Desmond Arlington was still yapping with his buddy in the hospital room.
Their voices dropped, but whatever they were whispering cracked them up hard enough to make me feel sick.
He sounded hyped. "Get ready! Tonight's gonna be insane!"
"Relax, Desmond. I'll find you some fun, easy girls to really light it up. But aren't you worried Rhea's gonna bounce if you keep playing like this?"
His laugh hit like a slap. "Bounce? Nah. She's obsessed. She would wait a decade and still come running."
Footsteps echoed out the door.
I wiped my tears fast and faked like I'd just walked in.
His friend stepped out, flashing a grin. "Rhea, hey. It sucks that Desmond's still messed up—dude barely remembers us. But don't stress, I'm cooking something up tonight to help jog his memory."
I gave a tight smile.
God, I was an idiot.
I already knew exactly what he meant by "cooking something up."
Back then, I used to be in the dark, smiling and thanking him like he was doing me a favor.
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
"Come on, Rhea, don't be all formal. He's inside with a headache. Go hang while I get things ready for tonight."
I walked in.
Desmond scowled, voice dripping with irritation. "You again? Didn't I say I don't know you?
"Look, I get it—I'm hot, girls throw themselves at me. But you? Thinking we were gonna get married? Get real.
"I played along, hit all your little memory spots, and guess what? Still nothing. Why are you so stuck on me?"
I bit down hard on my lip. I already knew the truth, but hearing it still cut deep.
He used to go toe-to-toe with his family for me. Now, with the wedding right there? He flipped.
I handed him the report. "Just your results. You're good. Discharge-ready."
His eyes lit up. "For real?"
The only reason he was still here was because I pushed for it—wanted him monitored in case the "amnesia" turned into something real.
But now? I knew the deal. He was never sick. No memory loss. Hell, maybe even the whole attack was a setup.
Just a stunt to stall the wedding.
Fine. Let him have his freedom.
"It's legit. You're fine. No use hogging a hospital bed."
Desmond jumped out of bed, rummaging through his stuff.
"Where's my navy jacket?"
My chest tightened.
That jacket? I bought it for him.
He was so pumped to bounce, he didn't even realize he slipped.
"You don't know me, but you remember the jacket I gave you?"
I locked eyes with him, hoping something would click.
His hand froze mid-reach. Then—boom. He grabbed his head and dropped, yelling, "It hurts! My head—!"
The doctor rushed in, got him calm after a few minutes.
Desmond shot daggers at me. "Get her out! She's making it worse! She's not helping—she's torturing me!"
I let out a dry laugh and closed my eyes for a beat.
Then I walked out without looking back.
The doctor followed. "Ms. Wayne, he's still unstable. We need to avoid overstimulation."
Message received.
I nodded. "No worries, Doc. He won't be 'stimulated' by me again."
