I didn't sleep that night.
Even after he left the room, after the lights dimmed and silence filled the air like fog, my body remained tense, every muscle on edge. The ring was still on the dresser, glinting faintly in the moonlight. I stared at it from the bed, the same way one might watch a predator pacing behind glass.
That flash—was it real?
Or was it just my mind filling in blanks with borrowed dreams?
I turned on my side and stared at the window. From up here, the city looked like it belonged to someone else. Lights danced across high-rises, traffic flowed like a distant pulse, and the stars above Veloria City were barely visible—overpowered by the ambition burning below them.
The man sleeping in the other room claimed to love me.
But love shouldn't feel like a cage lined with silk sheets.
The next morning, he was already gone.
A housekeeper brought in breakfast—eggs, croissants, a cup of coffee so perfectly poured it looked like a painting. She smiled at me politely but offered no answers. I asked her name.
"Miss, I'm not allowed to speak much," she said, bowing slightly. "But you can call me Clara."
She left the tray on the glass table and disappeared like a ghost. I poked at the food but didn't eat.
Something inside me stirred.
A spark. A whisper. A challenge.
I needed to find out who I was. Not what he told me. Not what the ring claimed. The truth—not wrapped in velvet or whispered with soft lies.
So I started to look.
First the bedroom—spotless. Then the walk-in closet, filled with designer pieces, most of them still tagged. A few of the dresses looked worn. One had a faint wine stain near the hem. I pressed it to my face.
No memory. Just fabric. Silence.
The bathroom cabinet held the usual skincare and makeup products. High-end brands, minimal scent. Nothing familiar.
Then, behind the mirror, I noticed a small gap.
My fingers found the edge and pulled.
A hidden shelf.
Inside: A USB flash drive.
It was black and unmarked. No labels. No hints.
I slipped it into the pocket of my robe, pulse thudding.
My instincts screamed: don't let him see it.
That night, I waited until the penthouse was quiet again. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant hum of the city outside. I crept into the home office—dark wood, sleek monitors, a safe I couldn't crack.
But the laptop was open.
No password.
Almost like he wanted me to find something.
Or test me.
I plugged in the flash drive.
At first, nothing.
Then a folder appeared: "E."
My fingers hovered over the mouse. I clicked.
Hundreds of files. Photos, notes, surveillance footage.
And videos.
I opened the first one.
It was me.
No, not quite me.
It was a woman with my face. Same eyes, same hair. But she smiled wider, stood taller. She was laughing in a car with him—my supposed husband—her hand resting easily on his chest. They looked happy.
Too happy.
A different file.
This one… she was crying.
Screaming.
"Let me go!" she shrieked.
He grabbed her wrists. "I can't. You're not safe out there."
She sobbed. "You're the one I'm not safe from."
I shut the laptop.
Heart pounding. Breath shallow.
What the hell was this?
Had I truly forgotten… or had I escaped?
I didn't hear the door open.
But I felt him behind me.
"You shouldn't be in here."
His voice was calm. Dangerous.
I turned slowly.
"Who is she?" I asked, nodding at the laptop.
He looked at the screen. Then back at me.
"She's you," he said. "Before."
"Before what?"
"Before they took you. Before they erased you. Before you ran."
He stepped closer. I stepped back.
"I don't believe you."
"You don't have to," he said. "Your heart remembers what your mind doesn't."
I closed the laptop. "Then tell me the truth. All of it. Or I swear I'll find it myself."
He looked at me long and hard. And then—
"I didn't want you to remember this way."
He walked to the desk, pulled out a folder, and handed it to me.
Inside: photos, reports, crime scene documentation.
A name at the top: Emery Laurent.
Another: Liana Caine. My sister.
Dead.
Shot twice. Execution-style.
My fingers trembled.
"I found you covered in blood," he said. "You kept saying her name. You were broken. They said it was trauma. That your memory was protecting you."
Tears filled my eyes. "I don't remember a sister."
"She was the reason you ran. You thought someone was coming for you next."
"Was I right?"
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
I backed away, folder clutched to my chest.
This place, this man… this wasn't safety.
It was survival.
And now, I remembered enough to know—
I'd have to save myself.