The mansion loomed ahead like something out of a dream—a twisted dream where everything was beautiful, expensive, and yet cold. Towering columns framed the entrance, and glass walls shimmered in the early sunlight like a palace made of crystal.
Eliana stepped out of the car slowly, her shoes clicking softly against the polished marble driveway. Damon stood by her side, one hand resting on her lower back possessively as the other carried her small overnight bag.
"You don't have to carry that," she said quietly.
"I want to," he replied. "You've been through enough."
His voice was gentle, but the grip on her back lingered a second too long, like he was afraid she might run if he let go.
The front doors opened automatically, and a staff of about six people stood at attention inside. They were dressed neatly in black and white uniforms, their expressions neutral but their eyes curious.
"This is Eliana," Damon said to them. "My wife."
There was a collective nod, followed by murmured greetings. "Welcome home, ma'am," they said in unison.
Home.
Eliana flinched slightly.
Nothing about this place felt like home. It was pristine, artfully designed, the furniture probably cost more than her entire college tuition, but… it was cold. No warmth. No soul. Just curated elegance.
The living room alone was massive—two stories high with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a private garden. A white grand piano stood in the corner, untouched. A crystal chandelier sparkled above like a constellation caught mid-spark.
She hadn't even walked ten steps inside before she felt the weight of this new life pressing down on her.
"I'll show you to our room," Damon said, leading her up the curved staircase.
Our room.
Eliana tried not to tense, tried to act natural. She followed him wordlessly, counting her steps in her mind to keep herself grounded.
When they entered the master suite, she was struck by the scent of sandalwood and something faintly musky. Damon's scent. It was everywhere—on the pillows, in the sheets, woven into the very air.
Her eyes scanned the room. King-sized bed. Plush rugs. A walk-in closet so large it could be its own apartment. And photos… framed wedding photos.
She stopped in front of one.
It showed them smiling, her arms around Damon's neck, his lips near her ear as if whispering something.
"I don't remember this," she said softly.
Damon came to stand beside her. "It was taken on our honeymoon in Greece."
"Greece?" she echoed.
"You said you loved the ocean. You cried when we watched the sunset from the cliffs in Santorini."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "But I hate seafood."
Damon's smile faltered just for a second. "You didn't mind it then."
There it was again—that strange gap between what he said and what she felt.
"Maybe my tastes changed after the accident," she said with a small smile, testing him.
"Maybe," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
She fought not to recoil.
"Would you like to rest?" he asked. "I've instructed the staff to make you something light. Maybe toast and tea?"
"Actually…" she cleared her throat. "I'd like to speak with the doctor. About being discharged."
Damon's expression shifted, barely. A flicker of something—concern? Resistance?—passed through his eyes.
"You just got home, Eliana. Why rush things?"
"Because I want to feel normal again. Being locked in a hospital and now brought here without memory… it's overwhelming."
He looked at her for a long moment, his jaw tightening. "You're not locked in. This is your home. You can do whatever you want."
"Then I want to speak to the doctor," she said gently but firmly.
Damon exhaled through his nose and pulled out his phone. "I'll have him come by. Today."
"Thank you."
The tension between them settled like dust on polished glass—visible only if the light hit just right.
---
Later that afternoon, Eliana found herself exploring the house, partly out of curiosity, partly to get away from Damon's watchful gaze.
The place was too quiet.
Her footsteps echoed as she wandered down one hallway after another, passing paintings she didn't recognize and doors that led to rooms she'd never seen before. She opened one and found a home office—shelves lined with business books, dark oak furniture, a sleek computer monitor on the desk.
She opened another door. A private indoor gym.
Another—a media room with a giant screen and plush recliners.
Another—a room full of locked drawers.
That gave her pause.
She tried one of the drawers. Locked.
A flicker of unease crawled up her spine. Why lock drawers in your own home? What could possibly be so private?
She was tempted to find something to pry it open. But then she heard footsteps.
"Eliana?" Damon's voice echoed softly from down the hall.
She quickly shut the drawer and stepped out, brushing invisible dust from her dress.
"Just exploring," she said.
His eyes drifted behind her for a split second. "I was looking for you. Lunch is ready."
She followed him silently, her mind still on those locked drawers.
The dining room looked like something out of a palace. A long table with golden inlays stretched across the room. A bouquet of white roses stood in a glass vase at the center.
She took a seat while a server placed a steaming bowl of creamy soup in front of her.
Eliana picked up her spoon, but her appetite was gone.
Damon sat across from her, watching her with an unreadable expression.
"You don't like it?" he asked.
"I just… I feel strange eating in a place I don't remember ever being in," she said honestly.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I know this is hard. But I promise, it will get easier."
"I hope so," she murmured.
There was a beat of silence.
"Do you remember anything yet?" he asked suddenly.
"Bits and pieces," she said. "Dreams, really. Nothing solid. Faces. Voices."
"Anyone familiar?"
She glanced at him. "Sometimes I think I hear someone calling my name, but… not in your voice."
Damon's eyes darkened. "Dreams can lie, Eliana. Memory loss plays tricks on you. What matters is what's real."
She didn't reply.
Her spoon stirred the soup slowly.
"Tell me about the job I used to do," she said softly, her voice a whisper of curiosity laced with uncertainty.
Damon glanced at her, visibly surprised, then set his tablet aside.
"You ran a foundation," he said after a moment. "It was your passion project. You built it from the ground up."
"A foundation?" Her brows furrowed. "What kind?"
"A women's empowerment initiative," he said gently. "You provided scholarships, mentorships, safe housing. You once flew halfway across the world to a small mountain town—just to give a speech to girls who had never heard of college. You left everyone inspired, including me."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "That… sounds like me. I think. It feels… right."
"It was more than a job to you," Damon continued. "It gave you purpose."
She nodded slowly, then turned to face him.
"I want to go back," she said. "Not right away, but soon. I need something that feels like mine."
Damon's jaw twitched. "You will. When you're ready, the foundation is waiting. Nothing was ever shut down."