was sent to the hospital, I could contemplate suicide, I was thinking about suicide for a long time, I wanted to hang - myself with a noose and tighten it, but I was a coward! I didn’t have to courage nor did I have the guts, I tried carbon monoxide poisoning but that thought of that was painful.

I tied my hair into submission, I tied it into a ponytail: my hair wasn’t uneven, the hair strand wasn’t odd, no tendrils everything was okay.

I smiled into the mirror, I hide my cuts and scars from cutting myself.

“Don’t I look ravishing?”

“Don’t I look sexy?”

I said to myself.

I wish I could be with a billionaire who loved me for who I was as person, not judging my looks or personality.

Ingela my roommate out of all days has succumb to the flu, Ingela was  huddled over the couch in the living room.

Therefore, I had to take her place, I had to go to the interview. I wasn’t interested in interviews or meetings to be quite frank.

She’d arranged to do with some mega - industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the students news - paper. 

So I have been volunteered, why did I volunteer?

I have final exams: Biology, Chemistry, Physics A - level, exams to cram. 

How am I supposed to do all of this when I have to be working this afternoon, but no - today I have to drive 165 miles to downtown Vancouver in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Styles Enterprise Holdings, Inc. 

As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is extraordinarily, precious - much more precious than my time, but he has granted Ingela an interview. A real charmer, the ladies chase him, she tells me. 

Damn her extracurricular activities, and damn myself listening to her. 

“Daenerys, I’m sorry. It took me six months to schedule the interview, it will take me another nine months to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then, you’ll become a marvelous doctor.

As the student representative, I couldn’t blow this, I couldn’t let this opportunity slip through my hands - it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity that I may never get again.

Please”, Ingela begs/pleads to me in a raspy, sore - throat voice.

How does she do it? 

Even when she’s ill, she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place, and grey eyes bright, although now red rimmed and runny.

I ignore my unwelcome sympathy.

“Of course, I’ll go Ingela. You should get some rest, you’re ill, you’re poorly.

Would you like some Paracetamol or Voldemort?”

“Paracetamol, please. Here are the questions and my digital recorder. Just press the record here.

Make notes, it’s up to you how many you want to make, I’ll transcribe it all.”

“I - I know nothing about him,” I murmur and stutter at the same time, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. It was getting out of control, I couldn’t control it, it was getting the best of me.

“Just focus on the questions, and everything will be fine.

Go. It’s a long drive. I definitely don’t want you to be late.

“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed and rest. 

I made you some soup to heat up later.”

I stare at her fondly, I stare at her with admiration.

Only, for you Ingela, would I do this, normally I don’t do favors.

“I will. Good luck. And thanks, Daenerys — as usually, you’re my lifesaver, you’re my angel.”

Gathering my backpack,I smile at her wryly.

Then I head out of the door to the car.

I cannot believe that I have let Ingela talk me into this.

But then Ingela can talk to anybody or anyone in anything.

She’ll make an exceptional writer. She’s poetic, she’s full of life. She’s strong, persuasive, hard working, beautiful and she’ll put a smile on your face, she’ll make your life bloom and she’s my best - best friend, in - fact she’s like a sister to me: she cares for my well - being, she knows how to crack a joke that would make people burst out laughing, she’s make a swell author, one day, that time will come for her in her life.

The roads are clear, the birds chirp happily, they sing and flutter across the magnificent sky, eagles and hawks stalk their prey, they wait for the right moment and strike - they strike with precision, they clutch their prey in their serrated, razor - sharp claws: their misfortune prey, gasp their final breaths, before being taken away to be butchered and eaten - alive, by these sick, sick beasts.

Butterflies flutter, the bees are busy pollinate flowers, after all it’s summer. The heat is unbearable: the golden, shimmering sun disintegrates everything in its path.

I set off from Vancouver, Washington towards interstate 5. 

It’s early and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this after -  noon.

Fortunately, Ingela let me borrow her brand - new, limited edition, glossy Nissan Micra Hatchback.

I’m not sure Hermione, my antique, rusty, dirty BMW would make the journey on time - I know it’s old, but it drives like a jaguar, it blazes through the road, leaving fierce, flames across the jagged path.

I’m actually enjoying driving with Ingela’s Nissan Micra Hatchback, oh the Nissan Micra Hatchback is a fun ride, and the long, exhausting miles slip away as I hit the pedal to the titanium, steel metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Styles global enterprise. It’s a huge thirty - story office building, all curved, serpentine glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian dream/fantasy, with STYLES HOUSE written discreetly in silver, steel over the glass front doors.

