The party started at eight, according to a short but sweet phone call from Harry earlier on in the day, so I started getting ready around five. I decided on a black dress that went down just a little bit past my knees and hung every so slightly off my shoulders. It was elegant, the most expensive looking thing I had, and paired with my red heels it didn't look all that bad, almost good enough to fit in with how high end everything in Harry's building was.

I smeared some powder over my face along with some eyeshadow on top of my lids and mascara on my lashes. I wasn't that good at makeup yet. My mother never let me wear it so the girls at college had to teach me where to put it and how to use it, which was six years ago but still didn't seem like enough time to get used to the stuff. However, I was really good at applying lipstick. I always managed to stay within the lines of my mouth and had a skilled eye for which cosmetic color matched my outfit just right. Lipstick was my favorite part of getting ready, easily.

I finished up writing a letter to send back home when the familiar honking noise of Charles's car rang from downstairs. It was the first night that I would be going to see Harry without my briefcase, which had somehow unintentionally become my security blanket for him exclusively. Instead, I was dragging along my handbag that had a miniature version of my notepad shoved into it. Just in case.

Charles was dressed rather fancy as well, a new grey suit with a navy blue tie. I noticed it as soon I walked out the door of my building, making sure to wolf whistle as I approached him just to be a bit of a tease and poke some fun. He winked at me, opening the door and showing me in like usual.

There was a bottle of champagne waiting for me in the floor, a note with 'Pen' scribbled onto it tied with golden string.

Found this in my cupboard from ages ago. Thought you might enjoy some before you made it here.
- Harry
( Styles, in case you know more than one)

I giggled before popping the top and taking a long swig, not even noticing the glasses that rested in the passenger seat beside Charles. It tasted even better than the kind we had had at the 21 Club, more bubbly and more rich, definitely more expensive. I wanted to drink it all, but knew that it would be very tacky to show up to a party all ready drunk.

"Are you going to the event as well, Charles?" I asked to try and distract myself from the chilled bottle I had shoved back down to the floorboard. He chuckled before shaking his head.

"No, no. I just wore this suit since it was a gift from Mr. Styles. Don't want him to think I don't appreciate his kindness."

I hummed along, making a mental note to thank Mr. Styles for my gift as well, the burning question of where all this money was coming from still burning in my mind.

The building was lit up with twinkling lights and lanterns so that I could notice it while we were still a few blocks away. There were women with gold jewelry draping off of them hanging on the arms of men wearing silk suits, strutting up the steps and past the doorman with their noses turned up in the air. There were people on the top of the balconies, smoking using silver cigarette holders that looked more like rulers and holding their drinks off the side of the guard rail as if they were making a toast with the air. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, the most wealthy and picturesque thing that I had ever experienced.

"Meet Mr. Styles in his office first thing," Charles said as he let me out of the car, the bottle of champagne still envelopes in my hands. I nodded before making my way to the front door, waving to the commissionaire, and shuffling to the door with the same number '017' as before.

As soon as my knuckle hit the door, Harry was opening it, motioning me to come in with such an excited quickness that I almost wanted to laugh at him.

"You want to have a drink first?" he said, nodding towards the Laurent-Perrier in my arms. I nodded, handing it over to him as he fetched glasses from beneath the bar that was shoved into the front corner of the room, something that I had overlooked the first time I'd been there.

"Thank you for that by the way," I said, sitting in the same plush seat that I had before, watching the muscles of his arms strain against his tight, black and red pinstripe suit with each swift movement of pouring and lifting and carrying. His hair was down, bangs pushed up by a pair of glasses that I'd never seen him wear, and he had some sort of necklace dangling from his neck that was catching the light and therefore preventing me from making out the shape of it. He looked good, undeniably so.

"They won't have anything as good as this upstairs. Not to brag," he said, smirking as he put the flute in my hand, brushing our fingers against each other.

"I feel a bit underdressed. Everyone outside was shimmering," I said, staring down at my plain black dress that lacked any sequins or glitter. I hadn't known that that was in style. The shops I frequented were obviously nowhere near as extravagant as the ones they could afford, so they were probably at least three trends ahead of me.

"I'm rather plain tonight," he said, shaking his shoulders to show me that nothing shook, fabric laying still in place. I couldn't help but laugh, most of the sound muffled by the glass surrounding my mouth. He smiled back, always so smug when I finally laughed at one of his terrible jokes.

"So, how will this end up as a learning experience for me?" I asked, still not sure if attending a party with someone acted as the best method of getting to know them.

"There's only one way to find out," he said, suppressing a smile, as he emptied my hands of the champagne and replaced them with his own, helping me up out of the chair and leading me out of his office.

