Morning crept in quietly.
Amy stirred, her body heavy, her head pounding as if she had been dragged through a storm she couldn't remember. The scent in the air was unfamiliar—clean, subtle, expensive. Not her room. Not the Davis house.
She opened her eyes slowly.
High ceilings. Dark curtains. A large, unfamiliar bed.
Panic flared.
Amy pushed herself up, her movements sluggish, her limbs still weak. Her dress from the night before was gone, replaced with a simple robe folded neatly on a chair nearby. Her heels were aligned carefully beneath it.
Someone had been considerate.
That scared her more than carelessness would have.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to remember.
The party.
The dizziness.
The hallway blurring.
A door she didn't recognize.
Then nothing.
Amy swallowed hard.
She slid off the bed and steadied herself against the table, her legs trembling. A glass of water sat beside a small bottle of painkillers. No note. No explanation.
The room was silent.
No Ethan.
No Mirable.
Just the faint hum of the city outside the window.
Amy exhaled shakily, wrapping her arms around herself. Something had happened last night. Not the story people would tell—but something real. Something that made her body ache with unease.
A knock sounded at the door.
She froze.
The door opened slowly.
Benson Harrington stepped inside.
He stopped when he saw her standing, his gaze sharp but controlled. There was no shock in his expression—only assessment, as if he had already confirmed she would wake soon.
"You're awake," he said calmly.
Amy nodded, her throat tight. "This is… your room?"
"Yes."
Her fingers curled into the robe. "Why am I here?"
"You were drugged," Benson replied plainly.
The words hit harder than a slap.
"I—what?"
"You lost consciousness. I had you moved somewhere safe." His voice was steady, unembellished. "Nothing happened. You were not touched."
Amy's knees weakened. She sank back onto the edge of the bed, breath uneven.
"I knew something was wrong," she whispered.
Benson studied her quietly. "You weren't wrong. And you weren't imagining it."
Silence stretched.
"What about… last night?" she asked softly. "The people. The cameras."
"You don't need to concern yourself with that," he said. "It was handled."
"By who?"
"By me."
That answer settled something in the room.
Amy looked up at him, really looked this time. Power without arrogance. Control without cruelty. A man used to cleaning up disasters without making noise.
"Mirable," Amy said carefully. "She—"
"I'm aware," Benson interrupted. "And so is everyone else who needed to be."
Amy's brow furrowed. "But I don't remember anything after—"
"That's the sedative," he said. "You'll remember pieces. Or you won't. Either way, your body is telling the truth."
She pressed her lips together, emotion swelling in her chest.
"Ethan?" she asked.
Benson's gaze sharpened slightly. "Your relationship is not my concern."
That wasn't denial.
That was distance.
He turned toward the door. "Rest today. Drink water. And see a doctor."
She hesitated. "The family doctor?"
Benson paused.
"No," he said calmly. "A real one."
Then he left.
Amy sat there long after the door closed, heart pounding, the room feeling too large, too quiet.
She didn't know what had happened outside those walls.
Didn't know Mirable had been humiliated.
Didn't know apologies had been made on her behalf.
Didn't know the story had already shifted.
All she knew was this:
She had slept in a powerful man's room.
She had been protected without being claimed.
And someone had finally believed her without asking her to beg.
The ember inside her still hadn't ignited.
But for the first time—
It had oxygen.