Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Mirror

The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air like a warning as Juliette walked down the stark white hallway of St. Regis Private Hospital. The marble floors glinted under the dim lighting, cold and glossy - like the past she thought she’d buried.

She had used a fake name - “Clara Winslow”. It had taken two favors and a quiet bribe to a nurse at the front desk to find out which room Damon Thorne was in. It wasn’t a plan; it was instinct, driven by a chaos of emotions she hadn’t let surface in five years.

She told herself she came to make sure he was really alive. To find closure. To see for herself that the man who’d shattered her world had survived a crash he never should’ve been in.

But none of those explanations quieted the storm in her chest as she stood outside his room. Her hand hovered over the doorknob. She could walk away. No one would know except Mason.

Her son had stared at the TV screen, pointed at Damon, and whispered with the eerie calm of a child touched by something he couldn’t explain: “Mommy… I know that man.”

Juliette clenched her jaw and pushed the door open.

The room was quiet. A monitor beeped steadily. A tray of untouched food sat on the table. And there propped against pillows in the hospital bed — was the man who had once made her believe in forever, then left her to choke on its ashes.

Damon Thorne.

He looked like a ghost of the man she remembered. Paler, thinner, his signature sharpness dulled by pain and medication. But he was still devastatingly handsome. The kind of man whose presence pulled the air out of the room.

He turned his head as the door clicked.

For a moment, his eyes were blank.

Then they locked on hers.

Juliette's breath hitched.

He blinked, slowly. Like he wasn’t sure if she was real.

And then, something flickered in his gaze. Not recognition. Not memory.

But something deeper.

Something cellular.

Something that made her heart pound against her ribs.

“Do I… do I know you?” he asked, voice low and rough like gravel scraped over velvet.

Juliette’s throat went dry. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again. Lies burned on her tongue, but the truth — God, the truth would ignite them both.

She forced a smile. “No. I……I’m just part of the staff doing follow-ups”.

It was weak. Barely believable.

But Damon didn’t question it. His gaze didn’t shift.

“I’ve seen you,” he murmured.

Juliette’s heart thudded louder.

“In my sleep,” he continued. “Or maybe… dreams. But you looked sad. And beautiful. And I couldn’t… reach you.”

He looked away then, frustration creasing his brow. “Everything’s so fucking blurry.”

Juliette stepped back instinctively. This was a mistake. She had no right being here, standing at the edge of a wound that hadn't fully scabbed.

But before she could turn to leave, Damon lifted his hand slowly and it brushed hers.

Just the tips of their fingers touched. Barely skin against skin.

Yet the jolt that passed between them was undeniable.

Juliette gasped softly.

Damon’s eyes snapped back to hers.

His fingers curled slowly, almost unconsciously, around hers.

And then, with a confusion that sounded more like awe, he whispered, “Then why do you feel at home?”

Juliette froze. Every breath caught in her throat.

Her entire body betrayed her — wanting to collapse into that one sentence. That one look. That one memory his heart hadn't forgotten, even if his mind had erased it.

“I… should go,” she said abruptly, pulling her hand free.

“Wait,” Damon said, suddenly alert. “What’s your name?”

Juliette shook her head, her voice flat with practiced cold. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be back.”

She turned, forcing her legs to carry her toward the door. Her hand was on the handle when he said, “Please. Don’t leave.”

Something cracked in her then. Just a small fracture. But it spread fast through the bones of her resolve.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She walked out without looking back.

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Outside the room, Juliette leaned against the wall, heart slamming in her chest.

She had lied. And she’d almost let herself stay.

She had felt him. His pull. The instinct that once tethered her soul to his.

But that Damon was gone.

And this Damon, the one behind the door – was both stranger and ghost. He didn’t remember her. Didn’t remember the promises he’d made. Or the child he’d left behind.

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Back in the room, Damon stared at the door long after it closed.

He didn’t understand why his chest felt hollow like something had been pulled out of him. He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where she was from.

But her eyes…

He had dreamed of those eyes.

And in his dream, she had cried. Silent, beautiful tears rolled down her cheek like she was grieving something long gone.

And he had whispered her name.

But now…

He couldn’t remember what it was.

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Later that night, Juliette sat on the edge of Mason’s bed, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He was already asleep, one arm wrapped around his favorite stuffed bear.

But he stirred and murmured, “Mommy…”

She leaned in. “Yes, baby?”

“That man in the box…” Mason yawned. “He smells like the woods.”

Juliette blinked. “What?”

“I had a dream. He carried me through the woods when I was a baby. And you were crying. But I wasn’t scared. He was warm.”

Juliette’s blood turned to ice.

Mason rolled over and drifted back into dreams.

Juliette sat frozen, staring at her son.

He was five years old.

He had never seen Damon Thorne in person.

And yet… his memory — his dream — matched a night Juliette never spoke of.

The night she had fled the Thorne estate after Damon disappeared. The night she had cried in the forest behind the house, cradling a newborn in her arms, unsure where to go.

She had felt someone watching them. She had thought it was grief playing tricks on her.

But what if it wasn’t?

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Across the city, Celeste Whitmore stood at the window of her penthouse apartment, swirling a glass of wine.

“Is he awake?” she asked the man behind her.

“Yes,” the bodyguard said. “But something strange happened. A woman visited him. He didn’t recognize her.”

Celeste smiled tightly. “And?”

“He asked about her. Said she felt familiar.”

Celeste’s jaw tightened. “Find out who she is. I don’t care what it takes.”

The man hesitated. “You think she knows something?”

“I think,” Celeste said, eyes glinting, “Damon’s memory is a time bomb. And I don’t like surprises.”

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The next morning, Damon sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling. A nurse had just left his breakfast on the tray table.

He hadn’t touched it.

Instead, he pulled the hospital blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Something was clawing inside his head. A sense of urgency.

A name hovered on the edge of his mind like smoke he couldn’t grasp.

And then he said it aloud, to no one:

“…Juliette.”