Chapter 4

Abigail's POV 

I thought I was dead.

Truly, utterly, completely dead.

The moment my eyes fluttered open, I half-expected to see angels, or maybe demons, depending on how my life had turned out. But instead of clouds or fire, I was staring at a blinding white ceiling, the hum of a machine filling the air beside me. My chest rose and fell slowly, unsteady, and painfully.

Pain.

I could feel pain.

That didn’t make sense. Dead people weren’t supposed to feel pain, right?

I blinked twice, then again, my vision swimming before the brightness sharpened into clarity. I tried to sit up, but the sharp, searing ache in my leg stopped me. My breath caught, and I sank back down, staring at my trembling hands.

They were bandaged. My right wrist had an IV drip. My lips were cracked. Everything hurts.

A voice came from somewhere nearby and made me flinch.

“Can you hear me?”

My eyes darted toward the sound. A man in a white coat stood beside me, holding a clipboard, his gaze calm but concerned. I jerked back instinctively, heart pounding as panic clawed at my throat.

“Where am I?” I gasped, my voice raspy and broken.

“Easy now.” A woman appeared at my side, her hand gently gripping mine. “You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re in a hospital. You’ve been unconscious for a few days.”

Hospital?

I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of it, but everything was foggy. Flashes of light. Screeching tires. A gunshot. The smell of something burning.

Then nothing.

I tried to remember, but the more I reached for the memory, the farther it slipped away.

“What happened?” I whispered.

The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse before speaking softly. “You were in a car accident,” he said. “And you were also shot. It’s a miracle you survived.”

Shot?

The word echoed in my skull, each repetition heavier than the last.

“Who...” I swallowed hard. “Who shot me?”

The doctor hesitated. “We don’t know. You were found near the outskirts of a small town, close to a dumpsite. Everyone thought you were dead until Miss Rachael here brought you in.”

I turned toward the woman holding my hand. She was middle-aged, maybe in her late forties, and I couldn't recognize her.

“I found you by the river,” she said softly. “You were bleeding badly. I couldn’t just leave you there.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

The doctor sighed. “You sustained head trauma, likely a concussion and with the shock, your memory might have been affected. It’s not uncommon in cases like this. Sometimes, it returns with time.”

I looked down at my trembling hands again, my chest tightening. “So, I don’t even know who I am?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But you will.”

I pressed my lips together, trying to stay calm, but the panic bubbled up anyway. “There must be someone looking for me. My family, or…”

“We found no ID,” the nurse said gently. “No phone, nothing was on you to indicate who you are.”

Before I could speak again, the doctor smiled faintly, his tone softening. “I do have some good news, though.”

Good news? I stared at him blankly.

He nodded toward the monitor beside me. “The baby’s heart is strong. A fighter, just like its mother.”

My mind went blank. “Baby?” I stammered.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re pregnant. About three months along.”

My whole body went still.

My breath came fast, shallow. “That can’t be right. I...”

I didn’t even know who I was. How could I be pregnant?

The doctor gave me a reassuring smile. “You’ve both been through a lot. But you’re stable now. Rest. That’s what you need most.”

He patted my shoulder before stepping out of the room, leaving me staring after him in stunned silence.

I pressed a trembling hand to my stomach. Tears blurred my vision again.

Who was I? Who had I been? Who was the father of this child?

And why had someone tried to kill me?

Three months later…

The air in Rachael’s little cottage smelled like cinnamon and coffee. It was a humble place, just two bedrooms and a small porch but it had warmth. 

She’d taken me in after I was discharged from the hospital. Said I could stay until I remembered who I was.

“You need a name,” she’d told me one morning as she stirred porridge on the stove. “Something to call you until your memory comes back.”

I’d shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to say.

She’d smiled then, soft and certain. “Ivory,” she said. “Strong, beautiful, and rare. You remind me of that.”

And just like that, I became Ivory.

I’d never known kindness like hers. Rachael didn’t have children of her own, but she treated me as if I were her daughter. When nightmares woke me in the middle of the night she was there to hold me until the shaking stopped.

But the questions never stopped.

Every morning, I’d stare at my reflection, hoping a fragment of memory would return. Sometimes I’d touch the faint scar along my temple and wonder if it hid all the answers I needed.

