Few days later, she woke up to the steady beeping of machines, the harsh smell of antiseptic hitting her hard and flooding her senses. Her head felt heavy, and her eyes struggled to focus through the blurry haze of the hospital's bright lights. Nearby, nurses were talking quietly in hushed French. "She's stable, but the amnesia… it's bad," one of them said.
Elara's throat tightened as she struggled to sit, her arms and leg felt heavier than usual. A man stood by the window tall and sharp against the early morning light. Dark brown hair gleamed faintly, and when he turned, his piercing dark brown eyes locked onto hers— cold, yet shadowed with something deeper, a secret tenderness he buried fast.
He approached, his black suit spotless, his voice low, laced with restraint. "Elara," he said, her name a whisper of command and concealed care.
"You're awake. I'm Lucian Duval…..." The words hung heavy, hinting at more than he let on.
"Lucian?" she repeated, the name stirring a faint ripple in her blank mind. "I don't… I don't know who you are."
"Don't stress about that right now. Just know I'm your boss. You were my secretary and personal assistant before the crash. I got here as soon as I heard," he said.
"My boss? I work for you?" The words hit Elara weird, clashing with the fog in her head as she stared at Lucian, trying to read his face for something—anything that made sense.
A nurse, Marie, stepped in, her tone gentle. "Mademoiselle Moreau, you're at Hôpital Saint-Louis. How're you feeling now? A truck hit you—a hit-and-run. Your family's coming now." Before Elara could process this, the door flew open, and her so called family rushed inside, their faces pale and full of shock.
A woman with sharp features and a pricey designer coat—her stepmother, though Elara didn't remember her—spoke first, her voice filled with fake relief, barely hiding a cold undertone. "Elara, darling, thank God you're safe," she said, more for show than feeling.
Next to her stood a younger woman, her step sister Camille, eyes puffy and red from crying, gripping a bouquet of white roses. "We thought we'd lost you," Camille whispered, her voice breaking with real emotion.
Then a man pushed forward—Adrian Beaumont, his green eyes full of worry, his smile soft but shaky. He took Elara's hand softly, as if she might shatter. "Elara, it's me, Adrian," he said, voice heavy with relief. "I've been out of my mind since they called about the accident. Do you remember me? I'm your fiancé, love—just rest, I'm here now."
His fingers brushed her skin with care, but Elara felt only confusion, no spark of recognition. She glanced at Lucian, and something unspoken flashed in his eyes as he stared at Adrian. "She needs peace," Lucian snapped, his voice cold and cutting, shutting down the room. "Not a damn crowd."
Isabelle spun around, her composure cracking as she locked eyes with Lucian, her anger quite visible. "You. What are you doing here, Duval? How dare you act like you've got any right to be here? She's our daughter, not your damn toy! This happened all because of you."
Her voice dripped with hate, fueled by years of bad blood—the Moreaus, old-school fashion royalty, against the Duvals, new-money giants built by Lucian's dad, Charles, a legendary businessman, with his politician uncle pulling strings in the background.
Camille grabbed Elara's arm, protective. "Why is he the first one here?" she demanded, glaring at Lucian.
"There seems to be a grave misunderstanding here," Lucian Duval said as he walks towards Elara. "I'm not here because I want to be. I'm here because your daughter is utterly helpless—incapable of managing even the simplest tasks without her boss."
A smirk curled his lips, sharp and deliberate. "Perhaps she should have waited until after the accident to sign the contract, but alas, she didn't." He paused, letting the words sink in, his dark brown eyes glinting with a dangerous edge.
"Miss Elara Moreau signed a binding agreement with Duval Enterprises before her accident. It stipulates that if anything happens to her while she's my employee, I—and I alone am responsible for her care. It seems your so-called precious daughter doesn't value her family as much as you think."
He chuckled softly, a low, mocking sound that hid the truth: the contract was a fabrication, a safeguard he and Elara had made in secret to protect their hidden marriage.