I look at my diamond watch, the gold bezels point to quarter to two, when I arrive. I’m greatly relieved that I made it on time, I’m always late for everything, but this time, I’m early! 

As I walk into the enormous, gigantic, vast and frankly, terrorizing, intimidating, glass, steel and white sandstone lobby. 

It looks like I stepped into a showroom, everything looks expensive. 

Behind the solid, clean sandstone desk a very beautiful, attractive, seductive, groomed, blonde blissful young woman smiles at me cheerfully.

She’s wearing the sharpest, golden suit and bright white shirt. I have ever seen in my entire life, she looks immaculate, her looks could kill a man - she’s fatal yet prepossessing. My lord, I wish I could have a face like her’s. 

“I’m here to see Mr. Style. Daenerys Targaryen for Ingela Bubble - Gum.”

“Excuse me for one moment, I won’t take long, Miss Daenerys”. She arches her pencil eyebrows as I stand there entranced by her beauty, I stand self - consciously before her. I’m starting to wish I’d borrow Ingela blazers, she knows what to wear, she’s my fashion guru whom I look up - to: I wish I could borrow Ingela’s formal blazers they are exotic, they turn - heads (when you least expect it), rather than wearing my  navy - blue jacket. I did make a lot of effort, to look presentable, I really did! I had worn my one and only skirt (it’s special to me, it holds a special place in my heart - where no Man can enter): it’s like a maze, once you enter there is no - way out. My sensible, kind chocolatey Brown knee - length boots, and a dark, dark blue sweater. For me, this was presentable, well semi - presentable. I dressed up like a old, vintage grandmother, who didn’t know how to dress, with the clothes: I wore no wonder I look like an old lady, who’s sassy and bossy instead of a young, youthful, moist college student: 18 - 19 years old. 

I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my fair ears, they are  free to cause havoc and chaos, but not for long! I pretend she doesn’t intimidate or scare me.

“Miss Ingela is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Daenerys. You want to to take the thirtieth floor”. She smiles kindly her teeth are white like pearls, amused, no doubt as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has “Visitor“, very steadily and firmly on the front. 

God she’s precise, she’s a perfectionist - who’s perfect at everything, I strive to be her. 

I can’t help but smirk, I - I don’t know what I’m doing, why am I smirking - I’m lost, like a child who loses their parents. 

Surely, it’s obvious that I’m visiting, why else would I be here? To stare at the handsome, good - looking billionaire? 

I don’t fit in here, I don’t fit in society, I am a mere thorn amongst roses in this cruel, shallow, unjust world.

Nothing will turn back to normal, nothing will be the same: I inwardly sigh.

Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators, rows upon rows: they are vacant, unused.

I pass two security guards they look so fine, they are smartly dressed than I ever will be in my life, their well - cut black suits. - Why do people in this building look like models, I’m in heaven, is this what heaven looks like?

The elevators swooshes, whisks me above terminal velocity, it goes high, higher in the sky - it is gravity - defying.

The huge doors open, and I’m in another large, large lobby - again, all glass, steel, and white sandstone.

It’s like an illusion, that will never cease to stop, it will keep carrying on until the end of time, or until oblivion.

I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another blonde woman, they look like identical twins,

this time dressed most elegantly and impeccable in stunning matte black and white, who rises to greet me.

“Miss Daenerys, could you please wait, here please?”

She points me to a seated area of grey leather chairs.

Behind the leather chairs, is a spacious glass walled meeting room with an equally exquisite, spacious chairs around it. Beyond that there is a floor - to - floor ceiling window with a view of Seattle skyline that looks throughout the city, it’s streets are sprawling with people waking they look like little ants, they are miniature. It’s a stunning vista, and for a brief moment I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.

My god! it’s breathtaking, the scenery is to die for.

I sit down like a proper, well - taught, disciplined women: I fish the questions from my small backpack, and go through them extensively - not missing a single detail, or in - fact any of that matter, inwardly cursing Ingela for convincing me to come here, I’m such a fool.

Ingela didn’t provide me enough detail, she didn’t even provide me a brief biography.

I knew nothing about this man, I’m about to interview.

He could be fifty or ninety.

The uncertainty is galling, it’s making me nervous, and my gentle, soothing nerves resurface, making me frightened and get shy. 

I’ve never been comfortable with the one - on - one interview, to me it’s sounds mysterious, who is this guy that women all over the county are infatuated with him, what’s so special about him?

I prefer the anonymity of a group discussion, where I can sit inconspicuously, unnoticed at the back of the room: I’m not that very outgoing, nor am I talkative, I stay in my secluded house like a prisoner, against my own will: I can’t make friends. 