No one in the small town knew me. They only remembered the day I was found, washed up by the river, wearing a torn white gown.

So I worked.

Anything to fill the void in my head.

I took jobs cleaning houses, scrubbing floors, running errands, anything that would keep my hands busy and my mind quiet.  

That evening, I came home exhausted, my legs aching from hours of mopping floors. The sun was setting behind the hills, casting golden light through the window as I stepped inside.

“Rachael?” I called. “I brought some fresh bread from Mrs. Lorna’s.”

No answer.

The house was quiet.

Something felt off.

I set down the basket and hurried toward her room. The moment I opened the door, my heart stopped.

Rachael was on the floor, motionless.

“Rachael!” I screamed, rushing to her side. My hands shook as I tried to lift her, my panic making me clumsy. “Please wake up!”

Her eyes fluttered weakly as I helped her onto the bed.

“Shh, I’m fine,” she whispered, her breath ragged. “Just dizzy.”

“You’re not fine!” I cried, tears spilling down my cheeks. “What happened? Should I call the doctor?”

She gave me a faint smile that broke my heart. “No need, sweetheart. I already know what’s wrong with me.”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes met mine as she spoke. “Stage three breast cancer,” she said quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

“Cancer?” My voice cracked. "We need to find a way to get you treatment, you have to start your chemo immediately."

She reached for my hand, squeezing it weakly. “It’s expensive, Ivory. I can’t afford it. And I’m old. You need to think of yourself and the baby now.”

“No,” I whispered fiercely, shaking my head. “You are the only family that I have!”

Her lips trembled into a faint smile. “Your family is out there, I'm sure of that,” she murmured.

That night, I sat by her bedside long after she’d fallen asleep. My mind was spinning, tears running down my face as I held her frail hand.

After several hours of not being able to sleep, I made the decision of going to look for the money for her treatment.

I stood on the side of the road, a small bag slung over my shoulder. 

It was the hardest decision I’d ever made, but I knew I couldn’t stay. I needed money, real money, enough for her treatment and for the baby that was growing inside me.

The bus ride was long and cold. When I finally reached the city, it was already night. Neon lights painted the wet pavement in streaks of color, and the air smelled of dirt and rain.

I stepped out of the taxi, clutching my bag tightly.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asked.

I hesitated. I had no destination.

“Anywhere,” I murmured. “Just drop me off somewhere safe.”

He nodded, and minutes later, the car stopped in front of a massive glass building. A tall sign near the entrance read: Hendrix Corporation.

It was late. The building was dark except for the faint glow from the upper floor. I figured I could find a quiet corner behind it to rest for the night.

I slipped through the alley and found a dry spot near the loading bay. Curling up against the wall, I wrapped my arms around my belly and tried to get comfortable.

But just as my eyes started to close, I heard two men having a conversation that picked my interest.

I pressed myself against the wall, straining to listen.

“Richardson,” the other man said nervously, “you can’t keep delaying this. As the mafia lord of this city, you ought to have an heir. You know the family does not compromise when it comes to this, they’ll question your leadership if this is delayed.”

“I know,” the first man snapped. “But I can’t trust any woman to just do this without creating a scandal.”

“Well, then find someone who is desperate enough,” his associate muttered. “Marry her, get an heir, and after a year, you walk away. A simple contract marriage. That’s all you need.”

My heart skipped a beat.

A contract marriage?

My mind spun. A man desperate for an heir. Money. A chance.

I didn’t realize I’d shifted closer until my elbow knocked against a loose metal pipe. The clatter echoed through the alley.

Both men turned sharply toward the sound.

“Who’s there?” the tall one barked, stepping forward.

I froze.

Before I could think, a flashlight beam hit my face, and I winced, raising a hand to shield my eyes.

He was towering over me now, I could see, for the first time, his face beneath the cowboy hat. It was roughly chiseled, stark, completely masculine. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I was just..” My voice shook. “I needed a place to stay for the night, but that's not important.... I overheard your conversation.”

His friend stepped forward. “What do you mean by that?”

“I will do it!” I said quickly, nodding my head. “I will be your wife for a year.”