His Regret, My Benefit.

~Angela Pov~

The sound of my labored breathing woke me. My head throbbed in concert with the pulsations of my heartbeat, an unstoppable steady ache for which even the faintest of sounds cut like a shard of glass. Sharp fumes of booze and sweat clung to the air, together with that vague, sweetish, citrus scent of strange sheets.

I opened my eyes, and the golden light of morning stabbed like so many tiny knives through my half-closed eyes. Cruel brightness that burns to ashes chances of staying in a cocoon of blissful ignorance. My hand slowly moved on the rough sheets below me, shaking. It was not my bed.

Panic slid up my spine, and my heart, sluggish only a moment before, was suddenly hammering in my chest as realization hit: this wasn't my room, this wasn't my home.

I moved, the ache in my body sharper with the motion. Every muscle screamed, protesting; and a dull soreness across my thighs sent a wash of fire and shame through me. Fragments of memory - like slivers of broken glass - swirled within reach and then eluded my grasping mind: laughter, not mine; heavy bass of music, a strong hand digging into my waist. My breath hitched.

No.

I forced myself to turn and look at the other side of the bed, a space that was previously forbidden for my gaze to set upon. I caught sight of him amidst my churning stomach.

He lay on his back, the rise and fall of his chest marking the regular cadence of his sleep. His skin shone with a soft glow in the morning light, and his tangled brown hair stuck out at odd angles as if my hands had been tangled in it. My throat was so tight it ached. A ghost of a smile danced on his lips, soft, as though he were dreaming of something pleasant. Or someone.

Who is he?

I scrambled upright, clutching the sheet to my chest like armor. Breathing fast and shallow, eyes darting frantically around the room. Marble, cream-colored walls embracing a wall of glass, windows to the floor and from the floor to the ceiling. All screamed luxury. But me, tangled in the bed that wasn't mine with the man I didn't know, no.

"What...what happened?" My whisper cut the quiet.

He stirred with the sound, a low groan slipping from his lips as he rolled onto his side. My heart leaped in my throat as gray, though sleepy, eyes hit mine.

He stared at me, and across his face flickered confusion. Then we were simply staring into the other's face, where neither could speak due to shock. Then his eyes furrowed, going over me, the sheet, and lastly around the room.

"What the hell?" his husky, sleepy voice croaked out.

My fingers dug further into the sheet as my knuckles went white. "I-I don't remember a thing," I stammered. "You?"

His jaw clenched and he sat up, muscles rippling down his back with the motion. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes narrowing while he fitted together pieces of some puzzle. "No," he said. "Not really."

That did little for me if not feed the panic blooming into full-blown terror in my chest.

Suddenly, a muffled commotion out in the hallway broke the heavy silence. My head jerked in its direction, and my heart raced. The voices grew louder, more frantic, and chaotic until-

The door burst open.

The next few seconds took on some sort of fuzzy hue. Faces flowed in, cameras flashing light bright. Noises, eardrum-splitting sounds, questions, jacked-up clicks of shutters, feet shuffling in their push and scramble to press in around the bed.

"Angela Castle!" one of them shouted, shoving a microphone toward me. "Is it true you've been seeing him in secret?"

"Who is he?" another demanded. "A lover? A scandalous rendezvous?"

I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up, and the panic had me in a tight squeeze. My hands were digging for the edge of the sheet, yanking it up to my neck to cover myself from prying eyes and questions. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Mumbling curses under his breath, The man's face was red as blood, with his jaw tightly clenched, he was glaring at them. "Get out!" he exploded, drowned by pandemonium.

Cameras clicked on and on, and one question after another bombarded me. I felt like some wild animal in a cage, every movement cataloged, every inch of skin exposed to the press.

"Enough!

The sharp, commanding voice cut through the din; for one brief, blessed moment, the room fell silent. My gaze shot to the doorway, a wave of relief washing over me, and there stood Fiona, an angry red dot of fury and determination, flanked by hotel security.

"Get these vultures out of here now!" she snapped, one accusing finger-pointing at the reporters.

The security guards whisked them away with efficiency like some herd of wildebeests gone berserk. It boomed shut behind them with a deafening thud.

I collapsed back against the headboard shaking all over. Fiona leaped to my side, peering at me with wide, dark, worried eyes. "Angela," she said in a soft voice, softer now but laced with alarm. "What happened here? Are you okay?"

I shook my head, my throat too tight for words. My mind flew around, grasping at an explanation, but only shards were there - pieces of a night I couldn't fully recall.

"I... I don't know," I finally whispered.

Fiona turned to the man then, her face hardened. "And who are you?".

He flung his hands up in a mock surrender and clenched his jaw. "Look, I don't know any more than you do. I was in my room and then..." He stopped and glanced toward me.

"What?" Fiona snapped. "And then I woke up here," he finished.

Fiona's lips pressed into a hard line. "Convenient," she said, crossing her arms. "Angela, do you have any idea what kind of damage this could do to your reputation? To your father's company?"

It was like a slap in the face, and I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her accusation heavy in my chest.

"It's not his fault," I whispered low, my voice a little steadier. "I. I think I went to the wrong room."

Fiona turned her hawk-like stare in my direction, with a baldly disbelieving arch of an eyebrow. "You think? Angela, this isn't some small, inconsequential mistake; this is a PR nightmare if it ever gets in motion, and it has been running wild with the presses already!"

He coughed to clear his throat. The man cleared his throat to get our attention. "Look," he said, with an even voice. "I'm sorry about all of this. I am. However, I don't see how just standing here fighting and arguing is going to straighten anything out."

Fiona whirled on him, her voice oozing sarcasm. "Oh, you don't think so? Thank you, Captain Obvious." Moving forward a step, she snared him with a narrowed eye. "Why don't you leave before you make anything worse?"

He stammered to a stop, his eyes darting to me as if he wanted to say something. But I couldn't see his eyes. A moment later, he let out a sigh and walked toward the door, his broad shoulders tense.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room in heavy silence.

Fiona turned to me, frustration and concern etched on her face. "Angela," she said in a softer tone, "what are we going to do? Your father is going to find this out, and you know how he'll react."

I buried my face in my hands, shame, and panic swirling inside me like a storm. She was right. The last thing I needed now was my father's wrath.

But as Fiona paced the room, rattling off potential damage-control strategies, I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in my gut. Something about this felt bigger than some drunken mistake.

Something about this felt like the beginning of the end.