The scent of antiseptic stung her nose. Bright, white light pressed against her eyelids like a weight she couldn't lift. She blinked slowly, and the ceiling came into view—too white, too quiet. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. Something sharp and metallic tinged the back of her tongue.
Where am I?
Her lips parted, but no words came. She turned her head, wincing as pain lanced through her temples. The room was unfamiliar—pristine, sterile, silent. A hospital.
A faint beep echoed in the background, rhythmic and constant. Machines. Wires. Her gaze drifted to her arm. An IV. A bandaged hand. Her body ached in places she didn't know could hurt. Beneath the antiseptic smell, there was something floral—roses maybe—but faded and stale.
Panic fluttered in her chest, delicate at first, then rapid like hummingbird wings. Why couldn't she remember?
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Steady. Unhurried. Then the door opened, and a man stepped inside.
He was tall, his shoulders cutting a powerful silhouette against the soft hospital lighting. Impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. His dark hair was neat, not a strand out of place. But it was his eyes that held her—gray, like a thunderstorm over a frozen lake. Sharp, unreadable, almost cold.
He stopped at the foot of her bed, hands folded behind his back, and studied her in silence.
She stared back, throat tightening.
"You're awake," he said, voice cool and clipped, like every syllable had been weighed before spoken.
She tried to sit up, but her limbs were heavy and slow to obey. "Where... where am I?"
"St. George Memorial Hospital. You were in a car accident two days ago."
Her heart kicked. "Car accident?"
He didn't flinch. "You were driving alone. Your car hit a divider. Minor injuries. Concussion, a few bruises. You'll recover."
She stared at him. His face was familiar in the way a song is on the tip of your tongue. And yet, completely foreign.
"And... you are?"
The pause before his answer was brief, almost imperceptible.
"Liam West."
The name meant nothing to her.
He watched her carefully, his gaze drilling into her like he expected recognition. "Your fiancé."
The room tilted.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Fiancé? Her fiancé? She didn't remember him. She didn't remember anything. The word echoed in her mind like a scream inside a tunnel.
He seemed to register the blank confusion on her face.
"You don't remember," he said flatly, as if confirming something he'd already guessed.
"No," she whispered, shame creeping in like a shadow. "I don't."
Liam moved closer, his presence commanding but not comforting. "Your name is Emily Carter. You're twenty-three. You graduated from Easton College. We were supposed to be married next week."
Emily. The name tasted unfamiliar, like trying on someone else's shoes. Too tight. Not hers.
"I... I don't remember anything. Not even my own name."
His expression didn't change. No softness. No sympathy.
The silence between them expanded, thick and oppressive. She could hear the machines. The distant cough of someone in the hallway. Her own heartbeat, like thunder.
"Why are you here?" she asked, voice trembling.
"Because you're under my care now. Your father signed legal guardianship over to me," he said, tone flat as a boardroom report.
Emily blinked. "Why would he do that?"
"Because he wanted to protect you."
It didn't sound like protection. It sounded like possession. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage, unsure how the door had locked behind her.
"I don't understand," she whispered.
Liam stepped back. "It doesn't matter right now. What matters is your recovery. I'll have the nurse bring you something to eat."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," she said, surprising herself. "Why are you so... detached?"
He paused at the door. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Pain? Disgust? She couldn't tell.
"Because emotions don't change facts," he said without turning around, then exited.
The nurse arrived shortly after with a tray of warm broth, soft bread, and a small plastic cup of pills. Emily sat up with her help, her limbs moving as if they belonged to someone else.
The food was bland, but she ate because she didn't know what else to do. Her mind churned with thoughts and questions.
Emily Carter.
Liam West.
Fiancé.
She glanced toward the mirror on the wall. A pale face stared back at her—wide eyes, bruised temple, hair tangled like forgotten silk. Who was this girl? Who had she been?
She tried to remember her favorite color. A childhood memory. Her birthday. But her mind was blank, a fogged-up mirror offering no reflection.
A soft knock pulled her attention back to the door.
Another visitor.
This time, a woman entered. Older. Elegant. Her blonde hair was pinned back into a severe twist, her coat designer, her heels silent on the linoleum floor. Her face looked stretched too tight, her smile forced.