I guess I’m socially awkward. I don’t want to be invisible, people ignore me and walk off, I’m a lone wolf, I’m lonely in a lonely word - nobody to care for you, what kind of society do we live in?!

To be honest with you, I hope one day to pass medical school and become a doctor and help people: you watch how, I’ll become the biggest and smartest doctor alive.

I would love to read science books and revise all day in my campus  library, curled up against a chair.

Not sitting here, whilst I begin twitching nervously and frantically in a colossal, mammoth - sized glass and stone edifice.

I roll my eyes at myself.  Get a grip Targaryen, you’ve got this you’re strong, don’t give up, now before it’s too late - become a champion, be a warrior.

Judging by the building it was too clinical and modern for my liking, I guess Style is in his eighties: fit, tanned, yet old and wrinkly and fair hands, well now they are fragile, I wonder if he has dark, copper hair. 

Again with the elegant, flawless women - Another elegant, fashionable, flawlessly blonde comes out of a large door, what is it with all the golden haired women, what is it with the immaculate women. 

They look like Barbies dolls and I’m the unwanted one - You know the one that kids don’t play with, because I get ugly and grotesque.

I am envious of their beauty, why do such flawless women work here, shouldn’t they be at home making food for their husbands: flipping pancakes, cooking food,

looking after the Children: babies, toddlers, teens. Shouldn’t they be washing dishes and doing house - chores like a maid. 

I take a deep, deep breath, I stand up.

“Miss Targaryen?”, the blonde barbie asks.

“Yes”, I croak and clear my sore throat. “Yes”,

there that sounded more confident and positive.

You go Girl!

“Mr. Style will see you in a moment. May I take you’re granny styled jacket?”

“Oh, please, I thought you weren’t going to ask”. I struggle out of the jacket, it’s too big for me, it’s too enormous for my soul, it will crush it into little fragments of glass.

“Excuse me. What do you mean”. 

“Nothing - Nothing”. I replied slightly embarrassed and distraught.

“Have you been offered any condiments or refreshments?”

“Um - No, I haven’t”. Oh, no is the blonde twin in trouble, now?

Blonde barbie frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.

“Would you like mustard, tomato ketchup, chili sauce, Doritos, pork, beef or would you like: water, coke, tangy lemon lemonade, she asks turning her attention towards me.

“A glass of your finest water. Make sure it’s cold - I like it cold. Thank you,” I murmur.

“Victoria, please fetch Miss Targaryen a glass of our finest, pure water”. Her voice is stern, yet to soothing like a lullaby. Victoria hurries up, she scoots up and scurries to a door on the other side of the entrance (foyer).

“My apologies, Miss Targaryen Victoria is our new intern, she’s brand - new she started her shift today, Please be seated. Mr. Styles will be another five minutes”. 

Victoria returns with an refreshing, iced glass of water.

“Here you go, Miss Targaryen”.

“Thank you”.

Blonde Barbie marches over to the large, oversized, desk, her pink, glittery, sparkly heels clicking an echoing against the sandstone floor. 

She sits down and they both continue their work, pages upon pages stacked on the desk.

Perhaps, Mr. Styles has some weird, creepy fetish that all his female workers to be blonde barbies. I’m wondering to myself if that’s even legal, I think to myself idly. When the office door opens and a tall, muscular man elegantly, dressed, handsome, attractive polish man: who looks he’s nineteen or eighteen with Brown Mousey hair exits.

Yep, I have definitely wore the wrong clothes, everybody is so smart here: except one person and that person is me.

He turns and says “I love Harry Potter will you read with me Style?”

I don’t hear the reply, it is ghost - quiet.

He turns and sees me and smiles, his light blue ocean eyes, crinkling at the corners.

Victoria has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems quite good at excelling from her seat, she’s faster than me and more nervous. She seems frightened, as if she saw a ghost or something that shouldn’t have been seen with the naked human - eye.

“Good afternoon, beautiful ladies”, he says as he departs though the sliding doors, his voice is creepy.

“Mr. Style will see you now, Miss Targaryen. Do go through and improvise,”says Blonde Barbie.

I stand there shaking in disbelief, electricity pulsates throughout my body, I try to control my nerves.

I gather my backpack, I abandoned my pure, pure water that was packed with lots of vitamins and benefits. 

I leave it behind like a forgotten memory.

I make my way partially through the open door.

“You don’t need to knock - just go in.” She smiles pleasantly at me, her teeth shimmer in the torn, damaged rays of the sun.

Chapter 1: Page 2 - A little curious…

I push open the door, it’s bigger than me, I’m a small fly compared to the door.

