❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。
—NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

𝗭𝗔𝗬𝗡

The sunlight streaming through my curtains was enough to wake me up, but it was the loud chatter coming from the kitchen that really got me out of bed. Harry and Niall. I forgot how early those two got up when they crashed here.

I groggily rolled out of bed, deciding against putting on a shirt as I shuffled downstairs. Sure enough, Harry and Niall were in the kitchen, loud as ever—and not even cooking breakfast.

"Thought you guys would at least make breakfast as a thank you," I said, slumping onto one of the stools at the counter.

Harry and Niall exchanged confused glances. "For what?" Harry asked, clearly clueless.

"For letting you crash here last night," I replied, yawning.

They both burst into laughter. "Come on," Niall said between chuckles, "we're here, like, every other night. This is practically our house."

"Whatever." I sighed, rubbing my temples. I was too tired to argue. "Can someone at least grab the cereal from the pantry?"

"Sure," Harry said, heading over and placing the box in front of me. But then, out of nowhere, he hit me with: "So, did she accept your request?"

I froze, furrowing my brows. "What are you talking about?"

"Ayla," Harry said casually. "You sent her a follow request on Instagram last night. Did she accept it?"

My eyes widened. I did what? Without answering, I scrambled to grab my phone out of my pocket—too fast, apparently, because it flew out of my hand and landed on the floor.

"Woah, don't be too slow, man," Niall joked, which earned him a glare from me and a laugh from Harry.

I snatched my phone off the ground and went back to the counter, opening Instagram as quickly as the app would load.

"God," I muttered under my breath. "She hates my guts. Why would I even do that?"

"Relax," Harry said with a shrug. "It was probably just the weed talking last night."

Instagram finally loaded. I clicked on Ayla's profile, and there it was—the follow button staring back at me. She'd declined my request.

"So?" Niall leaned over my shoulder, trying to get a peek at my screen.

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the counter.

"Taking that as a no?" Harry asked, tilting his head.

I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my expression neutral. Why would she decline it? I hadn't done anything wrong. Well, except for calling her out at that party the other day—but she needed to hear that. She couldn't let that old hag tell her who she could and couldn't talk to. Someone had to give her a reality check.

Still, I couldn't shake the guilt. Before that whole scene, she'd seemed nice—nothing like the stuck-up image the media painted of her.

"Earth to Zayn," Harry said, waving his hand in front of my face. "Yes or no?"

"She declined it."

Both of them winced, their pity evident. I hated it. I didn't need their sympathy. I could get any girl I wanted—Ayla wasn't the end of the world.

"It's not the end of the world," I said, rolling my eyes.

"It seemed like the end of the world when you were freaking out over sending her a follow request," Niall said, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged. "It wouldn't work out anyway. Her ballet instructor is mental."

Which he was. I'd read the articles about him being a toxic instructor. But Chandler Westwood wasn't just a ballet instructor—he was a big name in Hollywood, working with major fashion brands and top-tier celebrities.

"Yeah, Kendall told me. Isn't her instructor Chandler Westwood?" Harry asked as he shoved his hand straight into the cereal box I hadn't even opened yet. I grimaced.

"Yeah, I've read articles about him. He's a lunatic," Niall replied. "But he's been Ayla's instructor for almost her whole life, and look at where she's at. Whatever he's doing is working."

"How do you even know this stuff?" Harry asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Like I said, I read articles," Niall said with a shrug.

Again, I didn't want to admit it, but I felt bad for Ayla. I'd seen the endless backlash she got online for doing absolutely nothing. People loved to tear her down. Being in the public eye myself, I knew what that felt like—but it seemed different for Ayla. She was just doing what she loved, and it wasn't her fault her parents happened to be Victoria and Richard Clermont.

"Wait, so Zayn," Harry started. "Why wouldn't it work out? Is her ballet instructor, like, jealous of you or something?"

I groaned internally at Harry's stupidity, but I answered anyway. He might be an idiot, but he was still my best friend.

"No, Harry. Chandler Westwood is not jealous of me," I said, exhaling sharply. "From what Ayla told me, he's just... weirdly protective of her. Like, he told her to stay away from boys because they're distractions."

Niall choked on the cereal he'd just shoveled into his mouth. "What?" he exclaimed. "I read stuff like that in the articles, but I didn't think it was true."

"Well, this is new. Kendall just said he's a complete psychopath but wouldn't go into detail," Harry added, his expression shocked.

I nodded. I mean, I tried to tell Ayla the other night that Chandler was a psychopath, but she didn't listen. I was right though, everyone knew it—except her. And that got me wondering: did her parents know? And if they did, why weren't they doing anything about it?

Fucking Hollywood.

"So why do you care so much if you know she's off-limits?" Niall asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

"I said this before, I don't care," I responded sharply, feeling my patience wear thin.

"Yeah, right," Harry let out a laugh. "You called me weird for dating an 18-year-old when I'm 20. But look at you. Ayla is 18."

I ignored him, though I couldn't even argue with that anymore. At first, yeah, I thought it was weird. But now? It's complicated. Ayla's the same age as Kendall, and if I'm being honest, the only reason I found it odd was because of the maturity gap.

In my head, a 20-year-old should be way more mature than someone who just turned 18. But let's face it—I'm not exactly a shining example of maturity. Hell, Ayla might even be more mature than me.

"Okay. Enough about Ayla, please," I finally said, tired of reliving the fact that I got rejected. Well, did I? I mean, would that even qualify as a rejection? Right?

Harry raised his arms in mock surrender, while Niall mumbled something under his breath that I didn't catch.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

Breakfast was a sad excuse for a meal—a simple bowl of cereal because I literally had nothing else in the pantry.

"You've got this big-ass penthouse, but the only things in your kitchen are cereal, milk, and a half-eaten bag of potato chips," Niall said, shaking his head as he put his bowl in the sink.

"Actually, no," I shot back playfully. "I've got alcohol at the bar and weed upstairs in my room. So, you're wrong."

"Wow, what an amazing selection of food," Harry chimed in, rolling his eyes. "Just use a delivery app if you're too lazy to go shopping."

I shrugged, glancing at the clock. It was almost 1 p.m. I debated whether I should head to the studio—something I hadn't done in a while—and decided I probably should.

"Alright, boys, I'm heading out after I freshen up," I announced.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I think I'll head out too. I'm supposed to be at Kendall's by 2. You using your bathroom?"

"Uh, yeah. Obviously," I replied, giving him a look. "Just use one of the other bathrooms."

"But yours is better," he argued.

"I don't care."

I turned to Niall, who had somehow disappeared from the kitchen and was now sprawled out on the couch. "What about you, Niall?"

"Me?" he asked, as if I hadn't just said his name. "Nah, I've got nowhere to be. I'll just stay here."

I nodded, not surprised. At this point, I was used to coming home and finding Liam or Niall hanging out in my apartment. It didn't even phase me anymore.

As I headed to freshen up, my thoughts wandered to the studio. What was I even going to write about? But no matter how hard I tried to focus, one person kept creeping into my mind.

©𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