Chapter 95: Couldn’t Remember
A faint knock of sunlight slipped past the curtains, landing on Hana’s face.
She groaned softly, stirring beneath the thick duvet of the Marriott suite. Her head throbbed, a dull, pulsing ache that made every sound sharper than it should’ve been.
She blinked twice, her lashes heavy, before finally forcing her eyes open. The ceiling came into focus first—white, elegant, lined with a faint gold trim. Then the faint scent of perfume and champagne reminded her: last night.
"Oh... no," she muttered weakly, shielding her face with her hand.
Her memories were fragments—dancing under soft lights, Timothy’s warm hand at her waist, the smooth rhythm of the waltz. Then came the champagne, laughter, and a blur of conversations that melted together. After that... things got hazy.
She remembered tripping on the way to the elevator. Timothy’s arm around her. His voice telling her to rest.
And then... the memory of his face, close enough that she could see the reflection of herself in his eyes.
Her cheeks flushed. "Oh my God," she whispered, sitting up suddenly before the motion made her wince. "Ow—"
The hangover hit harder. She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to ground herself.
"Okay. Okay. Calm down, Hana," she said to herself, her voice dry and quiet. "Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you think. Maybe you just... fell asleep."
After a few moments of stillness, she exhaled deeply and swung her legs off the bed. The cool marble floor stung her bare feet awake. She glanced at the bedside table, her phone was there.
She sat for a moment, staring at the sheets where she remembered him sitting — that brief, blurry image of Timothy leaning over her before he’d left. He must have gone right after she passed out.
"Of course he did," she murmured to herself. "He’s not that kind of man."
Her gaze drifted to the clock on the bedside table — 8:10 a.m. She groaned quietly and dragged herself upright, clutching her temples. Her head throbbed faintly, not unbearable, but enough to remind her she’d pushed her limits.
"You’re an idiot, Hana Seo," she muttered, standing slowly.
The air-conditioning felt cold on her bare skin as she crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains. Morning light flooded in, bathing the suite in warm gold. Manila sprawled beneath her, the hum of traffic, the glass towers gleaming, the city already alive with motion.
She stood there for a moment, steadying herself. The night before played back in pieces: the waltz, the champagne, the laughter, the teasing, and then, that almost kiss.
Her cheeks flushed just thinking about it. "I can’t believe that happened," she whispered, pressing a palm to her face.
She needed to get ready, fast.
In the bathroom, she turned on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam curling against the mirror. Hana stepped under the stream, closing her eyes as the warmth cascaded down her shoulders. Slowly, the fog of last night — literal and emotional, began to lift.
"Get it together," she muttered, reaching for her shampoo. "You’re going to see him today. Just... act normal. Professional."
She washed quickly, toweled off, and stood before the mirror. Her reflection looked pale but composed. She fixed her hair, brushed her teeth, and started doing her makeup, just enough to cover the fatigue and add a hint of life back to her face.
When she returned to the room, she opened the wardrobe and chose her outfit carefully, a crisp white blouse tucked into a navy pencil skirt, paired with a light beige blazer. The clothes made her feel grounded again, like herself.
After slipping on her heels, she checked her phone. And there was a message from Timothy.
[See you in my unit room 504. We have something to discuss. Come at 8:20 AM.]
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Eight twenty?" she muttered, glancing back at the clock.
8:17.
"Are you kidding me?"
She scrambled to grab her bag, quickly checking her reflection in the mirror one last time.
Hana slipped out of the suite and into the hallway. The air was cool, the faint scent of hotel polish lingering on the carpeted floor. Her heels clicked softly as she walked, her heart beating faster than it should have.
By the time she reached the door of room 504, she paused to take a breath.
Just act normal. Professional. Pretend last night didn’t happen. He probably already did.
She knocked twice, light but clear.
"Come in," came Timothy’s voice from inside.
Hana pushed open the door, and the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee hit her immediately. The unit was modestly spacious—more like a private executive suite than a hotel room. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a warm slant of light across the table where Timothy sat in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, laptop open in front of him.
He looked up as she entered. "Morning, Ms. Seo," he greeted evenly.
Hana blinked, caught off guard by how normal he sounded. "Good morning, sir," she said, straightening her posture as she approached the table.
"You can sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
She nodded, setting her bag neatly beside her before sitting down.
. She half-expected some hint of awkwardness—maybe a teasing comment or even a glance that suggested he remembered the night before—but there was nothing. His expression was all business.
"I wanted to talk about the foundry site proposals," Timothy began, turning the laptop slightly so she could see the document. "I reviewed San Miguel’s offer and Ayala’s draft overnight. Both have merit, but there are some variables we need to weigh carefully."
Hana nodded slowly, trying to push away the lingering tension in her chest. So this is it. He’s pretending nothing happened. Perfect.
"Understood," she replied, pulling her tablet from her bag to take notes. "Do you want me to schedule follow-up meetings with their representatives?"
"Not yet," Timothy said, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the desk. "I want a full comparative analysis of infrastructure readiness, logistics cost, and energy availability between Batangas, Cavite, and Laguna. Include possible water sourcing solutions—we’ll need consistency for fabrication lines."
Her fingers hovered over the tablet for a moment before she began typing. The sound of her stylus tapping against the screen filled the room.
"Got it," she said after a moment.
For a few minutes, neither spoke.
. But Hana couldn’t help glancing up now and then, watching the way his brow furrowed slightly as he focused, the calm authority in his tone, the faint exhaustion under his eyes.
Finally, Timothy broke the silence. "You didn’t have breakfast yet, did you?"
She blinked. "I—uh... no, not yet. I was in a rush."
He nodded, closing his laptop. "Then I’ll have room service send something up. Are you feeling dizzy or anything? You drink quite a lot."
"Uhm...I’m fairly fine now, Mr. Guerrero, thank you for your concern," Hana chuckled embarrassingly.
Timothy smiled. "Did you remember anything before you passed out?"
Hana tilted her head and pondered. Her memories of yesterday’s events were still similar to what she had remembered earlier.
"Well, I remember you taking me to my room and then I pass out...I’m terribly sorry for that, Mr. Guerrero."
Timothy hummed, acknowledging her explanation. So she didn’t remember huh? That’s unfortunate. He was hoping she would because she said she might remember it. Well, that’s it.