Why do I have a bad feeling about this. My stomach churns. The pain is unbearable.

I push open the gigantic door and I stumble through, tripping over my own, fair feet, and falling headfirst into the office.

Crap, crap, why am I so foolish and clumsy, is it in my genes or dna?

I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Style’s office, and gentle, warmth, loving hands come to my rescue, helping me to stand up.

My inner goddess is laughing, mocking, and provoking me, my inner goddess laughs at my stupidity.

I definitely have to steal a glance, it’s just one.

Oh, God I wasn’t expecting this, he’s so young and attractive.

“Miss Ingela.” He extends a long, alien - like fingered hand towards me once I’m perpendicular, upright.

“I’m Harry Styles. Are you alright? Would you like to sit?”

So youthful and handsome, very handsome.

He’s average height, dressed in a sleek, fine maroon suit, black shirt, black tie with obedient chocolate brown hair, and fierce bright blue eyes that regarded me shrewdly, they are  observant. It takes  me a moment to find my voice, I am speechless.

In a daze, I’m befuddled and stupefy.

I place my hands in his, and we shake his hands are warmth, refreshing, full of negative energy. 

As our fingers touched, I feel an bizarre, exhilarating shiver run down my spine, my spine tingles.

I hastily withdraw my hands, I’m embarrassed.

Must be the electricity.

I blink expeditiously, my gentle eyelids matching my heartbeat.

“Umm - Miss Ingela is ailing, indisposed so she sent me.

I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Styles.”

“And you are?” His voice is sweltering, slightly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his dispassionate, deadpan expression. He looks blandly interested, but above all, polite and classy.

“Daenerys Targaryen. I’m studying medicine and, my roommate, Ingela is studying umm English Literature.

Umm…. Ingela umm… Bubble - Gum, at UOF(University Of Washington) in Washington.”

“I see.” He says simply, without any efforts.

His smile is lifeless and generic. I see the malicious entity of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure - I must be hallucinating or seeing things.

“Would you like to sit?” He pointed me towards an L - shaped white leather couch. 

His office is too big for one man/ being: it’s like a palace, mansion. In front of the floor - to - ceiling windows, there’s a modern dark wood desk that everybody in the entire universe could comfortably eat around and sit around. It matches the coffee table by the comfy couch 

Everything else is bright white: ceilings, floors, and walls except for one wall, by the gigantic door where a beautiful mosaic of small paintings, hang forty - six of them arranged in a square.

They are exquisite, superlative a series of mundane, ordinary objects, forgotten objects painted with such precise details they looked like photographs, they were intricate. Displayed together, they are breathtaking, visually pleasing to the human eye. 

Next to the small mosaic paintings there is a rose that gives an ominous, foreboding feeling, it is located in the  far corner where no sunshine light enters. The rose lies on the brown shelf, it is ill - lit. The rose is blood red, dark blood oozing from the rose. The bloody rose kept is kept in a vase that is dusty, the text is difficult to read, due to the age of the vase. What must be engraved on the vase…

“I repeat do not go near the rose, it’s dangerous, it will cause humanity to crumble.” Says Styles when he catches my gaze.

“Why?, I replied I was curious - I wanted to find out why the ‘rose’ is apparently so poisonous to humanity.

It looks innocent and gullible”. I replied 

My curiosity was getting the best of me, I - I couldn’t stop it.

“Miss Targaryen, I told you once. Don’t touch the rose, don’t ask me stupid questions about why you can’t touch it or go near it. By the way Miss Targaryen my Grandmother wears better clothes than you.”

I was speechless, I didn’t know what to say - I ignore his rude remark.

I slowly walk up to the rose that is imprisoned in this venomous world, I am stopped dead in my tracks, I am caught red - handed.

Mr. Styles approaches me.

“I told you Miss Targaryen, don’t approach the rose and you’re still approaching it.” His voice is violent, yet soft.

He squeezes my arm, and stares into my eyes.

Apart from the mosaic paintings and the rose, the rest of the office is lifeless, clean, clinical and it lacks quality.

I wonder if it reflects his tedious, dull personality of the artist who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me.

I shake my head, disturbed and broken at the same directions of my thoughts and quickly retrieve Ingela’s questions from my backpack. Next, I set up the digital tape recorder and all my fingers and thumbs, shake frantically, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. I can’t stop it, I don’t know what was happening to me, what was happening to my body - this is why I don’t like interviews/meetings. I have low - self - esteem. 

I’m shy, I don’t find into the crowd, nor am I good at anything, I’m just boring Daenerys Targaryen with one friend, no - job. 

