Chapter 6

DAMIEN'S POV

I arrived at Pike Place Market thirty minutes early, which gave me too much time to panic.

The therapist Dr. Reeves had recommended said I needed to stop trying to control everything. That my need for control had probably destroyed my marriage. I was trying. But standing here waiting for Elara, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

James had called last night after I sent that final text. "You hired a PI? Are you insane?"

"I needed to know if she'd moved on."

"So you had her followed like some obsessed creep? Damien, this isn't you."

"How do you know? Maybe this is exactly who I am. Maybe I was always this controlling and possessive and—"

"Stop. You're spiraling again." James's voice had been firm. "Did you take your anxiety medication today?"

I had. It wasn't helping.

Now I stood near the fish market, watching tourists take photos, trying to look like I belonged here. Trying not to think about how Elara had agreed to meet me when she had every reason to refuse.

Then I saw her.

She wore jeans and a simple green sweater, her dark hair pulled back. No makeup that I could see. She looked tired. Because of me, probably.

"Hi." Her voice was cautious.

"Hi. Thank you for coming."

"I almost didn't." She studied my face like she was looking for something. "You look terrible."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"Join the club." She gestured toward the waterfront. "Walk with me?"

We walked in silence for a few minutes. The market was crowded with Saturday shoppers, the noise giving us an excuse not to talk. Finally, Elara spoke.

"James said you're watching old security footage. Reading emails."

"I needed to understand."

"And do you? Understand?"

"I understand that I was absent. Cold. That I prioritized work over you constantly. What I don't understand is why." I stopped walking, made myself look at her. "The man in those videos isn't someone I recognize. He's cruel without even realizing it."

"He was very good at not realizing things."

The bitterness in her voice hurt. "I found more letters. Not just the one I told you about. I wrote you letters for three years. Apologizing, promising to change. I never sent a single one."

"I know. I found one after the divorce. Hidden in your office drawer."

"Why didn't you ever say anything? If you knew I was struggling—"

"Because words without actions are meaningless, Damien." Her eyes flashed. "You wrote pretty letters while you were missing our anniversary dinners. While you were forgetting my birthday. While you were making me feel like I was invisible in my own marriage."

"I know."

"Do you? Because knowing and understanding are different things."

We found a bench overlooking the water. Elara sat down, and after a moment, I sat beside her, careful to leave space between us.

"Tell me about the worst day," I said quietly. "Not the divorce. Before that. The day you knew it was over."

She was quiet for so long I thought she wouldn't answer.

"It was our third anniversary," she finally said. "You were supposed to be home at seven. We had reservations at that Italian place I loved. I wore the blue dress you'd complimented once." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "You didn't come home. Didn't call. I waited until midnight. The restaurant called twice to see if I was still coming."

I felt sick.

"The next morning, you came home at six AM. You'd been at the office. You didn't even remember it was our anniversary." She looked at me. "Do you know what you said when I cried?"

I shook my head.

"You said 'Don't be so dramatic, Elara. It's just a dinner.' Like my feelings were an inconvenience."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. You've apologized a hundred times in the past two weeks. It doesn't change anything."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I don't know!" Her voice broke. "I don't know what I want. You show up here with no memory, acting like a different person, and I'm supposed to just—what? Forgive you? Forget three years of loneliness?"

"I'm not asking you to forget. I'm asking you to help me understand."

"Why should I?"

"Because maybe if I understand, I can make sure I never become that person again."

She laughed without humor. "You think this is about you becoming better? Damien, you destroyed me. I had to rebuild myself from nothing. And now you want me to relive all of it so you can feel better about your amnesia?"

"No. You're right. I'm being selfish again." I stood up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to come."

"Sit down."

I sat.

Elara wiped her eyes. "There were good moments. In the beginning. You'd bring me coffee in the morning exactly how I liked it. You remembered small things—that I hated cilantro, that I collected old books, that I wanted to open my own gallery someday."

"What changed?"

"Your mother." She said it simply. "Victoria hated me from day one. She thought I wasn't good enough for the Hartley name. She had someone else picked out for you—Vivian St. Claire. Old money, 'proper breeding,' all that bullshit."

This matched what James had told me. "My mother wouldn't sabotage my marriage."

"Wouldn't she?" Elara's laugh was bitter. "She called me 'the artist' like it was an insult. She scheduled family events without telling me. She'd call you during our date nights with 'emergencies' that were never emergencies."

"I should have stood up to her."

"Yes. You should have. But you never did. And eventually, I realized you cared more about her approval than my happiness."

The words hit like a punch. "Did I know? That I was choosing her over you?"

"I told you. Multiple times. You'd promise to set boundaries and then break them within a week." She turned to look at me. "The worst part wasn't even the neglect. It was the hope. Every time you promised to try, every time you wrote one of those letters, I'd think 'this time it'll be different.' It never was."

"I'm trying to be different now."

"Are you? Or are you just scared because you can't remember who you were?" Her eyes searched my face. "What happens when your memory comes back? Will you go right back to being that person?"

"I don't know. But I'm in therapy. I'm learning to recognize the patterns. I'm—"

"Trying. Yes. You've said that." She stood up. "I need to go."

"Wait. Can I ask you something?"

She paused.

"Did you love me? At the end?"

"I loved who you were in the beginning. I loved the man you could have been. But the man you became?" She shook her head. "I don't know if I loved him or just the memory of who he used to be."

"And now? The person I am now?"

"I don't know you now. This could all be an act. Or it could be temporary." She started walking away, then stopped and turned back. "My friend Maya wants to meet you."

"Your best friend? The one who—"

"Who hates you, yes. She'll be at my gallery Tuesday night. Seven PM. If you really want to understand what you did, talk to her. She saw everything I tried to hide."

"I'll be there."

She nodded once and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

I sat back down on the bench, my chest tight. This wasn't getting easier. Every conversation with Elara felt like pulling back layers of my own cruelty.

My phone buzzed. A text from Dr. Reeves, my therapist.

"How did the meeting go?"

I typed back: "I'm a worse person than I thought."

Her response came quickly: "That's progress. See you Monday."

I looked out at the water, wondering if understanding who I'd been would help me become who I needed to be. Or if I was already too broken to fix.