Chapter 2: The Man in the Shadows

The night passed as if it wished to torment her, neither offering sleep nor allowing full wakefulness. Bliss drifted between dreams that dissolved into nothing and a reality she did not understand. The ceiling above her remained the same in both states, pale and distant, as though she were lying at the bottom of a well. The silence pressed against her ears until she wondered if she had lost the ability to hear along with her voice, but then the groan of wood settling in the beams reminded her that the world had not gone completely mute.

When morning light seeped through the curtains, it arrived reluctantly, gray and filtered, the kind of light that carried no warmth. Bliss stirred, her limbs heavy, her mind still slow from exhaustion. She sat up with effort, dragging the sheet with her as if it could shield her from the strangeness of the room. Every detail remained too deliberate. The curtains, thick and velvet, blocked most of the view beyond, but the faint outline of tall windows hinted at a world outside she was not permitted to see.

Her bare feet touched the rug, the softness swallowing her toes, and she shivered despite the fabric’s warmth. Rising unsteadily, she crossed the room toward the vanity. The mirror caught her again. The woman who stared back carried the same lost expression as the night before, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in the effort to speak. Bliss leaned closer, searching for memory in her reflection, but none came. She pressed her fingertips against the glass as though it might ripple and reveal another face hidden beneath.

A sound broke the quiet: a knock, firm but soft enough to feel rehearsed. She turned sharply, clutching the sheet tighter around herself. The door opened before she could move, and the man stepped inside with the same composed presence as the night before.

Damon. The name whispered in her mind without explanation, as if it had been left for her on a slip of paper folded into her thoughts. His clothing was different now, less formal but no less deliberate. A dark shirt fitted neatly across his chest, sleeves rolled precisely at the forearms. He carried no visible weapon, yet his authority clung to him as naturally as breath.

“You should not be standing,” he said, his eyes sweeping over her. There was no harshness in his tone, but the weight of command was unmistakable.

Bliss stayed silent, her throat tight with the futility of trying to speak. Her eyes locked on his, demanding what she could not ask aloud.

“I know this is confusing,” he continued, stepping further into the room. “Your memory will take time to return. You have endured more than you realize. But you are safe now.”

Safe. The word returned like an unwanted echo. She shook her head slightly, her brows narrowing. Lifting one hand, she pointed at her throat and then spread her fingers, showing the void where her voice should be. Her silence became an accusation.

He regarded her with a gaze that softened only slightly. “Your voice has not been stolen. The doctors warned that it would take time. It will return to you. Do not fear.”

Doctors. Recovery. Each word felt like another curtain pulled across a stage, hiding the truth instead of revealing it. She pressed her palm against her chest, then pointed toward him, her question as clear as if it had been spoken. Who are you to me?

Something shifted in his eyes. For a moment, composure gave way to something raw. “You are Bliss,” he said firmly. “My bride.”

The word struck like cold water. Bride. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her head shook, the denial instinctive, though she could not remember enough to be certain. Still, the thought of being someone’s bride, of belonging to a man she could not recall, made her chest tighten with dread.

“You do not remember,” he said quietly, his jaw tense. “It will return. Until then, I will keep you safe.”

He moved closer, each step measured. His hand rose slowly, reaching for her hair, and he brushed a stray strand back with a tenderness that seemed too practiced. She stiffened, every muscle warning against the familiarity. The gesture was intimate, yet it pressed on her unease.

He noticed her reaction. His hand lowered again, his expression unreadable. “You must rest,” he said. “When you are stronger, everything will make sense.”

She shook her head again, more forcefully this time. Her silence was no longer uncertainty but defiance.

He held her gaze, and his voice hardened. “There are parts of this house you must avoid. The West Wing is closed. Do not wander there. Promise me.”

Her heart pounded at the sudden change in tone. The words were not advice but a command, edged with warning. She gave no nod, only stared back, unwilling to promise what she did not understand.

Damon’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he said nothing more. He turned, walking toward the door, his steps as controlled as everything else about him. His hand paused on the handle, and for a brief second she thought he might turn back, reveal something real, but he only said, “Food will be brought to you. Eat, regain your strength.”

The door closed softly behind him, the click of the latch far louder in the silence than it should have been.

Bliss stood frozen, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Bride. West Wing. Trust me. The words circled her mind like vultures. She turned back to the mirror. The woman there looked at her with accusation in her eyes. Bride. Prisoner. Stranger.

Her gaze drifted past the mirror to the edge of the vanity. A small drawer sat slightly ajar. She pulled it open, half expecting it to be empty, but inside lay a dried flower pressed between brittle sheets of paper. Its petals were crumbling, yet the faintest trace of fragrance lingered. She touched it carefully, and for an instant an image flashed in her mind: a bouquet in her hands, voices clapping around her, a ring of light. The memory vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the ache of absence.

A sound outside the door caught her attention. Not Damon’s steps, but lighter ones. She moved closer, pressing her ear against the wood. Faint murmurs passed beyond, words too soft to catch. Servants, perhaps. Watching, listening.

Her hand lingered on the handle, temptation pulling at her. If she opened the door, she might glimpse the house beyond, might step into the halls Damon wished to keep from her. Yet fear held her still. This was his world, not hers. She was a guest or a prisoner, and she could not yet tell which.

Stepping back, she returned to the vanity. She stared once more at her reflection, lifting her chin as though to challenge the woman staring back. She pressed her hand against the mirror, feeling the cool surface ground her.

She could not speak, but she could decide.

Her silence was not obedience.

And no matter what Damon forbade, she would discover what waited in the West Wing.