Mr. Styles says nothing, waiting impatiently. I hope as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered.

When I pluck, muster  up enough courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his beautiful lap, and the other cupping his well - defined chin and trailing his long, alien - like index finger across his lips.

I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“S - Sorry, I stutter. I’m not used to all of this attention”.

“Take all the time you need Miss Targaryen”, he says.

“Do you mind If I record your answers?”

“After you’ve taken so much hassle to set it the recorder, you’re asking me now?”

I flush. He’s not teasing or harassing me? I hope.

I blink at him, unsure what to say or do. I think he takes pity on me, I mean you would by just looking at me, I’m a shy, introverted mess.

God, I need to get my life back on track!

“No, I don’t mind.” I blush.

“Did Ingela, I mean Miss Ingela Bubble - Gum, explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes, to appear in the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation 

ceremony”

Oh!, Oh!, Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily preoccupied by the thought that someone not much older than me, okay maybe five or six years older, and okay mega - successful, industrial tycoon is going to me to present me with my degree. I’ll become a licensed Doctor and Ingela will become an Author/Writer. 

But, I’ll have to go to Medical School and that will take eight precious years, my life wasted, eight - years to become a Doctor. I should of become a Pharmacist that take five - years.

I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.

“Good.” I swallow nervously, I’m too nervous, my head is filled with intoxicating thoughts. 

I shake it off.

“I have some questions for you Mr. Styles.”

I smooth my silky, fragrance, loose hair behind my ear, damn my tendrils.

“I thought you might”, he’s says expressionless, deadpan.

He’s laughing at me, oh god. My cheeks instantly heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my aching shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more fierce, seductive and intimidating.

Pressing the start of the record button on the recorder, I try look professional and smart.

“You’re very young to have accumulated, amassed such a global powerful empire. To what do you owe your success”. I glance up at him. His smile is remorseful and sorrowful, but looks vaguely unimpressed.

“Business is all about what makes people, Miss Targaryen, and I’m exceptionally well at judging what people are good aren’t and what people are good at. 

I know how the tick, I know how they flourish, what inspires them daily to never give up, what doesn’t inspire them on a daily basis and how to incentives them.

I employ an staggering team and I reward the with incentives and gifts.

He pauses and fixes me with his controlling gaze.

My belief is to achieve success in any scheme of sector that anybody has, one has to make oneself a master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail.

I vigorously work hard, very hard day in day out. 

I make decisions based on logic and fact, I have a natural instinct, a  gut instinct that can spot what will make lots of money, or what will make the tables turn.

I - I think preciously about my decisions, sometimes it make take days, weeks, years. When I make a decision I’m always right, I always hit the jackpot and when I do I win big”.

At the end of it is down to the good, kind person.

“Maybe you’re just lucky, that you’re always right, you never make mistake in life.”

“This isn’t on Ingela’s  list, but he’s so arrogant and cocky. His eyes flare monetarily in utter shock.

“I don’t believe in chance, neither do I subscribe to chance, Miss Targaryen. The harder you work in life, the better grades you get, you’ll have a better chance at succeeding. I was a high - school dropout, the better chance I work daily, the better luck I have. I don’t believe in luck, I think it’s a fisade that People are made to believe. It is really about having a supporting team who can support you during your darkest days, your darkest nights. And the energy the have on the group, the higher the energy the better chance of succeeding, lower energy more chance of failing.”

“You sound like a control freak”. The words just come out of my mouth, before I could stop them.

Why did I have to read ‘Harry Potter’ and eat one, miniature bean before heading here?

“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Targaryen”, he says his facial expression is lacking, he says it without humor.

What a boring, stuck up individual.

His smile has no expression.

I look at him and he holds my gaze captive, my heartbeat thickens, and I blush uncontrollably.

Why does he have such a profound, unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming, godly looks maybe? The way he smiles? No, he’s trying too hard. The way he strokes his fine index finger against his lower lip? I wish he’d stop doing that, he looks revolting, he looks like a child predator, pedophile, or Mr. Bean, or just all of the above, I guess.

“Besides, immense, obsolete power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret, secret fantasy that you were born to control all things, he continues in his soft, angelic mesmerizing voice.

“Do you feel that you have immense power?”

Control freak.

“I employ over one - billion people, Miss Targaryen.

That gives me a huge, huge sense of responsibility, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunication business and sell, one billion people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month of so, it would be extremely difficult for me to pack - my bags and say ‘I quit’, My father has lent this fine establishment generations through generations, do you get what I’m saying?”.

“Yes, I do Sir.”

“What else do you do, outside of your establishment?”

