His Worry
HARDIN'S POV
The boardroom smelled of coffee and tension. A fresh brew sat untouched in front of me, steam curling in lazy spirals like it had all the time in the world. I didn’t.
Not today.
I adjusted my watch for the third time in fifteen minutes and fought the urge to check my phone. Again. I had glanced at it when the meeting started, then five minutes in, then ten. Each time, nothing from her.
Ariana hadn’t called. Or texted. Not even a dot.
I knew what that meant. She’d seen it.
Every ugly headline. Every manipulated photo. Every bloodthirsty comment.
Damn it.
I kept my face neutral as one of the junior VPs droned on about marketing strategies for our new jewelry line. My jaw twitched, my mind already halfway across the city, sitting in her office, watching her expression crumple as she read the story.
She would be furious.
Not at me—not entirely—but at the circus. At being made a pawn in a game she never asked to play.
This wasn’t how I wanted our moment to be remembered. That kiss had been... everything. Raw. And now? It was painted aa a scandal.
I stared at the conference table, pretending to listen as slides flicked across the wall.
"We’ll launch the Nova Collection on the first weekend of next month," said Laura, our head of branding. "We’ve confirmed Vogue feature coverage, celebrity partnerships, and our main gala sponsors."
I nodded vaguely.
"We also have interest from Dior for a cross-collaboration in Q3," she continued, voice bright.
That got a few impressed murmurs from around the table.
"Impressive," I said, because I was supposed to say something.
Inside, I was screaming.
My phone buzzed subtly in my pocket. I didn’t even blink. Just slid my hand down like I was adjusting my suit jacket. It was a text from my assistant,
"Joan just issued full PR lockdown. Insider Pulse removed the article. Ariana is not commenting. Legal is active. All quiet now."
Of course she handled it.
Of course she didn’t call.
My jaw clenched as I slipped the phone back in my pocket.
I knew this room. Knew the eyes watching me, the fake smiles stretched across faces that would gladly stab me in the back if I so much as flinched the wrong way. These were the hyenas of the empire—polished, suited, but hungry for weakness.
They were already talking. I could feel it.
Was he using her?
Is she using him?
I shifted in my chair and forced myself to stay still.
"We’ll need your approval on the influencer invites list by Thursday," Laura said, passing me a sleek black folder.
I nodded again, flipping it open, pretending to read while my mind spun with only one question: Was she okay?
The meeting dragged on another ten minutes before finally, mercifully, it ended. People started rising, gathering their devices and offering practiced handshakes. I stood quickly, excused myself, and made a beeline for my office.
The second I shut the door behind me, I pulled out my phone.
Still nothing from her.
I stared at the screen.
Don’t call.
Give her space.
But I needed to hear her voice. Even if she didn’t speak, I just needed to know she was still breathing on the other end. Still mine.
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing toward the window. The skyline was sharp and gleaming, but all I could think about was her face. The fire in her eyes. The way she looked at me like she could kill me or kiss me in the same breath.
God, I hated this.
I hit her name.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times—
Then a click.
Voicemail.
"Hey, it’s Ariana. Leave it. If I care, I’ll call back."
Beep.
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry.
"Hey babe. It’s me. I just… I wanted to hear your voice. I know you saw it, and I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. I know you’re handling it. You always do. Just... call me. Please."
I ended the call and stared at the phone like it would give me answers.
But the only response I got was the soft creak of my office door opening.
I turned, expecting my assistant or Laura.
It wasn’t.
Beatrice.
Dressed in black with gold accessories and the kind of smile that could slice through bulletproof glass. She walked in like she owned the place.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.
She arched a brow. "Business."
I glanced at the thin folder in her hand. "Doesn’t look like business."
She smiled, slow and smug. "Oh, but it is."
Beatrice closed the door behind her and stepped forward, holding the folder out to me. I took it, opening it without a word.
The Davis and Richards Partnership Agreement.
Signed.
Stamped.
Official.
"You’re kidding," I said flatly.
She shrugged, tossing her long hair back. "Told you. Business."
I narrowed my eyes at her. "You didn’t need to deliver this in person."
"No," she agreed. "But I wanted to see your face."
My fingers curled tighter around the folder.
She turned, heels clicking on the floor like gunshots, making her way to the door.
But just as she reached it, she paused.
Looked over her shoulder.
And smiled again.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she said, voice dripping honey. "We have that corporate conference next week in Switzerland. Just the two of us."
My blood went cold.
"I didn’t approve that."
She shrugged. "It’s already booked. All expenses paid. A week at the chalet. You really should check your calendar more often."
She stepped through the doorway, but her parting words hit like a bullet:
"Pack warm, Hardin. I hear Switzerland’s lovely this time of year."
Then she was gone.
And I was left staring at the open door, heart pounding, storm clouds rising.
Because I knew Beatrice.
She never played fair.
And this time?
She wasn’t here for business.
She was here for blood.
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