The hallway leading to the elevator went straight through the lobby and a few more doors down, bright blue abstract paintings lining the wall, an odd choice to pair with the orange wallpaper. Rich people always had a different way of doing things. What they liked was so harshly untraditional and loud and exciting compared to what the normal, run of the mill people liked. That's another thing that was so strikingly weird about Harry. He seemed to have all this money, but if you saw him walking down the street, the only thing that would make him stand out would be the bright colors of his suits. He looked and acted totally normal. The only thing that set him apart was his book that I still couldn't match to his personality.

We rode up to the party floor on the elevator, shoved between a bunch of girls with pearls in their hair and purple shawls with sequins scattered over them. I didn't understand why they were all dressed the same, but Harry didn't seem to think of it strangely at all. He just smiled at each of them as we awkwardly waited to get to our stop, the screeches of the moving parts of the lift not doing enough to cover the uncomfortable silence.

"Dancers," he whispered once we had all filed out, noticing the confused look on my face as I let my eyes scan over the group of them as they left. I nodded, still watching as they disappeared into the crowd.

The room was longer than it was wide and filled with tables draped in black velvet table cloths. The windows were open so the summer breeze could flood in and the cigarette smoke could flood out, silver and gold beads draped over the sills with a messy sort of elegance. Lanterns hung from the ceiling and the same fairy lights that were outside helped line the banisters, warm light filling up the room. It looked like a different world from the one I was used to, one with more money and bubbles and happiness.

He put his hand on my back, his fingers digging into the material of my dress so that he could guide me through the mazes of people and chairs. He found an empty table for us with a candelabra in the middle and a bunch of empty white plates paired with silverware sets. He pulled out a chair for me that I took graciously before he sat down in the seat next to me, our knees bumping together with the closeness.

"What do you think?" he asked, his eyes catching the light as he let them scan around the room. I wondered if he'd gotten used to these things like he had the expensive champagne because I didn't think I could even if it became my every day life.

"It's beautiful," I said, meaning it. He smiled, nodding in agreement, and was about to say something else when a big hand landed on his shoulder and interrupted him.

"Mr. Twist!" the man said, obviously talking to Harry, which confused me because Twist was nowhere near his name. It couldn't even be excused as a misinterpretation because it sounded nothing like Styles. The even more confusing part was that Harry replied without missing a beat.

"Yes, Jason! How are you?" he said, turning around to shake hands with the man. He was tall and sinewy with slicked back hair and a plain black suit. He looked like he could've been important and definitely rich, but something about the way he looked at Harry made him seem like he wasn't any of those things more than him. He kind of looked at him like I looked at the men I worked with, intimidated but with a false sureness.

"Great. Thank you so much for tonight," he said, waving his hand around his hand that wasn't enveloped in Harry's to showcase the over the top decorations in the room. Harry smiled his signature ear to ear grin before letting him go, waving off his thanks like it was no big deal.

"Wait until you hear the band," he said, winking a little bit, "Let me know how much you enjoy it Monday morning."

"Sure thing, boss," Jason said before disappearing back off into the crowd.

Boss? I didn't know Harry was the boss of anybody me besides Charles and I hadn't really thought that counted since he was only a driver. I also didn't quite understand why he called him Mr. Twist. Maybe it was all part of a nickname based inside joke that I just wasn't in on. I would've thought that if Harry had employees and a separate name, he would've told me before then. At the same time, there were probably a lot of things I didn't know about him, things that I didn't even know to ask.

"Why'd he call you boss?" I asked once he had swiveled around to face me again. He smirked, shrugging his shoulders.

"No big deal, really. I just employ some of the people who work here."

"Why? Tenants don't usually have to do all that. At least, I surely don't at my complex," I said, voicing my confusion this time since he didn't seem to be catching on to just how mysterious I found him to be. He only laughed, moving his hand over his mouth so I wouldn't notice it even though I did.

"Well, I'm not only a tenant. See, my mother's father used to own this place. Once he passed away, he left it all to me so it's kind of my job to help keep it up and employ good people. Living and having my office here are only icing on the cake."

I couldn't help but let my mouth drop. He owned this place? This whole building had to be one of the fanciest I'd ever been in with its porcelain looking floors and gold accents and expensive art and he owned it? That had to be where all his mysterious amounts of money was coming from. I couldn't believe he hadn't told me before, that he hadn't found such a big detail like being the owner of an entire upscale New York building important enough to bring up.

"Harry!" I shouted, so surprised that it was the only thing I knew to say. He just smiled because he didn't really quite understand what the big deal was, but I did. I had so many new questions to add to the seemingly never ending list but at least I knew something new, something that I could put in the paper that could be good, interesting insight.

"It's really nothing," he said, still very nonchalant.

"It's not nothing! How could you even say that? This is huge! You're literally a business man of sorts!" I said, grabbing hold of his arm and shaking it to try to wake him up to amazing this was.