"Emily. Thank goodness," the woman said, voice laced with practiced concern.
Emily didn't respond. The woman approached and took her hand gently.
"You gave us quite a scare."
"I... I'm sorry," Emily offered, instinctively.
The woman blinked. "You don't recognize me, do you?"
Emily shook her head slowly.
"I'm Veronica Carter. Your stepmother."
Stepmother. The word sounded sharp.
"Your father's overseas. Business emergency. But we're all relieved you're awake."
Emily nodded, unsure what to say. Veronica's eyes scanned her face, calculating.
"Maybe this will help," she said, pulling something from her purse. A silver frame.
Inside it, a photo.
Emily in a cream dress. Liam standing beside her. Her smile bright, his... not quite a smile. More like tolerance. A photo taken for show, not sentiment.
"You seemed happy," Veronica said, watching her reaction.
Emily stared at the picture, her stomach coiling. Did I love him? Did he love me? And if we were so happy, why did I feel so empty?
"You'll be discharged tomorrow," Veronica continued. "Liam will take you home."
Home. The word echoed like a question.
That night, the hospital seemed quieter than before. Shadows crawled along the corners of the room. Emily tossed and turned, unable to find rest.
Her thoughts were a tornado. Who was she before this accident? What kind of woman agreed to marry Liam West? What did she believe in? What did she love?
Nothing about this arrangement felt natural. Liam had spoken to her as though she were a contract, not a person. Even her stepmother had seemed... distant. Polished.
She closed her eyes and tried to summon a memory. A laugh. A voice. A song. Nothing.
At some point during the endless darkness, she slipped into sleep.
In her dream, she was running. Fog clung to her skin like frost. She stood at the edge of a cliff, wind tearing at her hair. A voice rang behind her, low and laced with fury:
"You ruined everything."
She turned.
A man in a suit.
Gray eyes.
She woke with a gasp, heart thundering. Her gown clung to her back, damp with sweat.
The dream left an aftertaste—like danger.
She sat up, gripping the cold rail of the bed. Everything felt wrong. The people. The names. Even her own reflection.
But one thing was clear:
She was alone in this. And whoever Liam West was—whatever he wanted—he wasn't telling her the full story.
Emily Carter might not remember her past, but she could feel one thing deep in her bones.
This wasn't the life she chose.
And she would find out the truth.
Even if it broke her.
The nurse returned just before dawn. Emily asked her questions, hoping to gather scraps of identity. How long had she been there? Who had visited her? Had Liam stayed long? But the nurse had few answers. "He comes and goes," she said with a polite smile. "Very busy man."
The words made Emily's stomach twist.
Later that morning, Liam returned. He brought clothes—her clothes, he claimed. She stared at the folded blouse and skirt with a rising sense of dread. She didn't recognize the fabric, the color, the scent.
"These were in your closet," he said simply. "You always liked neutrals."
Neutrals. How fitting.
She got dressed slowly, limbs heavy, mind fogged. Liam waited outside the room, and when she emerged, he didn't compliment her. Didn't smile. Just offered his arm.
As they left the hospital, cameras flashed. Paparazzi. A few nurses murmured. Emily instinctively turned her face away.
"Why are they taking pictures?"
"Because you're my fiancée," Liam answered. "And people like a story."
She didn't like how he said it. Cold. Calculated.
A black car waited at the curb. The driver opened the door, and Liam helped her inside. The leather interior smelled expensive, but unfamiliar.
The ride was silent. City streets blurred past. Emily watched the buildings, hoping something might spark recognition.
Nothing did.
When the car turned into a gated driveway, her breath caught. The house was massive. Stone and glass. Stark. It looked like it had never known laughter.
Inside, a housekeeper greeted them. Liam barely acknowledged her. He led Emily up a grand staircase, down a corridor lined with paintings she didn't recognize.
He opened a door.
"This is your room."
Not our room.
Emily stepped inside. It was beautiful. Sterile. Like a hotel suite. No photos. No books. No signs of a life lived.
"You've always liked solitude," Liam said.
Emily turned to face him. "Did I?"
He didn't answer.
When he left, she stood in the center of the room, wrapped in silence.
And for the first time, Emily Carter felt truly afraid.