Chapter 202 – Hope's POV
The city was quieter at night, but never silent. Hope stood at the edge of her hotel bed, slipping her feet into her slides. The post-party exhaustion hadn't dulled the dryness in her throat, and all the bottled water in their suite had been drained. Ariah was snoring softly beside her, still knocked out from all the champagne and dancing.
Hope checked her phone: 2:47 AM.
She pulled a hoodie over her head, tied the strings tight, and grabbed her room keycard and wallet. Just a short walk to the convenience store down the block.
The night air greeted her with a soft chill. Her legs moved on muscle memory, the quiet hum of the city lighting her way. She was already beginning to feel better. There was something about walking alone in a place where no one knew your name. No expectations. Just you, the shadows, and the echo of your footsteps.
But just as she passed the adjoining boutique hotel next to theirs, movement caught her eye.
There was a balcony on the fifth floor. The curtains danced like whispers behind the glass door, the lights inside casting long shadows. And outside—on that balcony—were two figures. A man and a woman.
Hope's steps slowed before they completely stopped.
She knew she should look away. She should keep walking. But curiosity—sharp and sticky—held her rooted.
The woman had her back against the railing, her bare legs wrapped around the man's waist. Her head thrown back in abandon. Her soft moans, carried by the wind, reached Hope's ears like background noise to a horror movie. It felt intrusive. Like walking in on a stranger's confession.
But it wasn't the woman who left Hope frozen.
It was the man.
His face tilted to the side, light skimming across his sharp jaw, and for one soul-snatching moment—Hope's chest caved in.
It was him.
The man she had bumped into weeks ago. The man with the piercing eyes and quiet arrogance. She hadn't planned to remember him. She had forced herself to forget him. And she had done well—until now.
But there he was.
The curve of his smirk, the way he held the woman, the glint of his watch catching moonlight—all of it matched.
Hope stumbled back instinctively, her heart thudding loud in her ears.
She hadn't even learned his name. But now she couldn't unsee him.
She took a shaky breath and turned away, walking briskly toward the store, pretending the lump in her throat was just thirst.
Pretending she didn't care.
---
Five minutes later, the shopkeeper gave her a bored glance as he scanned her items. Hope avoided eye contact, paid for her water, and practically jogged back toward her hotel.
But something in her had shifted.
It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly.
It wasn't heartbreak either—how could she feel heartbroken over someone she didn't even know?
It was something worse.
Curiosity laced with disappointment.
She hated herself for lingering. For remembering his face so clearly. For noticing the way his lips brushed the woman's neck like it was routine.
Why should it matter?
It didn't. It shouldn't.
She didn't know him.
But maybe that's what made it worse. That she had built an idea of him in her mind without even trying. That a single bump on a busy road had lived rent-free in her chest for days. That she had allowed herself, even if for a second, to wonder what kind of man he was.
Now she had her answer.
He was the kind who slept with strangers on balconies.
Or maybe not strangers. Maybe lovers.
Either way—none of her business.
Hope let herself back into the hotel room quietly. Ariah was still fast asleep, her hand dangling over the bed, a twisted piece of her hair stuck to her lip. Hope choked back a laugh.
At least Ariah had no mystery men haunting her brain at 3 AM.
She sat on the bed and twisted open the water bottle, gulping greedily. As the cold water slid down her throat, she felt some clarity return.
It wasn't about the man. Not really.
It was about what he represented.
A moment of serendipity that meant nothing to him.
And that, more than anything, was a wake-up call.
Hope walked to the mirror and stared at her reflection. Her hoodie was lopsided, her eyes a little puffy from sleep.
"You're not the type to chase shadows," she whispered to herself.
She wouldn't be that girl.
Tomorrow, the shoot would resume. She'd wear the newest designer outfit, deliver her lines perfectly, smile for the cameras. She was Hope Blackwood—daughter of Damon Blackwood. Actress. Star.
She didn't have time for ghosts in balconies.
She gave herself a firm nod in the mirror and climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket over her head.
Outside, the night continued.
And above her, in a room a few floors up, the man finished his midnight affair without even knowing he'd been seen.