Stella's biological clock woke her early, pulling her from a deep, dreamless sleep. Blinking groggily, she looked around, taking in the unfamiliar environment. The room was small but tidy, its simplicity a stark contrast to the luxurious hotels she was accustomed to. The furniture was functional, not extravagant, and the faint scent of coffee lingered in the air.
Her eyes fell to her clothes, and she breathed a small sigh of relief—they were intact. Glancing at the bedside table, she noticed a bottle of water. Her throat was parched, so she quickly unscrewed the cap and took a long sip. The cool liquid soothed her dry throat, though it did little to ease the fog clouding her memory.
She frowned, trying to piece together the events of the previous night, but her mind was a blank slate. It felt as though someone had erased her memories, leaving her with nothing but fragmented sensations—flashes of a bar, the clinking of glasses, and... someone's steady arms holding her. Frustrated, she knocked her head lightly with her knuckles, willing herself to remember.
"Think, Stella. Think!" she whispered to herself, but nothing came forth. Her frustration turned to internal panic as she screamed silently at her predicament.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ringtone of her phone. The sound startled her, and she fumbled to retrieve it from her purse on the nightstand. Answering the call, she heard her grandfather's gruff voice on the other end.
"Where are you, Stella? Do you have any idea how irresponsible it is to disappear like this? And don't think this excuses you from your obligations. The Dalton family expects an answer soon. You're not getting any younger!"
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. "Good morning, Grandpa," she muttered sarcastically. After a few curt exchanges, she ended the call with a heavy sigh. The pressure of the arranged marriage weighed on her like a storm cloud, but right now, she had more pressing questions—like where she was and how she got there.
Curiosity prompted her to explore the space. She slid out of bed and made her way to the door, opening it cautiously. The faint creak of the hinges was the only sound as she stepped into the small but cozy apartment. Just as she reached the living room, the front door opened, and a tall figure stepped inside.
Her breath hitched when her eyes landed on him. It was the bartender from last night. Jackson Lloyd.
"How come I woke up in his apartment?", she asked herself quietly.
Jackson noticed her immediately, his expression calm but observant. Dressed in a simple T-shirt and jogging pants, he looked like he'd just returned from a morning run. A sheen of sweat clung to his skin, and his hair was slightly damp. He could dictate the confusion swirling in her head and he was not prepared to talk about it.
"Good morning, you are awake" he said casually, walking over to her.
Before she could respond, he stopped in front of her, his brow furrowing slightly. He leaned closer, checking her forehead with the back of his hand. Stella stiffened at the unexpected gesture but stayed still.
"No fever," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Seemingly satisfied, he straightened up and walked to the kitchen. Stella watched him in stunned silence as he opened the fridge, pulled out a container, and began reheating something on the stove.
A few minutes later, he returned with a bowl of soup, a hangover soup precisely. Without a word, he handed it to her.
"You drink up," he said simply, his voice steady but neutral.
Stella hesitated, unsure of how to react. She took the bowl and sat down on the sofa as Jackson gestured for her to sit. His calm demeanor made her feel strangely compliant, and without thinking, she followed his silent instructions, spooning the warm liquid into her mouth.
The soup was simple but comforting, the warmth spreading through her body and soothing her frayed nerves.
Jackson leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "You're surprisingly obedient this morning," he remarked, raising an eyebrow.
Stella paused mid-spoonful, looking up at him. "Obedient?" she echoed, confused.
This seems to be directed at someone else because, as far as she could remember, she had never been one to be obedient. Rather than obeying others, others obeys her. However, come to think of it, she has been quite obedient this morning.
"Most people in your situation would be asking a million questions by now," he said, his tone light but pointed. "You woke up in a stranger's apartment. Don't you have anything to ask?"
Stella blinked, her cheeks warming slightly. The truth was, she did have a million questions to ask—where she was, how she got here, why he'd helped her—but the calm, almost nonchalant way he handled the situation had thrown her off. For reasons she couldn't quite explain, she didn't feel the panic she thought she should.
"I... I just figured I'd piece things together as I go," she replied, her voice quieter than she intended. "Besides, you don't look like the type to hurt a weak lady."
Jackson chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're either incredibly trusting or incredibly reckless."
"Maybe a bit of both," she admitted, glancing down at her soup.
For a moment, silence filled the room, save for the faint clinking of her spoon against the bowl. Jackson watched her, his expression softening.
"Well, reckless one, finish your soup. You're going to need it to calm your system and replenish your strength," he said, pushing off the counter and heading toward the sink.
"For what?" she asked, looking up at him.
Jackson glanced over his shoulder with a small smirk. "Figuring out how you ended up here. And what you plan to do next."
Stella couldn't help but smile faintly, despite the uncertainty swirling in her chest. This man was a puzzle, and she had a feeling solving him would be just as complicated as solving the mystery of her missing memories.