Abigail’s POV
My eyes snapped open, and I shot up in bed, my heart pounding as reality settled in, the hazy edges of the dream fading into the room around me. I wasn’t in my room. The bed beneath me was softer, luxurious in a way that hinted at wealth.
The silk sheets, the dark wood furnishings, the muted, tasteful elegance— then I spotted a framed picture on the nearby dresser—a man in a crisp suit with a severe gaze. I was in Charles’s room.
My heartbeat quickened as I glanced down, realizing my clothes were still intact. The memory of his arms around me last night was still fresh, a grounding sense of safety amid the haze of drinks and dim lights.
He hadn’t taken advantage, though he could have. I felt a strange relief and, if I were honest, a little bit of admiration.