A faint knock of sunlight slipped past the curtains, landing on Hana's face.
She groaned softly, stirring beneath the thick duvet of the Marriott suite. Her head throbbed, a dull, pulsing ache that made every sound sharper than it should've been.
She blinked twice, her lashes heavy, before finally forcing her eyes open. The ceiling came into focus first—white, elegant, lined with a faint gold trim. Then the faint scent of perfume and champagne reminded her: last night.
"Oh… no," she muttered weakly, shielding her face with her hand.
Her memories were fragments—dancing under soft lights, Timothy's warm hand at her waist, the smooth rhythm of the waltz. Then came the champagne, laughter, and a blur of conversations that melted together. After that… things got hazy.
She remembered tripping on the way to the elevator. Timothy's arm around her. His voice telling her to rest.
And then… the memory of his face, close enough that she could see the reflection of herself in his eyes.
