Darkness
HARDIN’S POV
The boardroom overlooked the snow-glazed rooftops of Lucerne, but I couldn’t care less about the view.
Not when Ariana still hadn’t responded to my text.
Not when Beatrice was seated across from me, legs crossed like she owned the room, shooting me smug glances that made my skin itch.
Focus.
I adjusted my posture, clasped my hands on the polished table, and nodded as Mr Keller—the European marketing director—continued outlining the proposed concept for the upcoming Paris fashion show.
“...and if we can finalize the feature collection before the end of next month,” he was saying, “we’ll be positioned to launch during Haute Couture Week. We want the theme to reflect timeless legacy—but with a modern twist. Think heirloom craftsmanship meets bold innovation. Every piece should tell a story.”
I gave a curt nod. “We’ll push our design team. If we’re showcasing in Paris, we’re not just representing the brand—we’re setting a precedent.”
Beatrice smiled tightly, likely taking credit for something she didn’t do.
Mr Johnson, an older gentleman with a deep baritone voice and a love for Italian cigars, leaned in. “We were also thinking of incorporating a digital element—maybe a virtual walkthrough of the atelier experience. Bring heritage into the metaverse, so to speak.”
“Approved,” I said. “But only if it’s elegant. No gimmicks.”
Johnson chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Hardin. You’re sharp. Not afraid to cut through the noise.”
I managed a half-smile.
The truth was, I wasn’t even hearing half of what they were saying. My mind was with her.
Ariana.
She always texted back. Always.
Unless something was wrong.
I wanted to be with her.
But here I was pretending to care about diamonds and legacy and press packages while the one person who matters is slipping through your fingers.
When the meeting ended I stood fast, ready to vanish back to my suite.
But Johnson clapped me on the back before I could make it to the door. “Come on, son. Have a drink with us. Loosen up a little.”
I started to decline, but I caught the glance between him and the others. Beatrice was already standing, smoothing her skirt. Her eyes sparkled with smug amusement.
Refusing would seem standoffish.
And my father’s warning about diplomacy echoed in my skull.
So I smiled. “Sure.”
The bar was a glimmering spot tucked beneath an upscale hotel a few blocks down. All glass, marble, and expensive shadows. Waiters floated like ghosts with trays of whiskey and chilled wine.
I sat at the far end of the curved leather booth, nursing a lowball glass of scotch I didn’t want.
Beatrice slid in beside me.
Of course she did.
I shifted, making it obvious I didn’t want her close. She didn’t get the hint—or maybe she just didn’t care. At one point, I felt her hand brush mine on the table. I moved it immediately.
The men were discussing runway lighting and event security, and I tried—truly—to stay in the moment. But my head was starting to pound. There was a strange fuzz in my brain. My vision tunneled slightly, like the room was dimming even though the lights hadn’t changed.
Beatrice stood and excused herself to the bathroom.
Johnson lifted his glass. “Too rich for your blood, son?”
I forced a smirk. “Just need a minute. Long day.”
He nodded. “Pace yourself. We’ve got three more meetings before the gala.”
I set my drink down.
Something’s off.
I hadn’t even finished half the glass.
But my limbs were already feeling...heavy.
Dull.
I stood, wavering slightly. “I’m going to call it a night.”
“You alright?” Johnson asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
He waved me off. “We’ll hold the fort.”
I pushed through the bar, barely able to focus on the streetlights outside the window. The cold air hit me like a brick wall when I stepped out. My heart was thudding in my ears. My legs felt like wet cement.
The driver pulled up within seconds. Thank God.
I climbed in, leaning back against the leather as I fumbled with the seatbelt. My fingers felt disconnected from my brain.
“Back to the hotel, sir?” the driver asked.
“Yeah.” My voice sounded too far away, like I was underwater.
My phone buzzed weakly in my pocket. I pulled it out with effort.
Still nothing from Ariana.
Just a calendar reminder for tomorrow’s breakfast briefing.
I tried typing another message. “Just tell me you’re okay.”
But I couldn’t even hit send.
The elevator ride up felt like an eternity. The walls swam in my peripheral vision. I reached for the rail, gripping it tighter than I wanted to admit.
The hall to my room blurred.
I fumbled with the key card once—twice—finally managing to get the door open.
Inside.
Sanctuary.
I kicked the door shut behind me and leaned against it for support. My tie was suffocating me. I ripped it off, threw it on the floor, then shrugged out of my jacket.
God, it was hot.
Why was it so fucking hot?
I stumbled to the bed and dropped like a stone, my chest heaving, eyes fluttering.
Something’s wrong. Something’s seriously wrong.
I tried to move, to get up, but the weight of my body was suddenly too much.
My fingers were tingling.
Sweat prickled at my brow.
And then—
The door burst open.
Then—
Footsteps.
But everything was blurry. Spinning.
I squinted against the haze.
Couldn’t make out the face.
Just a silhouette. A shape.
Male?
Female?
I couldn’t tell.
“Who—” I tried to say, but my voice cracked into a dry whisper.
My body wouldn’t move.
I was trapped inside it.
Paralyzed.
The figure stepped closer, the light behind them casting shadows over the room. Their hand reached for something.
My vision swam again.
I blinked.
Then—
Darkness.