HATE ME GENTLY

Aria Monroe • 22

Logan Ryder • 24

~HATE ME GENTLY~

Aria's POV:

The steady beeping of a machine stirs me awake. I slowly open my eyes, letting them adjust to the blinding lights. The sharp scent of bleach and rubbing alcohol hits my nose.

It takes me a moment to realize where I am. A hospital. What the hell am I doing in a hospital bed?

I turn my head to the side. Sitting on a chair near the bed is a gorgeous man in a fitted black suit.

He’s on his phone, texting. His brows are pinched slightly, as if he’s in deep thought. He has a strong, square jawline covered in well-groomed stubble. His suit looks way too expensive for this hospital room—and the same goes for the gold watch on his left wrist.

I try to speak, but my voice comes out scratchy. That catches his attention. His head snaps up, and a pair of striking blue eyes lock onto me.

“Oh, good. You’re finally awake.” He sounds annoyed. His deep voice gives me goosebumps—but in a good way.

I just wonder why he sounds so pissed. And more importantly, who the hell is he?

I eye him for a moment, then glance at the small table to my right before clearing my throat.

“Can you pass me the water, please?” My voice is groggy. Somehow, it sounds unfamiliar to me. Like in the back of my mind, I know I’m not supposed to sound like this.

He stands up, tucking his phone into his pocket, and walks toward me. He fills the glass with water and hands it over, then sits on the edge of my bed as I start to drink. The moment the water hits my throat, I realize how thirsty I am and chug it down.

“So… how do you feel?” His expression is hard, like he wants to be anywhere but here.

“Um… fine, I guess?”

He nods thoughtfully.

“You’ve been unconscious for the past few days.”

I was out for days? What?

It takes me a few moments to wrap my head around it.

“Days?” My voice comes out higher than intended. “How many days?”

“Four,” he says flatly.

I swallow hard. I’ve been unconscious for four days?

“I had no idea you were such a bad driver.” He snorts, shaking his head.

What is he talking about?

“What?” The question comes out as a whisper. I’m completely lost.

“Seriously?” He lifts one brow at me, sounding unimpressed.

What the fuck is this dude’s problem? Why is he so uptight and hostile? He’s starting to piss me off.

I try to sit up, but the second I do, a splintering pain splits my head and I wince.

He stands up fast, leaning over to help me. It almost feels like he cares. But I know he doesn’t—not with the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m some sort of inconvenience. Like he’s holding resentment.

“How does that feel?” he asks softly, fluffing my pillow. The tenderness in his voice surprises me.

His masculine scent washes over me, and I can feel my cheeks warming up.

Damn, he smells nice.

“Better. Thank you.” I give him a little smile.

Maybe he’s not that bad after all.

He sits back down, his intense gaze locking onto mine, but I refuse to let him make me uncomfortable.

I don’t even know who he is, and I’d better find out.

“You scared everyone, Aria.”

“Uh… who’s everyone, exactly?” My question seems to throw him off a little, but he masks it immediately.

“Your mom. My parents. Our friends,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

Well, I guess it makes sense that my mom would be worried about me since I’m in a freaking hospital bed. But my stomach twists. Why would his parents be worried about me, anyway?

And why does he keep talking like we’re connected somehow? Who is he to me?

I rub my forehead before asking the most important question of all.

“Who are you?”

His face hardens in seconds. The guy looks at me like I just slapped him across the face. His eyes narrow.

“Very funny, Aria,” he says, his voice devoid of humor.

“I’m being serious. I don’t know who you are.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m not joking. I seriously have no clue who you are.”

His expression shifts from irritation to utter surprise. He studies me for a long moment.

“You seriously don’t know who I am?”

I shake my head, and I see the clench in his jaw. He drags a hand through his hair and lets out a sharp laugh.

“This has got to be a joke.”

“What does?” My pulse begins to race as I wait for his response.

“My name is Logan,” he says, his voice low and smooth, though his eyes remain guarded. He glances down, taking my left hand in his while I stare at his face. His eyes lift back to mine, and then he delivers the words I never expected to hear.

“I’m your fiancé.” He lifts my hand, showing me the enormous diamond ring on my finger.

My stomach drops.

I stare at him. Then the ring. Then back at him.

Did he just say fiancé?

What the fuck?