I stand there gobsmacked by his alluring beauty, his witty ways.

“I have varied interests - Interests you wouldn’t like.

I have a very singular taste, a taste that will give you nightmares for the rest of your life. So to speak”.

“Okay, umm - would your friends say you’re an easy, outgoing, smart, person to get to know. 

I instantly regretted this baleful question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Ingela’s list.

“I’m a very private person, Miss Targaryen. I rarely give any interviews, you should be considered lucky. I go a long way to protect my privacy, and protect it I shall..”

Control freak.

“Why did you agree on this one then?”

“Because I’m a major, major benefactor for the university, and for all intent, purposes I couldn’t get Miss Ingela off my back. She pestered and pestered my team, and I admire her for that kind of tenacity. 

I know how tenacious, annoying Ingela can be.

That’s why I’m sitting here squirming like a worm, uncontrollably, under his penetrating gaze. When I should be studying for medical school and my final exams. Why can’t God give me a severe, painful death, instead of being intimidated by this handsome billionaire.

“So you want to possess, keep things”. 

You are  a control freak.

“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes bottom - line, I do.

He gives me a jet black, matte pen: ‘Styles’, is engraved on the pencil in the purest gold.

His Pencils are stacked neatly next to one another.

Does he have OCD (Obsessive Cleaning Disorder).

“You sound like the ultimate consumer”.

“I am”. He smiles but the smile doesn’t match with his radiant, blue, pearly eyes. This is quite odd. I’m mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room rises rapidly or maybe it’s just me.

I want this interview to be gone, quickly so I can go home and relax under the shade of a tree. Surely Ingela must have enough material now. I glance at the next set of questions.

“You were adopted?” How much do you think that’s shaped whom you are as a person, did it sculpt you into the person you were meant to be?

Oh, so this is personal…

I stare at him, hoping to God he’s not offended. 

His brow furrow. 

Is he mad, did he get offended?

“I have no way of knowing”.

My interest is piqued. 

“How old were you when you were adopted, who adopted you and whom are your adoptive parents?”

“That’s a matter of public record, Miss Targaryen.”

His voice has deepened, it is stern. Oh, crap I’m in trouble. I’d know I was doing an interview, I could have done research prior the interview. I quickly move on, I’m disquiet, fluster.

“Have you had to sacrifice your family to be more closer to work?”

“I have a big family. Brothers, Sisters, Aunts, Great, Great, Grandmothers. I do not wish to extend it any further, it will be took much for me to handle: the constant nagging, the headaches.”

“You’ve had to sacrifice family life for your work, is that true?”

“That’s not a question”. He’s terse.

“Are you Gay, Mr. Style?”

He inhales sharply, and I’m mortified, I cringe awkwardly, Crap. I feel like I shitted in my pants, I feel

uneasy.Why did I have to vomit words out of my big mouth, I need a pacifier. Why didn’t Ingela tell me, before I read this out loud?

How on earth do I tell him, I’m just reading the questions? Damn, Ingela and her never ending curiosity!

“No, Daenerys, I’m not.” He raises an eyebrow, a glow in his eyes, he does not look happy at all. In - fact he looks annoyed, agitated and not pleased.

“I apologize. Its, I - it’s written written umm here.”

It’s the first time he said my name, how romantic!

My heartbeat accelerates rapidly, at this rate I might get a heart attack, and my cheeks blush bright pink, they are heating up again. Nervously and embarrassed, I tuck one of my loose tendrils behind my hair.

He cocks his strong head to one side

“Those aren’t your questions?

The blood drains from my brain, rapidly. My brain is on fire, I feel a fire sensation start to begin from the murky, depths, below igniting a fire that is untamable, it’s not easy to control.

“Umm, Umm, no. Ingela - Miss Ingela Bubble - Gum, well she compiled the questions together for me.”

“Are you and your peers on the student newspaper”.

Oh, no! 

“I am not related to the Student Newspaper at all, nor am I interested”.

It’s her extracurricular activity, not mine. I don’t go around putting horrific stuff, that’s such a sensitive question. I will talk to Ingela, once I reach home.

My face is aflame, I’m devastated.

“N - No she’s my roommate”.

He rubs his fine chin deliberately, his deep blue eyes like the endless oceans, appeasing me.

“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” He asks, his voice is lethal, deadly and ghost - quiet.

Hang on, wait a minute. Who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His blue eyes, twinkle like deadly melting stars, they burn my soul, they burn my soul like a salted wound. The pain is unholy.

I’m compelled to tell the truth, I have to.

“I was send because she’s not well, hence I’m covering for her”. My voice is weak and apologetic.

“That explains a great deal.”

