Chapter 203 – Hope's POV
Hope stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand but barely moving. Her thoughts weren't on her breath or the toothpaste foam clinging to her lips. They were stuck—looping—replaying the balcony scene like a broken record.
She spat into the sink, rinsed, and tried again.
But the image was still there.
The curve of the woman's leg.
The man's hands gripping her hips.
His jawline in the moonlight.
The quiet confidence with which he moved—like it wasn't the first time he'd done this, like he didn't care who saw.
And worst of all, his face.
That same face from the day she'd collided with him on the street. The man who hadn't even said a word, yet somehow left an imprint on her thoughts.
She groaned and slapped water on her cheeks, hoping the cold would snap her out of it.
It didn't.
Behind her, Ariah shuffled around the suite, groggy and mumbling something about her missing lashes.
Hope wrapped a towel around her head and walked out of the bathroom.
"You look like someone saw a ghost," Ariah muttered, squinting as she pulled on her shirt.
Hope paused. "Yeah, something like that."
Ariah didn't ask more. She was already rushing to find her phone, complaining about a missed callback.
Hope sat at the vanity, dabbing moisturizer onto her face, trying to focus on anything other than what she saw. But every time she blinked, it returned.
That scene. That man.
Why was it so hard to forget?
Maybe it was the mystery. Maybe it was the way he never left a name, never said a word, just existed like a question mark in the back of her mind. And now—he existed differently. Tangibly. Raw. Intimate. With someone else.
And somehow, that hurt.
She didn't even know him.
But her mind didn't seem to care.
---
The makeup artist arrived an hour later, her kit rolling like a mini suitcase. The team had a morning shoot planned on the rooftop. Sunlight. Laughter. Carefree looks. Hope had done it a hundred times before, but today, her heart wasn't in it.
"Eyes here, sweetheart," the artist said gently, brushing mascara on her lashes. "You're distracted."
Hope gave a tight smile. "Didn't sleep well."
"Bad dreams?"
Worse, Hope thought. Reality.
---
On set, the rooftop was everything it should've been—modern, minimalist, glowing in natural light. The photographers barked directions, the director offered praise, and Ariah, ever the natural, floated between poses like a pro.
Hope tried to mimic her ease.
But her mind wandered.
She turned her face toward the camera, chin slightly raised, hand resting on her hip, but she wasn't really there.
Every click of the camera was drowned out by the image burned behind her eyelids.
The arch of the man's back. The tilt of his head. His eyes—focused, hungry, distant. Like nothing outside that balcony mattered.
"Hope! Smile!" the photographer called.
She snapped out of it, forcing her lips into a grin.
She hated how fake it felt.
---
During lunch break, she sat on the edge of the rooftop, legs swinging over the side, a bottle of water in hand. Ariah joined her a few minutes later, plopping down beside her with a loud sigh.
"Something's off with you today," Ariah said, not even bothering to sugarcoat it.
Hope shrugged. "I'm just tired."
"You're never tired. You're Hope Blackwood. Your blood runs on red carpets and flashlights."
That earned a small laugh. But Hope didn't respond further.
Ariah leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You're not... in trouble, are you? Like, pregnant or heartbroken or secretly seeing someone your father would kill?"
Hope turned to her slowly. "No. Nothing like that."
"Then what?"
Hope stared at the skyline. "I saw something last night."
"Ohhh. Was it murder? Or did you walk in on a couple fighting?"
"Worse," Hope muttered. "I saw someone I wasn't supposed to see... doing something I shouldn't have seen."
Ariah blinked. "You're gonna have to give me more than that."
Hope hesitated, then sighed. "Remember the guy I bumped into weeks ago? Tall, mysterious, wouldn't even apologize?"
"The hot one? With the wristwatch that probably costs more than our hotel suite?"
"Yeah. Him."
"What about him?"
Hope took a deep breath. "He was on the balcony across from our hotel last night. With a woman. They were…" She stopped.
"Ohhh." Ariah's eyes widened. "Oh. You mean they were—"
"Yes."
"Damn." Ariah looked impressed. "And you saw all of it?"
"I wasn't trying to. I just—looked up, and there he was."
"And it messed with your head?"
Hope nodded.
"Girl," Ariah said, leaning back on her palms. "That's wild. But also, you didn't know him. It's not like he cheated on you or something."
"I know," Hope whispered. "But I can't stop thinking about it. About him."
"Sounds like you've got a crush."
"No," Hope said quickly. Too quickly.
Ariah smirked. "You do."
Hope ran her fingers through her hair. "Maybe I just hate the fact that I let a stranger affect me. That I was building stories in my head and now I can't delete them."
Ariah was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly, "Maybe you didn't want him to be like that. Maybe you hoped he was different."
Hope didn't answer. She just stared out at the sky, the wind brushing against her skin.
Maybe she did.
---
Back in the hotel that evening, Hope stood by her window, looking across at the now-empty balcony. No one was there. The door was closed. The curtains drawn.
It was like nothing had happened.
Like she'd imagined it all.
But she knew she hadn't.
He was real.
And for reasons she didn't understand, that reality refused to let her go.