Isabelle Moreau let out a loud, bitter laugh, her fancy composure cracking wide open. "A contract? That's absurd—a terrible joke, surely. She would never—"
Her words faltered as Lucian cut her off, his movements swift and precise. He pulled a folded document from his suit jacket, unfolding it with a flourish to reveal Elara's signature in bold ink. "See this?" he said, holding it up, his tone daring her to challenge him. "Anything else you'd like to say, Mrs. Isabelle Moreau? Elara will remain under my care until I deem her fully recovered and capable of returning to your family's estate."
Isabelle Moreau and Camille stood frozen, their faces pale with shock. How could Elara have done this? Isabelle's hands trembled, her mind racing with betrayal and fury. "How could she have pulled this off? This little shit was supposed to be married off to the Beaumonts as soon as possible—what the hell is happening? Did she just flip my own damn plan back on me?!"
Isabelle Moreau was lost in thought while Camille's grip on the bouquet of roses tightened, her knuckles white. "She… she signed away her rights to you?" She whispered, her voice breaking as she stared at Lucian, their family's rival, with a mix of disbelief and loathing.
Elara sat propped against the hospital bed, her hazel eyes wide watching the chaos unfold like a dramatic film she couldn't comprehend. Her head ached, her mind a fog of confusion. A contract? She didn't remember signing anything—not with Lucian, not with anyone. When had this happened? How? The voices around her blurred, each word a puzzle piece she couldn't fit together. She felt like a stranger in her own life, lost in a storm of secrets she couldn't grasp.
"What the hell is happening? Are you all just gonna bicker about who's who and what's what while I'm sitting here not even knowing who the f*ck you people are?!" Elara snapped, her own outburst catching her off guard, eyes wide with shock.
Lucian smirked, leaning in with a dry chuckle. "Looks like that truck didn't bash your skull hard enough to knock out your classy potty mouth princess, huh?."
Adrian who had been quiet all along spoke, his grip on Elara's hand tightened, his voice soft but firm. "I'll take care of her; she needs someone who loves her not a boss who comes up with a contract just when he knows his so-called employee remembers nothing."
Lucian's jaw ticked, but he held his tongue, his eyes betraying a storm he wouldn't unleash—not here, not with Adrian, his business rival, watching like a hawk.
The nurse, Marie intervened, her voice steady. "Mademoiselle Moreau's amnesia is severe—she remembers nothing. She'll need calm, close supervision to heal." Isabelle's lips pursed, her mind racing, what was she supposed to say when this idiot of a step daughter had already foolishly signed a contract that had left both her and their family reputation in a jeopardy.
While Isabelle Moreau was lost in thought again, Adrian shook his head. "The doctors said she needs constant care—I can give her that."
Camille bristled. "No, she stays with family, not—" She cut off, glaring at Lucian. Isabelle's gaze darted between them, then settled on Lucian with her quick-witted calculation. "Or perhaps… with you, Monsieur Duval," she said, her tone bitter as poison. "Since you're so invested in her recovery."
The room pulsed with tension—hatred, fear, and unspoken stakes.
Earlier, in the hall, they'd argued: the doctors had warned them that Elara's fragile state required stability, and Lucian had offered his estate, claiming it was best for her "work" with him. Isabelle had resisted, loathing the idea of their rival controlling her step daughter's fate: she was meant to be the only one controlling her but the logic gnawed at her—Elara's amnesia left her vulnerable, and Lucian's resources were unmatched. Adrian had protested, his love for Elara plain, but Camille had snapped, "He's not family!"
Now, facing Elara's blank stare, they relented, the decision a bitter pill.
He turned back to Isabelle Moreau, his smirk returning as he dropped a business card onto the small table beside Elara's bed.
"If you have any further objections, contact my lawyer," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "It'd be quite the spectacle to see your daughter's face plastered across the internet—amnesia-stricken, unable to recall her own family, or perhaps… a young heiress who signed a contract to escape a family that's always mistreated her." His smirk widened, a calculated taunt, as he straightened his suit and stepped back, leaving the room crackling with unspoken enmity.
Elara's head ached again, their voices a chaotic blur. Who are these people? Why did her mother despise Lucian? Why did Adrian's warmth feel so hollow?
As Marie ushered them out to finalize her care—Lucian's estate, they'd agreed, with gritted teeth—Elara sank back, lost. Her past was gone, but the present crackled with secrets and enmity, and that man with the icy eyes held a piece of her she couldn't yet reach.