There’s a loud knock on the door, and Blonde Barbie enters.

“Mr. Styles, forgive me for wasting your precious time, but you’re next interview is due in 20 seconds.”

“We’re not finished here, Sasha. Please cancel my next meeting.

Sasha hesitates, gaping at him she appears lost, like a child, she’s under his spell.

Oh, brother!

He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She blushes, pink.

Oh, good. At least I’m not the only one.

“Very well, Mr. Style.”, she mutters to herself like a crazed woman and she then exits. He turns his attention back to me. 

“Where were we, Miss Targaryen?”

Oh, Oh, we’re back to “Daenerys Targaryen” now.

“Please, don’t let me keep you from anything..”

“Ingela can be a little bit..” I was going to say my final words, but he said them for me, he interrupted me.

“Intrusive, curious?”

I chew on the tip of the golden pencil, wondering what he was going to ask me next…

“I want to know more about you, I think that’s only fair because, I don’t know much about you, my sweet, sweet goddess.”

‘Goddess?’

I blush bright pink.

“Me?” I mean look at me”, I chuckle 

“I am”. His eyes burn my warmth, heart, I can feel It melting slowly, it’s liquifying.   

Where’s he going with this? 

He places his sharp, pristine elbows on the arms on the chair and steeples his finger in front of his mouth.

His mouth is waiting to be kissed by my cherry lips.

I swallow.

His mouth is distracting, very distracting..

“Focus Daenerys Targaryen, Focus Daenerys Targaryen.”

A voice comes from within, but where from?

“There’s not much to know about me”.

“What are you plans after graduating from university?”

I shrug, thrown by his charming interest.

Move to Seattle with my Roommate Kate. Go find a Job.

Get a boyfriend, I haven’t really thought this through.

“I haven’t made any plans, yet, Mr. Style.

I just need to get through my finals.”

“Which I should be studying right now, If I want to get accepted into Medical - School, rather than sitting in this gloomy, depressing, sad office. It’s makes me feel uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.

“We run a fantastic internship program, are you interested?” He says quietly, his voice is suppressed.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise, and disbelief.

Is he really, really offering me a job?

“Oh, I’ll bear that in mind”, I murmur, I’m confused.

“Though, I’m not sure I’ll fit here, everything is modern, it’s technically too advanced for me, I’m scared of technology.”

Oh, no I said it out loud, like the loser I am.

“Why do you say that, Miss Targaryen?”

He tilts his head at me, he is intrigued by the question, a hint of a smile on his luscious lips.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it - I mean look at me: I have an hourglass figure, I’m clumsy, I’m not outgoing like my friends, I’m socially awkward.”

I’m unorganized, uncoordinated, I’m clean but I’m scruffy, I’m also not and dirty blonde, nor do I look like his Barbie employees.

“Not to me, you’re fine”. His gaze is intense, his eyes are filled with desirable, dark lust. All humour gone, and strange muscles have become deep in my stomach, my stomach churns painfully. I have butterflies in my stomach. 

My eye pupils widen, maybe it’s because he has cast a spell on me with his penetrating gaze.

I tear my eyes away from his cruel, scrutiny and I stare blankly  at my knotted fair fingers. What’s going on? I have to go, like right now.

I lean forward to retrieve my recorder.

“Would you like me to show you around?”, he asks.

No, thanks Control freak.

“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Styles, and I have a extensive, long, difficult drive”. 

“You’re driving back to Vancouver?” He sounds flabbergasted, anxious, worried even. He glances out of the window and it’s raining, it’s pouring free - water. It has begun to rain.

“Well, you’d better drive carefully”. His voice is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? Why does he have such a profound effect on me, when my heart is near him: it beats and pumps blood through my veins, throughout my entire body rapidly. 

“Did you get everything you need?”, his voice is sweet and gentle, he adds.

“Yes, sir,” I reply biting my lip, packing the recorder into my backpack. His blue eyes narrow, speculatively, he analyses me with his shimmering eyes.

“Thank you for the interview,  Mr. Style”.

“The pleasure's been all mine”. He says in a polite, posh british accent.

As I begin to rise, he stands and holds out his hand.

“Until, we meet again, Miss Targaryen.” And it sounds like a challenge, or threat, I’m not sure which.

I frown. 

When we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, I’m astounded by the odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves getting the best in me, again.

“Mr. Styles”. I nod at him. I move with lithe 

athletic grace, to the massive door, he opens it wide.

What a gentleman, always caring for women.

“Just ensuring you make it through the door”. A small smile appears on his face, he gives me a small smile.

