The return to the hospital room was quiet—too quiet. The kind that wrapped around Eliana's ribs like invisible vines, squeezing just enough to remind her that freedom was an illusion.
Damon helped her back into bed with mechanical grace. His hands were gentle, but his eyes? Cold. Careful. Always watching.
She hated how easily he handled her. Like he'd done it a hundred times. Like he'd been rehearsing for this moment long before she woke up.
Once she was settled, he reached for the blanket and pulled it over her legs, tucking her in like a child. "You need to rest now," he said, brushing a knuckle against her cheek. "Today was progress."
She didn't respond. She couldn't.
Because behind her silence, her mind was a battlefield—flashes of doubt, foggy fragments, and questions that multiplied faster than she could manage.
When he finally left, Eliana waited for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds until his footsteps faded. Then, she sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her body still ached, but she pushed through it.
She wasn't going to find answers lying down.
A notebook lay on the nightstand—the kind the nurses used to keep track of her meds and questions. She pulled it into her lap and flipped to the back, away from the daily logs. With shaky hands, she began to write:
Charity Foundation?
No photos, no visitors. Why?
Phone "secured"? Check with nurses.
Damon = controlled. Cold. What is he hiding?
Do I have family? Friends?
Was I really married?
She paused at that last one, circling it twice.
Everything hinged on that. This supposed marriage.
Why couldn't she remember the moment they said "I do"? Why couldn't she picture a ring, a wedding, a kiss? There was nothing. No flicker. No emotional residue.
And that was terrifying.
Suddenly, the door creaked open again.
She shoved the notebook under her blanket and straightened just as a young nurse peeked inside. "Sorry," the girl said with a smile. "Didn't mean to startle you."
Eliana offered a polite smile in return. "It's fine."
"I'm just here to check your vitals."
The nurse moved around the bed, wrapping the cuff around Eliana's arm and inserting the thermometer under her tongue. As she worked, Eliana studied her badge: Maya.
She waited until Maya finished recording the results before speaking softly. "Maya… can I ask you something?"
"Of course," the nurse said, glancing up with a kind expression.
"Do you know if anyone else came to see me while I was unconscious? Family, friends?"
Maya hesitated. "I'm not supposed to share patient information like that…"
Eliana gave her a pleading look. "I just… I don't remember anything. If someone was here—anyone—I'd like to know. Please."
The nurse looked conflicted, then leaned in slightly. "It's mostly just been Mr. Blackwood."
Eliana's chest sank.
"Though," Maya added, her tone conspiratorial, "on the second day, a man came by. Tall, messy hair, kind of rugged. Security didn't let him in. Said it wasn't authorized."
Eliana's breath caught. "Did he leave a name?"
"I didn't hear one," Maya whispered. "But he seemed upset. He argued with the front desk before walking away."
That was something. A spark.
Someone had tried to reach her.
And Damon had made sure they didn't.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Maya smiled. "Your vitals look good. I think you're getting stronger."
The nurse left, and Eliana clutched the edge of her blanket with white knuckles.
Stronger.
She had to be.
---
That evening, the sky outside her window turned amber, casting golden streaks across the sterile white walls. Sunset had always felt romantic to her, even now when nothing else did. It whispered of endings—and beginnings.
Damon returned with two cups in hand. "Tea," he said simply, offering one.
She took it but didn't drink. "Thanks."
He sat beside her bed, sipping his own. "You've always liked chamomile."
"Did I?" she asked, watching him closely.
He nodded. "You used to say it helped you sleep."
She didn't remember saying that. She didn't remember saying anything.
"Did we live together?" she asked abruptly.
He blinked. "Of course."
"In your penthouse?"
He hesitated. Just for a second. "Yes."
"Can you describe it to me?"
Damon tilted his head. "The penthouse?"
She nodded. "If it was home, I want to remember."
There it was again—that flicker. The tiniest crack in his confidence. "Modern. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Black and white theme. Your studio overlooked the city."
"My studio?" she echoed.
He froze.
It only lasted a second—but that second told her everything.
He wasn't supposed to mention that.
She latched onto the word. "I had a studio?"
Damon recovered quickly. "Your reading nook. You called it a studio. Just a cozy space for yourself."
But it didn't feel like a reading nook. That word—studio—sounded like something bigger. Creative. Artistic. Purposeful.
Not cozy.
"What kind of books did I like?" she pressed.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Historical romance. And mystery. You always loved a good twist."
She studied him in silence.
Either he was telling the truth…
Or he'd rehearsed these answers.
And both were dangerous in their own way.
---
That night, Eliana couldn't sleep.
Her body ached, but it was her thoughts that kept her awake.
Someone had come to the hospital.
A man.
Someone Damon didn't want her to see.
And now there was a studio Damon had mentioned by mistake. Something he backtracked on immediately.
Why?
She pushed the blanket aside, ignoring the tug in her ribs, and moved to the small table by the window. She opened the notebook again and added two more lines:
Man at the hospital = important. Find out who.
Studio?? What was I really doing?
The questions were stacking higher than the answers.
But the pieces were coming together.
And something told her—once she put them all in place—Damon's perfect picture would start to crumble.