𝒾𝒻 𝒾 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒 (𝓁.𝓈.)

sixteen

Damage control.

The words have meant many things over the years. Unnecessary pap walks. A picture of an awkward, fake kiss. A fake baby.

This time, I've been called into a room for "discussions of important proceedings" regarding my "recent endeavors" and their "unfortunate press coverage."

The room is surprisingly home-y. It's a private office with bookshelves and lots of knickknacks lining the walls, a single small window behind the desk. The sign on the door says Executive Manager and Eleanor's already there when I walk in. I'm technically two minutes tardy to the meeting, but whatever.

"Fashionably late, are we?" an annoyingly posh English accent says from the chair behind the desk, and I find myself faced with an older dude with gray hair and the slightest hint of stubble around the lower half of his face. His eyes are cold. Dark. Calculating.

I'm scared as fuck.

But of course I can't show that, so I force a smirk. "I figured it's better than early. That way no one gets any ideas about my excitement level at being here."

"Watch your mouth, Tomlinson. It would behoove you to be obedient this time."

"Yeah, that's not really my style," I answer, and the executive manager holds up a hand to silence me.

"Please, have a seat," he says, back to that disgustingly polite tone, sickening honey hiding a tidal wave of venom.

I reluctantly sit and share a quick glance with Eleanor. She's doing a much worse job at hiding her fear, but at least she's not trembling or anything. I've never been very good at comforting people.

"My name is Simon Cowell," the man behind the desk continues. "You've come to the most important room at this label, my office, to run serious damage control."

Eleanor raises her hand as though she were in class. I resist the urge to snort. "Damage control for what, exactly?" she asks.

"Well, Mr. Tomlinson here has decided he doesn't care enough about his image to actually uphold it. We're here because he carelessly threw away the years we've spent building the public's view of him to spend a night with a certain..."

Simon looks down as though reading a file on his desk. "Harry Styles."

He says the name so dismissively. It makes my blood boil. Harry deserves better than that. But isn't this whole mess my fault?

Eleanor looks at me in disbelief. "Harry Styles?" she mouths, and I nod subtly. Her eyes widen and she fist bumps me under the table.

We turn our attention back to Simon as he focuses those ice-cold eyes on me.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Louis?"

Oh, fuck him. He pronounces it "Lewis," almost like he knows how to get under my skin.

"It's Louis," I correct. "Yeah, I have something to say. I think this contract is bullshit and I should be able to spend my nights with whoever I want."

Simon arches an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea what that would do to your im-"

"Has it ever occurred to you that I don't give a fuck about my image?" I ask. "I've spent ten years under your stupid spell, forced to comply with all the stupid shit you make me do, and I'm done. Excuse me for trying to be happy for once."

"Right. Happiness," Simon says, totally ignoring my speech. "It's the great goal of humanity, isn't it? To be happy? It's difficult to define happiness. I know I found happiness when I got engaged."

I cough to hide the "That didn't last long" I mutter under my breath. Simon either doesn't hear me or doesn't care.

"Which brings me to this," Simon says, removing a file from a small stack on his desk and displaying it in front of us. It's titled Engagement Agreement.

Eleanor and I share a look of alarm. Oh, hell no.

"It's been six years. I think it's about time Louis popped the question, don't you think?"

The smile on Simon's face is a carefully practiced, extremely fake smile he uses for television. I have one similar, but at least I don't look like a fucking pedophile when I do it.

"I'm already engaged," Eleanor blurts, and Simon just waves her off.

"If you posted about it on social media, delete the posts. No one really checks your profile anyway, but better safe than sorry. And Louis, we'll need to do a photoshoot and preferably a pap walk with the ring."

"What ring?" Eleanor asks even as I'm shaking my head adamantly.

"Uh-uh," I protest. "I just found something good. You're not ruining this by making me get engaged to a girl."

I steal a glance at the "girl" in question. "No offense, Eleanor."

"None taken," she responds, and glances down at the Engagement Agreement again.

"I'm sorry, did I give you the impression that this was optional?" Simon asserts authoritatively, and my lip curls in a half snarl. I'm so done with this shit.

"There's no options," I tell him. "I'm not doing it."

Simon grits his teeth, the only tell that he's fed up with me. Well, I'm infinitely more fed up with him. And I'm not backing down.

"You have two days to sign this," Simon says, tapping the Agreement with the tip of his pointer finger. "Or we post this."

He pulls out another file, a printed article. Evidently an unreleased one, though the text at the very top reads The Sun, Simon's lackey paper.

I take one look at the title of the article and nearly faint.

A/N: Oooooh what do you think the article says?? Do you think Louis & Eleanor will sign the Engagement Agreement? How do you think Harry will react?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the story so far! Love you all, thank you so much for reading!!

Always TPWK <3.

-K