Is he talking about my weight, or size, or everything in general? No, he can’t be. Obviously. he must be referring to my less than elegant entry into his dull, deprived office. I blush bright pink, like cotton candy.

“That’s very considerate of you, Mr. Styles.” I snap, and his smile widens significantly.

I’m glad you found me entertaining and fascinating, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer.

I’m surprised and shocked at the same time when, he follows me out.

Blonde Barbie and Victoria are in complete shock, they look at each other gobsmacked, they are equally surprised.

“Did you have a coat?” Styles asks.

“A jacket”.

Victoria springs up from her chair and retrieves my jacket.

Which Styles takes away from her before she can hand it to me.

He holds it high up in the air, feeling ridiculously, stupid and self - conscious, I shrug it on. Meh.

Styles places his hands on my shoulders for a brief moment on my aching shoulders. I’m started, I gasp at the contact. I hope he doesn’t notice my reaction.

If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away, no hints.

His long - alien index finger presses the silver button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting awkwardly, it’s cringe worthy on my part.

He’s cool with it, it doesn’t affect him in the slightest of ways.

The doors open, and I quickly hurry in, desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he’s gazing at me and leaning against the elongated, expensive doorway beside the elevator with one mighty hand on the wall.

He really is good - looking, he’s very, very, very attractive. It’s unnerving and bizzare.  

Watch out ladies, he’s mine.

“Daenerys”, he says a farewell.

“Harry”, I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.

My heart is pounding. 

The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble and fight as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once again like the clumsy, idiotic person I am, but fortunately not sprawling onto the immaculate, well - kept sandstone

floor. 

I race for the wide glass doors, and suddenly I’m free into the embracing, bracing, cleansing, damp air of Vancouver. 

Raising my face, I welcome the lavish, refreshing, fresh rain.

I close my eyes and I take a huge deep breath, purifying my breath. I try to recover what’s left of my equilibrium, my mental well - being.

No man has affected me the same way, Harry Styles has and I cannot argue, fathom with that why.

Is it his looks, his status in society, his wealth, power.

I don’t understand my irrational, unexplainable reaction.

I breathe, oxygen fills my lungs - I breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

Thank God, that’s over and done with.

What was that all about? 

Leaning against one powerful, white, steel pillars of the building.

I attempt to calm down, and gather my thoughts.

I shake my head in disbelief.

What was that?

My heart steadies to its original rhythm and then I breathe normally.

I see my boyfriend, he has his arms wide open, I run to him.

He hugs me, I wrap my warmth, nurturing arms around him.

He’s supportive and he’s there when I need him.

He kisses me on the lips, igniting a fire deep from within, 

He tasted tentatively, succulent and juicy with his tongue as he traced it across the  bottom of my lip. The caress of his lip almost seemed softer than anybody’s, I’ve known. Soon, we started swallowing each other, making the kissing luscious and more intense. 

The rain pours down heavily, but I don’t care.

He doesn’t stop we keep kissing for another five minutes, his eyes were filled with wanted lust. 

He missed me badly, and I missed him: I miss the days where we used to go the the cinema and watch movies, he used to hold my hand tightly. The way kissed me, He always used to be there for me - When nobody was there. I - I miss you Christian, the way you used to give me a smirk that even God was happy with you, Why did you have to leave me to suffer in this world, you always used to say “Never give up”. Tears cascade down my face, but where are you now, I wish you could tell me how beautiful I am.

I sob uncontrollably, I couldn’t control my emotions, I let them control me.

Why did you have to die of Cancer, I could’ve been there for you, but you pushed me away like the rest.

The way I danced across the ballroom and you danced with me when no one would. The way you twirled me around, we both giggled.

On my birthday instead of the normal, casual gifts you got me expensive clothes, expensive clothes, they were opulent. When I wore one of the diamond encrusted dresses with those shimmering heels, the way you used to call me beautiful. The way the orchestra played their virtuoso tune, you lead me into a waltz around the opulent room. My gown swirling, flying as you guided me through the steps, with you I was indestructible. When we did the waltz, the lights dimmed down, romantic music was playing, girls would come up to us and they asked if they could dance with you. 

You gave them a deadly no, and they would drop dead on the floor.

The air is filled with melancholy, the fog hang thickens blinding my vision.

It makes me a few minutes for me to come back to my senses to come back to reality.

The wind lashing at everything in its path: the trees, the demonic rain comes back to its senses.

All that remains of Christian is the silver, mysterious fog, that covers Seattle in his memory; I can still hear his voice ringing in my ear, a distant memory, perhaps?

I think not.

I get my bright red, candy umbrella it is soaking wet, it’s raining, heavily.