Chapter 2: The Husband Behind the Door

She didn’t sleep that night.

Her body craved rest, but her mind wouldn’t allow it. The photo, the locked door, the soundless music, and Damon’s unreadable eyes swirled together in her thoughts like a storm she couldn’t escape.

She sat in the dark, watching the pale morning light slip through the curtains like a stranger sneaking into her room.

A soft knock came.

This time, the nurse didn’t enter. It was a younger woman in her early thirties, dressed in black with a silver pin on her collar. Her tone was clipped but polite.

“Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood. I’m Elise, the house assistant. Mr. Blackwood asked me to escort you to the dining hall. If you feel well enough to walk, that is.”

Bliss nodded slowly and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Elise didn’t offer to help her dress, and Bliss appreciated that small mercy. She moved stiffly toward the wardrobe, opened it, and paused.

Everything inside was in her size. Dresses, pantsuits, soft cashmere sweaters, silk undergarments. All new, all untouched. Like they’d been purchased in a hurry and some still had tags on them.

She chose a simple black knit dress and dressed in silence. Elise waited without speaking, eyes focused straight ahead like she was trained not to observe too much.

They walked through long halls in silence. The manor was larger than Bliss imagined. The ceilings were high, the floors gleamed with polish, and gold-framed portraits lined the walls. Heavy drapes muted the morning light. The walls seemed to breathe with the house, old and aware of every footstep taken within them.

A grand staircase wound down into the foyer. At the base, a towering bouquet of white lilies stood in a crystal vase.

She hated the scent of lilies. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

Elise led her to a pair of tall wooden doors and opened one.

“He’s waiting,” she said quietly, then left without another word.

Bliss stepped inside.

The dining hall was a long, narrow room lit by wall sconces and one grand chandelier. A fireplace crackled on one side. At the end of the table, Damon sat reading the paper, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

He looked up and immediately stood.

“Bliss.”

She paused in the doorway. Her fingers tightened around the notebook she now kept in her hand. She had written new questions, a list.

Damon rounded the table slowly, keeping his distance. He wasn’t dressed like the night before. Today he wore a soft grey sweater, dark pants, and no shoes. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a man who hadn’t quite remembered how to be one.

“Come. Sit,” he said gently.

She sat. Not beside him, not across from him, but at the midpoint of the table, keeping space between them. He didn’t move to close it.

“I had breakfast brought in,” he said. “They made your favorites.”

He gestured to a covered tray. She lifted the lid slowly.

Pancakes, raspberries, black coffee with cream on the side.

Favorites, were they?

She had no memory of liking any of it, but the smell made her stomach flutter with quiet comfort.

“You remembered this,” he said, watching her carefully. “You asked for this the morning after our wedding.”

She picked up the pen and notepad.

'When was that?'

He hesitated. “Five months ago.”

She gazed at him. Five months of marriage, yet not a single day lingered in her memory.

'Where did we get married?'

“A private ceremony at Tuscany. You wanted something quiet, far from your family.”

That struck a nerve. She couldn’t remember her family, but his words landed like a wound she had already felt before.

'Why is everything locked?'

Damon’s lips pressed into a firm line.

“Because some parts of this house are old, fragile. And others hold things that should be left alone.”

Not an answer…, not really.

She wrote again.

'Who is Ivana?'

His face shifted, just barely. He looked away, rubbed the corner of his jaw, then picked up his coffee cup and took a slow sip.

Bliss waited.

“Ivana was someone I lost,” he said at last. “Before you. It’s not important now.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

'She looks like me.'

His eyes flicked up to hers. “I know.”

'She was your wife?'

He didn’t answer right away.

“She was someone I thought I loved,” he said. “But it was different.”

Bliss didn’t know why the words hurt. She didn’t even know this man. And yet, a strange ache bloomed in her chest, quiet but deep.

She scribbled quickly.

'Do you still love her?'

Damon set the cup down and leaned back. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. But I know this… you are not her.”

The words struck like ice.

Relief washed over her, mixed with anger and a deeper confusion than ever before.

He stood then, restless. His hands went to the windows, pulling the heavy curtains open. Pale winter light flooded the room, making the dark walls shimmer slightly.

“You should rest more today,” he said. “But tomorrow, I’ll show you the grounds. Maybe it’ll help spark something.”

She didn’t answer. She looked down at her notebook.

'Why do I feel like I’m being watched?'

Damon turned back to her slowly.

“Because you are,” he said.

Her head snapped up.

“Not in the way you think and not by anyone dangerous.” His voice softened. “This house sees all. Mostly cameras, put in after the fire for protection.”

She picked up the pen again, her hand shaking.

'What fire?'

Now he looked truly pained. A quiet grief passed through his expression like a ghost drifting across his features.

“The accident,” he said. “It wasn’t just a crash. The car caught fire and you were pulled out with minutes to spare.”

By who? she wanted to ask. By him?

She was writing again when his voice stopped her.

“You were driving,” he said. “And someone ran you off the road. It was never declared criminal. But I know what I saw.”

She stared at him, stunned.

'You saw it happen?'

Damon nodded.

“I trailed you after our fight. You stormed out, and I followed. Then I saw the car veer off the road and burst into flames....”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked away, pain etched across his jaw.

She scribbled quickly.

'Why were we fighting?'

His silence lasted too long.

Finally, he said, “You wanted to leave me. And I couldn’t let you.”

The room tilted and her breath hitched.

He stepped closer now, slow and measured. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounds. I wasn’t trying to trap you. You were angry. You said the marriage felt like a cage. That you were still haunted by your past.”

He moved even closer. Close enough that she could smell his cologne, something dark and woodsy.

“I told you I would do anything to keep you safe. Even if that meant letting you go.”

She looked up into his eyes.

'And did you?'

His breath caught. “You didn’t give me the chance.”

The fireplace crackled behind them. Somewhere deep in the house, a bell chimed the hour.

Damon took a step back and smoothed his sleeves. “You should eat,” he said again, quieter now. “And rest.”

He turned and walked toward the door. But this time, just before leaving, he paused.

“I’ve lost too much in my life,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t make me lose you too. Not again.”

Then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Bliss stared at her food, untouched.

She still didn’t know if she believed him. Or if anything he said was real.

But the ache in his voice had felt real. The grief, the pain…, the way he looked at her like she was both familiar and unreachable.

She picked up her fork and took one

bite of the pancakes. It was warm, sweet and just enough butter with raspberries tart against the syrup.

It tasted like memory.

And suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she had ever truly forgotten.