Hard to miss your white head. Hunter's words echoed in my mind as I stood in front of a rack of hair dyes at a shop near the hotel. I needed to do something to make sure Hudson and Hunter wouldn't see me again. I had to stay low as much as possible. I grabbed the darkest hair dye I could find, paid, and hurried out.
While walking back to the hotel, I was eating an ice cream when I saw Hunter emerge from the hotel's door. Instinctively, I ducked behind a tree. Just then, a black SUV pulled up, and Hunter opened the door. A man stumbled out—drunk. Hudson? We're staying in the same hotel? Oh no.
Hunter grabbed Hudson's shoulders and slammed him against the SUV.
"What the hell were you thinking, causing trouble here?" Hunter barked.
Hudson's head was swaying from side to side, clearly intoxicated.
Bam! I flinched as Hunter's fist landed on Hudson's cheek, knocking him to the ground. Hudson didn't even try to get up, too drunk.
"The only reason you're still here is because of me," Hunter spat, rubbing his hand. "You better keep to yourself, or I won't think twice about sending you back to Montero."
He signaled to his men, and they moved to drag Hudson inside the hotel.
-----
I waited a few minutes before slipping out from the tree. As I turned, I accidentally bumped into someone, and my remaining ice cream smeared across his shirt. When I looked up, my breath caught in my throat—there he was. Hunter.
He furrowed his eyebrows, eyes narrowing at me.
"Oh, shit. I am so sorry!" I blurted out instantly, lowering my gaze. I quickly tugged at the edge of the sleeves of my hoodie, trying to wipe the stain off his shirt.
He grabbed my wrist, stopping me. I noticed his knuckles were red—probably from the punch earlier.
"What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
"I just needed something," I whispered, almost afraid to speak louder.
"What did you need that you risked yourself out in the streets at this hour?" he pressed.
I bit my lip, hesitating to answer.
He sighed, tired and annoyed. "If you need something, just ask at the front desk." He released my wrist.
I nodded obediently, heart pounding—I definitely didn't want trouble, especially with Hunter. He was so intimidating.
I quickly took the ice-cold soda can from my plastic bag, then, hesitating for a moment, gently placed it on his knuckles. He hissed in pain and grabbed the can.
Panicking, I abandoned the can and bolted toward the hotel without looking back.
-----
"Wait for 40 minutes," I read aloud from the instructions at the back of the hair dye box. I stepped out of the elegant bathroom of my hotel room and approached the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. My faint reflection stared back at me—wearing a shower cap and the fluffiest bathrobe.
I looked down at the vibrant city below, still alive even after midnight. I never imagined I'd be able to stay in a presidential suite like this. It hurt to admit it, but Hudson was right—once you've tasted luxury, it's hard to go back.
Speaking of Hudson, I reached for my phone and began researching him.
"Fifth Prince of the Kingdom of Montero... I already knew that. Wait—he was once deported to Montero from Halstead for kidnapping the princess, the heiress to the throne? They both attended the Royal Academy, where they met. But according to Hudson, he loved this Princess Calixta," I read the words aloud, confused.
I typed "Princess Calixta" into the search bar. The headlines caught my eye—her engagement to a promising young entrepreneur, Hunter Alfred Charleston. I scrolled and clicked on the first image.
My hand nearly dropped the phone. Princess Calixta had the same white hair I did. What the hell? And no denying, Hunter looked terrifyingly handsome standing beside her.
I clicked on an article.
"Hunter Alfred Charleston is a former member of the royal family of the Kingdom of Montero. He renounced his title as the Fourth Prince after the death of Her Highness, Queen Anne, five years ago..." I read, trailing off at the end.
That's why Hunter's name sounded so familiar. I'd read about him once before, but as if the Palace had wanted the story to disappear as quickly as possible.
The shrill ring of my phone shattered the quiet. I stared at the unfamiliar, yet disturbingly familiar, number flashing on the screen—Hudson. What the hell does he want now?
Without thinking, I flung the phone onto the bed. I'd already brushed my teeth, and the call kept ringing, relentless. If it was an emergency, I'd deal with it. Otherwise, I was about to ignore it.
But then it stopped. Silence. Then, he called again. I finally picked it up.
A hoarse, trembling voice broke through.
"He… help me."
My stomach clenched.
"Why? What happened?" I asked, voice sharp with concern.
A cough rattled in the background. Then, a faint, broken voice.