"Calm down, Pen," he laughed, putting his hand over mine to stop me from rattling him about.

I took my hand away from his arm, dropping them both in my lap so I could have a second to go over the information I just learned. This man who spent countless amounts of time writing a book about the rich, the upperclassmen, the business owners that were making our society fall backwards was the owner of one of the nicest buildings in New York. It made no sense, even less sense than him not telling me what was obviously a very big piece of his life. I wanted to understand it, to understand him, but that goal kept looking more and more unattainable.

"Why did he call you Mr. Twist?" I asked, trying to get the easy questions out to block the hard ones from slipping. I wanted to pace myself for the complicated ones.

"That was my grandpa's name so they just figure it's mine as well. It makes it easier to keep my anonymity anyways."

"Charles and the door man know your real name," I said, thinking back to them calling him Styles every time I saw them.

"Charles is a friend so of course he knows my name. As for the door man, whose name is Randy by the way, I pay him a pretty good amount to not tell anyone my true identity."

This all started to feel like a big mob scandal, pay outs and hidden identities and secret ownerships. This is the kind of information that I'd been waiting to have fall at my feet, the kind of content that would make it hard for Ricci not to give me a promotion.

"What about me? I know your name," I said, letting the words slip out without thinking.

"You're different," he said.

A long pause followed where he just looked at me, looking over every aspect of my face and all I could do was hope that he couldn't see how uncomfortable I was beneath his stare. It felt personal and strange to just sit there with him without words but with this new understanding but not quite understanding of him. I had to keep reminding myself that this was strictly business. That we weren't friends and that it was pointless to even entertain the idea of him meaning what he said. I wasn't different to him than anyone else in his life that he paid to surround himself with. I was just the journalist that came to ask him enough questions for a good story.

"How about a drink?" he finally asked, getting up to head over to the bar at the front of the room. I nodded, assuming he knew to get me champagne.

I watched as he made his way through the crowd, people parting just for him as if he was royalty, and maybe he was to them. He was the owner of the entire building, probably the one who organized the damn party, and I was the last one to be told. He was so weird about things, so private and secretive about things that most people would be proud to share. Add that on top of his literal double life, and it was nearly impossible to know anything about him.

The Harry I knew, the Harry Styles who wrote the book about how rich people cared nothing about the poor and how everyone should rise up to unite in love against these rich government heads, was not the same Harry that the people at the party knew. They knew the Harry in the expensive fancy suits that they paid their ridiculously expensive rent to and the one that threw these golden decorated parties that they could dress to the nines to attend. I just couldn't bring myself to comprehend it even if I did finally know where all his money came from.

He came back with a glass of brandy for himself and a flute of champagne for me, which I took gratefully. He had been right about it not being as good as the kind he'd given me, but it would certainly do. I let the bubbles tickle my tongue to try to bring myself back down to earth, to calm myself down so I could continue about the night as if nothing happened and my brain wasn't buzzing with thoughts and questions.

"Sorry for not telling you about being the owner of this place. I guess I just didn't realize that it was that important," he said, taking a sip of his drink. I wanted to start yelling again, shaking him trying to get him to understand that I lived in a shoebox that was probably worth less than paintings he had hanging up downstairs, but I chose to just nod instead.

The band started playing a few minutes later, big brass instruments creating booming jazz that made the floor vibrate beneath me. It sounded beautiful, like something you would hear at a real concert with Frank Sinatra or someone singing over it. He was probably right when he said that there would be talk about in on Monday.

The people who had been sitting at the tables or just standing around talking to each other had moved to the dance floor as the music continued, swaying and swinging around. It was rather fun and interesting just to watch them, their expensive pearls swinging around their necks and the men's hats trying to come off with their swift movements. Harry smiled as he watched everything come together, the joy spread on everyone's faces and the loud noises of excitement threatening to cover up the sounds of the trumpets.

"I'm not a good dancer," he leaned over to whisper in my ear. I laughed, agreeing. I was never that good either. My mother never liked to dance because it reminded her of my father who passed away, so I never had anyone to teach me how to move my feet with the rhythm. "Do you want to do something else instead?"

I looked over to him, the warm candlelight casting a perfect shadow across his mischievous grin. I wanted to say no, the professionalism that I had to keep reminding myself to have telling me that it was a bad idea, but I couldn't pass up on any opportunities to know him better. Especially not after he'd just dropped a bomb on me like the one he'd shared tonight. I nodded my head, letting him grab me by the hand and guide me back towards the elevator, leaving our glasses behind.

"There is always something to be learned about each other. When our government starts thinking that they know everything about us, that's when we'll know we're in trouble." -Styles, 1959

{here's another chapter in hopes that this one is more exciting and a bit of a cliffhanger. hope you guys are still enjoying!

how do we feel not that we know styles has that shmoneyyyy?

all my love.}