The Proposal

Elena’s POV

My husband? When did I get married? The words echoed in my mind, absurd and impossible. I had no memory of a wedding, no memory of a husband. The man standing before me was a stranger, and yet he spoke with the confidence of someone who knew me intimately.

"You're not my husband," I said. "I don't remember getting married. I don't even remember you."

The man was quiet for a moment, his eyes studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He walked up to me, his movements slow and deliberate, and cupped my chin with his hands. His touch was firm but not rough, his fingers cool against my skin.

"Well, you'll have to find out if we are married or not," the man said, his voice low and cryptic.

Find out? What does he mean I have to find out? The words twisted in my mind, a riddle I couldn't solve.

Dr. Aston walked in with a file held tightly against his chest, his eyes darting nervously between the man and I. "I have her documents ready. She can be discharged now," Dr. Aston said, stretching the documents before the director, his hands shaking slightly.

The man released my chin, and I felt a strange sense of relief mixed with loss at the absence of his touch. "Get her ready and ensure she's delivered to the address I sent to your mail," he said, stepping out of the room without a backward glance.

"Who is he?" I spat out, turning to Dr. Aston with fire in my eyes.

"The reason you're still alive," Dr. Aston said, his voice matter-of-fact as he took the drip off my hand. "Get ready to be discharged. You'll be going to the Blackwoods mansion."

Blackwoods? The name sounds familiar. It tugged at something in the back of my mind, a distant echo I couldn't quite place.

"I'm not going anywhere!" I yelled, my hands gripping the frame of the bed as if it were the only thing anchoring me to reality.

"It wasn't a request," Dr. Aston said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You're to go to the Blackwoods mansion. It's what's best for you—for now."

My resolve withered under the weight of his words. "Can you at least tell me his name?" I asked, my voice softening.

"You'll find out about everything when you get to the Blackwoods mansion," Dr. Aston said, walking out of the room after, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

What am I going to do? I'll try to run away once I'm outside the hospital. The plan formed in my mind like a lifeline. I quickly got up and wore the clothes that were given to me, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fabrics.

I was shocked when I emptied the bag. It was filled with designers of different brands—Chanel, Dior, Gucci, Valentino. Was I going for a fashion parade? I could swear each outfit costs nothing less than a $100,000. I was familiar with these brands from the magazines I'd devoured during my breaks at work.

I put them on, the luxurious fabrics sliding against my skin like a second skin. I ran my hand through my hair, trying to tame the wild tangles. I know I just survived a life-versus-death situation, but at least, if I'm to dress in something as expensive as this, I need to look my best. It was a small act of defiance, a way to reclaim some control.

In a few minutes, I was walking down the hallway with Dr. Aston, who was escorting me to the car parked outside. My heart pounded with each step, my eyes scanning for an escape route.

"You don't have to worry about anything," Dr. Aston said, trying to make me feel better. "He won't harm you. He saved your life, so he would not definitely harm you. Whatever his intentions are, they aren't malicious."

"I understand," I said with a broad smile tattooed on my face, the kind of smile that didn't reach my eyes. Dr. Aston nodded, satisfied with my compliance.

Well… it turned out my plans was a failed mission on arrival. I walked out of the hospital only to see six hefty men who were to escort me in the car back to the mansion. What was I thinking? They stood like statues, their muscles straining against their suits, their eyes cold and watchful.

I halted for a moment, helpless. I couldn't run towards any direction, and there's no way I'm outrunning these men that looked like they just got back from World War II. My smart girl plan crumbled into dust.

I slowly walked into the limousine that was parked outside the hospital, the leather seats cool and plush beneath me. I felt uncomfortable, but there was nothing I could do. I felt so dumb. I guess my smart girl plan wasn't so smart after all.

The ride was quiet for the most part, but something felt off with the way the guards treated me. They were too polite, too deferential.

"Madam, do you want the air condition on, or should I wind down for fresh air?" the guard sitting at the left-hand side asked. His name tag read Derrick.

I was hesitant at first.

Did he just call me madam? Was I really the director's wife? Are we actually married? I ignored these questions, resting my head against the cool glass of the window.

A smooth country song started playing from the radio. It was too slow and smooth to pass as a country song—more like a lullaby wrapped in melancholy.

"Madam, do you like this? It's my boss's favorite. He plays it when he needs to clear his head," Derrick said, his voice gentle.

I still didn't say anything. I was quiet, more concerned with my fate that awaits me than what song was being played. However, as the ride continued, the song felt good. It felt as if it was caressing my brain with subtle touches, soothing the edges of my frayed nerves.

The limousine finally pulled into a parking lot center. I was confused at first. I thought we were at the wrong place, or maybe we were taking a break somewhere.

The Blackwoods mansion was too big to be a residential building. It was like those towering buildings owned by governmental international organizations—a monument to wealth and power.

The reality dawned on me when we came down from the car and the guards escorted me into the building. I was still in disbelief that this was actually a residential building—not until I stepped in and was left in awe. The foyer alone was larger than my entire apartment, with marble floors that gleamed like mirrors and a chandelier that cascaded light like a waterfall of diamonds.

I felt like my whole life was shrunk into a pile of garbage in front of real wealth. Everything I had ever known, everything I had ever worked for, seemed insignificant in the face of this opulence.

I was escorted to the living room by the housekeeper, Mrs. Margaret. She was a lovely woman from her appearance—old but well-fed, her uniform very clean and well-ironed. Her hair was properly combed and styled in a manner that no strand was left dangling. She exuded warmth and competence.

"Welcome, madam. The boss would be so happy to see you," Mrs. Margaret said, her face beaming with a contagious smile.

I was already sick of people calling me madam. Why was I even here in the first place? I groaned inwardly, forcing a polite nod. I walked by her side as she took me to the living room.

"Here, wait here. I'll go inform the boss that you're around," Mrs. Margaret said.

She walked out of the living room, gently shutting the door behind her. The echoing sound of the door kept on resounding till the room was filled with total silence.

I walked around, taking in the view of the expansive living room. It was wonderful and unbelievably gorgeous—a museum of art and wealth. Who was he, and why was he so rich? Is he a drug dealer? A criminal mastermind? The questions swirled in my mind.

I walked around, my hand tracing the curve of a white Qianlong Dynasty Vase. I recognized it from an article I had written years ago—it was worth over $83,000,000. I never thought I would get to see such a masterpiece in person, let alone touch it.

"Is that why you're here? You gold digger!" A voice came from behind, sharp and intrusive.

I spun around, my heart lurching. A woman stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face twisted with hatred and bitterness. One could tell that she was hateful and bitter just from the set of her jaw and the venom in her eyes.

I was dumbfounded. Who is she? Why does she think I'm a gold digger?

"Well, can't speak? Cat got your tongue? I expected it," the woman said, a devilish smile crawling on her face. "Well, I'm Victoria. Your worst nightmare."

Who the hell is Victoria?