Unspoken Memories

{Vanessa’s POV}

The silver tray rattled in my grip, the sound matching the rhythm of my heart.

“Take this to Vincent’s room,” Lady Sinclair had ordered, her tone leaving no space for protest. “Now.”

Every part of me wanted to beg her to send someone else. Anyone else. But her eyes were sharp, her patience thin, and I knew the consequences of disobedience.

So I walked. Step by step, the weight of the tray grew heavier, though it wasn’t the glass of wine or the plate of fruit that burdened me. It was his name. Vincent. The man I had spent ten years trying to forget and ten seconds falling apart in front of at the boutique.

The hallway stretched endlessly, my footsteps muffled against the thick rug. The air was heavy, filled with the faint scent of polished wood and roses from the vases that lined the corridor. The walls were covered in oil paintings of grim ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow me as I moved. Diana had whispered earlier that he was in the bathroom, and I clung to that fragile thread of hope. I would walk in, set the tray down, and leave like a shadow. Quiet. Unnoticed.

But fate was cruel.

The door creaked softly as I pushed it open, and my breath caught instantly. The room smelled like him—woodsy musk, sharp cologne, faint traces of smoke and whiskey. The air was warmer here, thick with the damp humidity of a recent shower. I moved quickly, setting the tray on the table, eager to escape.

Then I froze.

He wasn’t in the bathroom.

He was there.

Standing by the dresser, his skin still wet from the shower. A towel rested low on his hips, while drops of water slid down his chest, catching the light as they moved. His hair was damp, a few strands sticking to his forehead. When he pushed his fingers through it, the gesture was so effortless, so real, that my lungs forgot how to work.

Heat curled deep in my stomach, shameful and unstoppable. My eyes devoured him—his broad shoulders, the taut muscles of his arms, the defined lines of a man who had carved himself into steel. I remembered the boy he once was, fragile and broken. This man was something else. Untouchable.

And then his head turned. His eyes caught mine.

I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes locked on me, sharp as a blade. The silence between us grew heavy, filled with unspoken memories. My lips parted, but no words came. My knees felt weak, yet I couldn’t move. I just stood there, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he did. His voice was deeper now, smooth but cutting.

“Who are you?”

I swallowed hard, forcing sound past the lump in my throat. “I—I’m the new chef.”

His eyes stayed on me a beat too long before turning cold, shutting me out like a door slammed in my face. “Oh. Right. You’ve done your duty. You can go.”

The words cut deeper than I wanted them to. Like I was nothing. Like I’d never meant a damn thing in his world.

I turned toward the door, my chest burning, each step heavier than the last. But something inside me rebelled. I couldn’t. Not like this.

I stopped. My voice shook, but I forced it out.

“Vincent… don’t you recognize me?”

His eyes narrowed. “Recognize you?”

“It’s… Vanessa.”

The change was instant. His jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffened. I saw it—the flicker of memory, the ghost of the boy who had once begged me for an answer I was too young, too afraid to give.

Recognition. Pain. Anger.

But the mask returned as quickly as it slipped. His lips curved into something cruel.

“So?”

One word. A blade to the chest.

My throat burned. My eyes blurred. I wanted to scream, to shake him, to force him to admit it—admit he remembered, admit I wasn’t crazy.

Too close.

The heat of his body reached me, intoxicating, suffocating. His scent wrapped around me, familiar and overwhelming. His eyes dropped to my lips, mine to his, and the air between us felt heavy, charged, like it was waiting for something to happen.

I leaned in before I even realized it. His fingers twitched at his side, as if fighting the urge to touch me. My breath caught. One more second and everything would change.

And then—

“Vincent!”

Her voice shattered the moment.

Lisa.

She barged into the room, her heels clicking against the polished floor, her painted lips parted in mock surprise. Her eyes widened—not with suspicion, but with disdain.

Lisa’s gaze swept over me, curling with contempt. “What is this?” she spat. “Why is a servant wandering into your room like she owns the place?”

Her words were acid. I bowed my head quickly, my hair falling across my face to hide the tears burning my eyes.

“Get out,” Lisa snapped, her tone sharp, dismissive, final.

Vincent said nothing. His silence was worse than her venom.

I fled. My chest ached, my vision blurred, my heart cracking with every step I took away from him.

By the time I reached the kitchen, my hands shook so violently I nearly dropped a glass. The world spun, my lungs refused to fill, and all I could think was—

He remembered.

And he hated me for it.