His Confusion
HARDIN’S POV
A hammer was lodged behind my eyes, pounding without mercy.
I groaned and rubbed my temples, blinking against the assault of morning light slicing through the parted curtains. My tongue felt like sandpaper. My suit shirt was damp against my back, clinging to me with the weight of dried sweat.
Where the hell—
My head throbbed harder.
I sat up slowly, the sheets rustling beneath me, and winced. The movement made the room spin. A sickening wave of vertigo clawed its way through my chest.
The last thing I remembered clearly was… the bar.
The booth. Johnson. That damn drink.
Beatrice excusing herself.
Then—
Fuck. Nothing.
A solid black wall of nothing.
I groaned again, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my palms into them. I needed a second. Just one solid second to remember what happened, to piece the night together.
And then—
A soft voice cut through the fog.
“You’re awake.”
I yanked my hands away from my face like they burned me.
Beatrice.
Sitting in the armchair by the window. Legs crossed. Hair neatly curled over one shoulder. Her black dress had a single strap, elegant and understated, but I could barely process it through the rage crawling up my throat.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I rasped.
She flinched, but not enough to satisfy me.
“I—I was worried,” she said, standing. “You weren’t feeling well last night. I went to the restroom and when I came back you were gone. I called you. So many times. But you didn’t answer.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
My stomach flipped.
“I thought maybe you’d come back here,” she continued. “But then the gala started and you still hadn’t shown. So I asked the front desk to let me into your room. I found you passed out on the bed, fully dressed.”
I stared at her, chest tight.
“You’re telling me… I just drank too much?”
She hesitated. “It seems like it.”
“Bullshit.” My voice was steel now. “I didn’t even finish one glass.”
She opened her mouth, but I cut her off with a growl.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “Hardin, you looked awful. Pale, sweating. I thought maybe you’d had something bad for lunch, or you were overworked. I sat with you all night.”
All night.
My jaw clenched.
The idea of her sitting here, watching me while I was unconscious, made my skin crawl. Something about this didn’t sit right. None of it did.
“And you just… waited?” I asked, voice dangerously low. “Didn’t call a doctor? Didn’t alert security?”
“I didn’t want to cause a scene,” she said. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure, I figured—”
“You figured what? That I’d thank you for playing Florence fucking Nightingale?”
She stepped back slightly, blinking. “I thought I was helping.”
I scoffed and pushed the covers off my lap. My head spun again, but I forced myself to stand, planting both feet firmly on the ground.
“Beatrice,” I said, steadying my voice, “get out.”
She opened her mouth again.
“Now.”
A flash of something crossed her face. Frustration? Disappointment? But she turned without a word and walked toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
When the door clicked shut behind her, I exhaled hard and dropped back onto the bed.
My hand shook as I dragged it through my hair.
She was lying.
Maybe not outright. Maybe not with words.
But something was off.
I knew what being drunk felt like. I knew what a hangover was. This wasn’t it. This was worse—like something foreign had been in my body, and it hadn’t belonged there.
I reached for my phone and checked the lock screen.
Still nothing from Ariana.
I dialed her number. It rang. Then voicemail.
My chest constricted.
Something’s wrong.
I staggered to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, gripping the edge of the sink with white-knuckled hands. My reflection looked like hell—pale, sunken, eyes rimmed in fatigue.
I didn’t just pass out.
I was drugged.
And if I hadn’t made it back to the room—
My stomach twisted.
Beatrice.
She had every reason to want me vulnerable. Every opportunity.
I looked down at my clothes. My belt was still on. My shirt was wrinkled but fully buttoned. Nothing seemed out of place. But the simple fact that I had no memory of getting here, of undressing, of collapsing—
No.
I shook my head, heart racing.
I needed answers. And not the ones she was spoon-feeding me with that fake sympathy.
I grabbed my phone and opened the hotel app, quickly finding the concierge chat. I typed:
“Can you please tell me what time someone entered my room last night?”
The response came a minute later.
“Yes, sir. At 8:41 PM, a guest by the name of Ms. Beatrice Davis requested assistance. With hotel security present, she entered your room using a spare key after reporting concern for your well-being.”
8:41 PM.
The gala started at 10.
So she never went to the event until after checking on me?
Or did she?
I typed again.
“Did Miss Davis return to the gala after that?”
“Yes. According to the guest list and entry log, Miss Davis arrived at the gala at 9:23 PM and remained until 11:55 PM.”
So she left me alone.
For two hours.
Or more.
I stared at the screen, my pulse a dull roar in my ears.
She didn’t sit with me all night.
She lied.
I turned from the sink and strode to the nightstand. No hidden cameras. No phone. Nothing left behind.
I scanned the room again—then dropped to my knees beside the bed and looked under it.
Nothing.
But still.
My gut screamed at me.
I reached for my suitcase, yanked it open, and started pulling out clothes. I checked the lining. My laptop was still there. My watch. Everything seemed untouched.
And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had peeled back the surface of my life and taken a peek inside.
Like I’d been… studied.
Violated.
A cold chill moved down my spine.
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