"Room 3001..."
A glass shattered—broken, loud, echoing through the line and the call ended.
I bit my lip, heart pounding. Room 3001… That's right next to mine.
"Okay," I whispered to myself, voice trembling. "I'll check."
I crept toward the door, careful not to make a sound. My hand hesitated on the handle before I slowly pushed it open. It was unlocked.
The room was dim, shadows flickering across the walls.
"Hudson?" I called softly, peeking inside.
My eyes locked onto his form—half-naked, sprawled on his stomach, on the floor. I walked towards him.
"Hudson?" I repeated, voice softer now.
His brows furrowed, and he slowly stirred. I dropped to my knees, reaching out to touch his bare back.
He was burning—hot to the touch. Feverish.
"Hey," I whispered, voice trembling. "I'm going to help you to bed, okay?"
Not waiting for a reply, I carefully slipped his arm around my neck, feeling the weight of him. His body was heavy, but I managed to drag him up.
As I eased him onto the bed, he unexpectedly pulled me with him.
My face landed on his bare, toned chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath my ear—fast, frantic—and the heat of his skin made my cheeks flush.
I tried to push myself up, but his grip tightened around my wrist.
"Don't… go," he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.
I gently untangled his fingers from my wrist.
"Let me get you some water," I said softly, voice thick with concern.
I turned to the table, grabbing the pitcher. As I stepped forward, my foot squished on something sharp—broken glass—lightly piercing my hotel slippers.
"Awwww!" I exclaimed, lifting my foot to inspect the small shard lodged in my sole.
Great. Just perfect.
I carefully pulled it out, wincing at the sting, and saw a little blood trickle down.
"That's just fantastic," I muttered, limping toward the phone.
I called the front desk for some paracetamol, antiseptic and bandages, while adrenaline kept my hands steady.
Back at the bed, I wrapped Hudson in a blanket, feeling the faint tremor of his feverish body.
Then I slipped into the bathroom, rinsing my wound with tissues and grabbing a small wet towel.
Returning to the bed, I gently wiped Hudson's face with the damp cloth, cleaning away the sweat and grime.
I pressed the towel to his forehead, feeling the heat radiating from his skin.
-----
Minutes dragged by in tense silence until a sharp voice broke through the room.
"Hudson?"
I looked up sharply. Standing near the bed frame was Hunter, his face etched with concern, his eyes darting between Hudson and me. A hotel staff member was beside him, swiftly cleaning up the shards of glass on the floor.
Hunter's voice was impatient, commanding. "What happened?"
I bit my lip, hesitating. "Um, Hudson called and I found him on the floor. He was feverish," I explained as calmly as I could.
Hunter knelt beside the bed, his hand immediately resting on Hudson's neck, checking his pulse. Then, without a word, he pulled back the blanket, revealing Hudson's bare chest. His eyes sharpened with suspicion, flickering in my direction.
My stomach clenched. I suddenly felt nervous, exposed.
"Where's his wound?" Hunter demanded, voice steady but intense.
"What wound?" I replied, genuinely confused.
Hunter reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small bandage and antiseptic.
I reached out instinctively, taking them from him.
"Help him drink his medicine," I said softly, glancing at Hudson, then hurried into the bathroom, limping slightly.
As I turned to close the door behind me, I felt a sudden lift—my body was in the air, sitting on the marble sink.
Startled, I looked up to see Hunter's face inches from mine, his brow furrowed, breathing heavy.
Did he just pick me up?
He looked away quickly, his hands moving to his bathrobe lapels, tugging it closed.
"Oh," I whispered, suddenly aware of how little I was wearing underneath—just a bra, I realized, and my cheeks warmed.
My eyes flicked down, then back up as Hunter kneeled before me, taking off my bloodied slipper with careful precision.
He then took the antiseptic from my hand, his touch steady and clinical as he washed the wound on my foot. He flicked on his phone's flashlight, illuminating the injury with an almost detached professionalism.
"Gladly, it's not that deep," he said quietly, inspecting the cut.
My heart hammered in my chest, pounding loudly enough I hope he didn't hear. I was frozen in place, caught between embarrassment and something else I couldn't quite name.
He cleaned my bloodied foot with a wet towel, then wrapped it carefully with a bandage, his movements precise and gentle.
"You don't have to do that," I whispered, voice trembling slightly.
He looked up at me, his eyes steady, unreadable.
"Stay there," he ordered softly.