CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 69
ARIA

A soft, half-smile tugged at my lips as my hand moved on its own, reaching across the empty space beside me. 

My fingers brushed over the sheets and pillow, curling and flexing as if trying to grasp Lian—hold onto him, anchor him to me somehow.

Slowly, the smile faded.

I shifted slightly, letting my hand wander again, but all I met was the cold emptiness of the bed. 

Nothing. 

A strange hollow ache stirred in my chest. 

My eyes snapped open, panic flooding through me, my heart slamming against my ribs as I turned to the space beside me. 

Empty. 

Completely, impossibly empty.

A sharp jolt tore through me, leaving me breathless. 

Where was he?

A rush of dread surged through me, snapping away the last threads of sleep. 

I sat up abruptly, eyes darting around the room, wild and frantic. 

The bathroom door is closed. 

The curtains—still, untouched.

The silence pressed in on me, too heavy, too wrong.

“Lian?” My voice cracked, raw and trembling. I waited, straining for the sound of footsteps, for anything.

Nothing.

“Lian!” Louder this time, almost a cry, my chest burning as I searched every shadow, every corner, my heart refusing to believe he could just be gone. 

The quiet swallowed his name, leaving me with only the echo of it—and the unbearable emptiness that followed.

No. No. No.

I scrambled upright, sheets tangling around me, hands clutching at the bed 

Slowly, almost cautiously, I lowered my gaze to myself, half-expecting some trace of last night—a rumpled sheet, a mark on my skin, even the lingering scent of him. But there was nothing. 

No evidence, no proof. 

Everything looked ordinary, pristine, as if nothing had happened at all.

And yet… my chest still ached. 

My mind still replayed the memory of him, every touch, every breath, every heartbeat. 

The room was empty, the bed cold, but somewhere deep inside, I felt the undeniable truth: he had been here.

It had felt real—too real. 

Dreams didn’t leave your skin tingling, your heart still hammering, or your mind spinning with the echo of someone’s presence.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the wild thrum of my pulse, like my heart was trying to claw its way out.

Closing my eyes, I dragged in a breath, shaky and uneven, willing myself to believe I wasn’t losing my mind.

No. It hadn’t been a dream.

It couldn’t have been. 

Not with the way my body still ached with memory, not with the way my skin still felt branded by his touch, not with the hollow ache twisting in my chest now that he was gone.

I shook my head hard, exhaling a trembling breath that did nothing to steady me.

There had to be an explanation.

My gaze swept the room again, desperate, searching for something—anything—to prove I wasn’t imagining it. 

But everything sat in perfect order, untouched, serene, as though the night had swallowed itself whole.

But I knew better.

Lean had been here.

Here, in this very room. 

In this bed.

It happened. 

All of it happened.

And somehow, that certainty made my hands shake even harder—because if it was real, if he was real—why was he gone?

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood unsteadily, rubbing at my face with the heels of my palms, trying to chase away the drowsy haze, still clinging to me.

My feet shuffled across the floor as I moved toward the bathroom, flinging open the door and checking quickly inside. The mirror reflected only me—tired, dishevelled, and anxious—but no trace of him.

A wave of frustration hit, and I strode back to the bedroom, my hands trembling slightly. 

I moved toward the balcony, yanking the doors open. 

The cool morning air brushed against my skin, carrying the faint hum of the city below. 

My eyes swept across the empty streets, the hotel grounds, the faint glow of streetlights fading with the dawn. 

Nothing. 

No sign of him. 

No shadow, no movement, no lingering warmth in the air.

I pressed my palms against the railing, leaning forward, as if somehow reaching out could summon him back to me. 

My stomach twisted. 

The memory of last night was too vivid, too real to be a dream, and yet… the world outside and the empty bed in front of me screamed otherwise.

Panic clawed at my chest, and for a brief, sharp moment, all I could think about was him—Professor Lian. 

I needed to see him to confirm that last night hadn’t been a figment of my imagination.

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table, hands trembling slightly, and dialled Mark first.

“Mark? Hey… um, do you… do you happen to know Professor Lian’s room number?” 

My voice came out rushed, small, edged with urgency I couldn’t hide.

There was a pause on the other end before Mark’s easy drawl came through, laced with confusion.

“Uh… Aria, why would I know that? I mean, yeah, he sat with us at the restaurant, but it’s not like he slipped me his room key. The guy’s… private. Keeps to himself.”

My stomach dropped. 

“Right… yeah, of course. Sorry, just—never mind.” I hung up quickly, pulse skittering as panic coiled tighter in my chest.

Next, I dialled Mary. 

She answered in her usual sing-song cheer.

“Aria! Hey! What’s up?”

I swallowed. 

“Mary… do you, um… do you know Professor Lian’s room number?” My voice was quieter this time, almost pleading.

There was a beat of silence—and then a laugh, light, and laced with sarcasm.

“Professor Lian’s room number? What, do you think I followed him upstairs after the conference? Sure, he’s hot enough, I’ll give you that—but no, honey. I flirt, I don’t stalk.”

I bit my lip, heat creeping into my cheeks. 

“Yeah… I just wanted to ask him something…”

“Ask him later at the conference, duh,” Mary teased. 

“Unless this is, like… something else?”

“No. Nothing. Forget it,” I muttered, cutting her off and ending the call, the urgency pressing heavier now, sharp and relentless.

Desperate, I dialled the hotel’s front desk. 

The ringing felt endless, each tone twisting my nerves tighter. Finally, a calm voice answered.

“Front desk, how may I help you?”

“Yes, hi… I’m trying to reach Professor Lian. Could you… Tell me his room number?” My voice cracked, hurried, almost pleading.

There was a faint pause on the other end. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t give out room numbers due to privacy policies.”

I swallowed hard, heart hammering, words tumbling out faster now. 

“I… I understand that, but please, it’s really important. I just need to see him. I won’t bother him, I swear—it’s urgent. Please…”

Another pause, longer this time.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I still can’t give you that information.”

My chest tightened painfully. 

“Okay, okay… Do you have any contact numbers at all? Maybe a direct line or an office number? I just… I need a way to reach him. Anything at all!” My voice trembled, rising slightly in panic.

“Please…” I whispered, almost desperate, my fingers gripping the phone so tightly it felt like it might break. 

“I’ll be completely discreet. I just need to know he’s—he’s okay. Please, I can’t wait until the conference…”

The receptionist’s tone remained polite but immovable. 

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, ma’am. Privacy regulations are strict.”

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to calm the surge of panic in my chest, but it wouldn’t stop. My hand shook as I lowered the phone, my breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. 

“Right privacy....” I muttered, but it sounded hollow even to me.

The line clicked dead before I could say anything else. I sank back onto the bed, hands gripping the edge like it might anchor me to reality. The room felt impossibly quiet, impossibly still. 

My heart pounded in my ears, and a bitter ache settled in my stomach.

I pressed the phone to my chest, feeling the weight of helplessness crushing me. 

My throat tightened, my stomach fluttered, and I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. 

I wanted to scream, to beg someone—anyone—to tell me he was there, safe, that it hadn’t all been some impossible dream. Instead, there was only silence, the hum of the hotel around me, and the unbearable ache of not knowing.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands, willing the world to bend just enough so I could see him, hear him, hold him. 

But there was nothing. 

No number, no reassurance, just the lingering echo of absence pressing against every nerve in my body. I felt dizzy, restless, and unbearably alone.

I had to wait. 

Wait until the afternoon conference. 

Wait until I could see him again, until some semblance of proof—or explanation—was possible. The thought felt unbearable, and yet there was nothing I could do.