Chapter Seven - Aleta

Chapter Seven

Aleta

Wandering through rooms that should be mine feels like walking through someone else’s dream. Elio’s mansion stretches in every direction, filled with treasures I don’t remember collecting and furniture I supposedly helped choose. My bare feet make no sound on the marble as I explore hallways lined with paintings that mean nothing to me.

“Mrs. Castellano,” a woman with silver hair greets me from the kitchen doorway. “Would you like some tea? You always preferred chamomile in the afternoons.”

Always. The word throws me because I have no memory of these preferences she speaks about with such confidence. “Thank you, Maria.” Her name comes from nowhere, startling us both.

“You remember me?” Hope brightens her weathered face.

“I...” My hand flies to my forehead where pain still throbs. “Your name just appeared. Nothing else.”

Maria’s face falls, but she pats my shoulder gently. “Give it time, dear. These things take patience.”

Moving past her into what appears to be a sitting room, I notice details that feel important despite their meaninglessness. Books with Italian titles are scattered across side tables. A cashmere throw is draped over the sofa in a specific way. Fresh lilies are in a crystal vase—my favorite flowers, according to my husband.

Something flickers behind my eyes like lightning. Stone walls bathed in golden warmth. Silk sheets twisted around naked limbs. A man’s voice speaking Italian words that make my skin burn with remembered pleasure.

“Così bella, mia principessa.”

The memory hits with startling clarity. Strong hands gripping my thighs as I straddled him with my head thrown back in ecstasy. His mouth hot against my throat while I rode him with desperate hunger. The way he filled me so completely that I could barely breathe, barely think, barely exist beyond the exquisite friction between our bodies.

“Aleta?” Elio’s voice cuts through the vision, and I find him standing in the doorway with concern.

Heat floods my cheeks as the explicit images fade. “I remembered something. We were…together. Intimate.”

“Where?” His voice carries an edge I don’t understand.

“Stone walls, beautiful windows overlooking water. You were speaking Italian.” My pulse quickens as fragments resurface. “You called me your princess.”

Elio crosses the room and sits beside me on the sofa, and his presence is both comforting and electrifying. “Our villa in Positano. We spent our honeymoon there.”

“Honeymoon?” The word feels wrong somehow. “But the memory seemed…different. Forbidden.”

“Because it was.” His fingers find mine, where they intertwine with familiar ease. “We had to sneak away from your brother’s watchful eye. Even as newlyweds, Nico didn’t approve of our marriage.”

“Why would he object if we were already married?”

“Because he found out about us before the ceremony.” Elio’s thumb traces circles against my palm. “We had to elope in secret, then pretend to be strangers when we returned to New York.”

The explanation sounds reasonable, yet something nags at me. “That must have been difficult.”

“Worth every moment. You were magnificent that weekend. Insatiable.”

Another flash overwhelms me—my hands braced against the villa’s stone wall while Elio took me from behind, and his mouth at my ear whispering filthy Italian promises. The Mediterranean breeze cooled our sweat-slicked skin as my voice begged him for more, harder, deeper.

“God.” My thighs clench involuntarily as the memory dissolves. “Why can I remember our physical relationship but nothing else?”

“Dr. Moretti explained that emotional trauma affects different types of memory differently.” Elio’s hand moves to my thigh, and the contact sends electricity through my entire body. “Your body remembers what brought you pleasure.”

“Show me our bedroom.”

“Aleta—”

“Please. You said the one I’ve been sleeping in is a guest room. Maybe seeing where we slept together will trigger more memories.”

Elio studies my face for a long moment. “If you’re certain.”

He leads me up the marble staircase to double doors at the end of a long hallway. The master bedroom beyond takes my breath away—a king-sized bed with midnight blue silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and furniture that screams wealth and sophistication.

“We chose everything together,” Elio claims. “You insisted on silk sheets because you love how they feel against your skin.”

The bed calls to me like a magnet. When I sit on the edge, my hands automatically smooth over the expensive fabric, and another memory crashes over me.

This same colored sheets, but different surroundings. A hotel room with gauzy curtains and the sound of Italian voices drifting from the street below. Elio’s body covering mine with my legs wrapped around his waist as he moved inside me, drawing out every sensation until I was sobbing with need.

“Ti amo, Aleta. Ti amo così tanto.”

“You said you loved me.” My voice barely whispers. “In Italy. You told me you loved me so much.”

Elio’s expression grows tender. “I did. I do. More than my own life.”

“But something about the memory feels…wrong. Like we were hiding from more than just my brother.”

“We were hiding from everyone.” He sits beside me on the silk sheets, and the mattress dips under his weight. “Our families’ feud made our love dangerous. Every moment together was stolen.”

“Were we really married then? In Italy?”

“Not legally. We exchanged private vows on the beach at sunset. Just us and the waves.” His hand cups my cheek with devastating gentleness. “The legal ceremony came later, after we returned to New York.”

The story weaves together so perfectly that I want to believe it. Need to believe it. Yet something deep in my gut whispers that he’s mixing truth with lies, and I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“I wish I could remember our wedding.” Sadness creeps into my voice.

“You will.” Elio’s lips brush my forehead. “Give it time, mia bella. These memories are precious. They’ll return when you’re ready.”

His endearment triggers another flash—the same words spoken against my throat while his hands explored every inch of my body. The memory feels too real, too detailed to be fabricated.

But something still feels wrong, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong space.

Everything about this situation—my amnesia, the house that should be familiar, the marriage I can’t recall—seems like a dream or a story I read once and am trying to retell.

When the pieces fit together, I’ll know the truth. Until then, all I have are questions.

And Elio is the only one who can provide answers.