The Christmas Captive

Ava's POV

The first thing I feel is cold. Not the cold of winter air or snow, but the cold of fear, sharp and deep in my bones. My eyes won't open. My head pounds like something inside is trying to break free. Voices float around me, low and serious. Medical equipment beeps somewhere close. Everything smells like antiseptic and pine needles, a strange mix that makes no sense.

I force my eyes open. The light hurts. White ceiling. White walls. A Christmas tree in the corner, tall and perfect, covered in crystal ornaments that catch the light like frozen tears. Where am I?

"Ava." The voice is soft, careful, like speaking to someone who might break. "Ava, can you hear me?"

I turn my head, slow because moving hurts. A man sits beside my bed. He's beautiful in a way that feels dangerous, all sharp edges and dark hair and eyes the color of storm clouds. Those eyes watch me with such intensity that I want to look away but can't. Something about his face feels familiar, like a dream I can't quite remember.

"Who are you?" My voice comes out rough, broken.

He reaches for my hand. His touch is warm but I don't pull away fast enough. "I'm Damien. Your husband."

The words don't make sense. Husband. I'm married to this stranger. I search my mind for any memory of him, of us, of anything, but there's only fog and the pounding in my head. Panic rises in my chest, cold and sharp.

"I don't... I don't remember you." The admission feels like losing something precious, though I don't know what.

His face changes, pain flashing across those gray eyes before he hides it behind a careful smile. "The doctors said this might happen. You were in an accident, Ava. Two weeks ago. We were driving back from the upstate estate, picking out a Christmas tree. The roads were icy. You hit your head pretty badly."

He talks like he's telling a story he's practiced, smooth and easy. But something underneath doesn't feel right. I want to believe him because what choice do I have? Yet every instinct screams that I should be careful, that something is wrong with this perfect picture he's painting.

"How long have we been married?" I ask.

"Eighteen months. We met at a business conference in Boston. You were presenting on corporate strategy. I couldn't take my eyes off you." He smiles, and it's almost believable. Almost. "We fell in love fast. Got married on New Year's Eve last year."

The details sound real but they don't spark anything in my memory. It's like he's describing someone else's life. I pull my hand back from his, needing space to think. He lets me go but I see his jaw tighten, just for a second.

"What's the last thing you remember?" he asks.

I close my eyes, searching. There are pieces, scattered and broken. A small apartment with peeling paint. My mother's face, thin and tired. College lectures. Working late in an office. But nothing recent. Nothing about him or marriage or accidents.

"I don't know," I whisper. "Everything's... gone."

A doctor enters, a woman with kind eyes and a gentle manner. She checks my vitals, asks questions, explains traumatic amnesia and recovery time. She uses words like retrograde amnesia and neural pathways and rest. Damien stands close, listening to every word, his presence filling the room even when he's silent.

"The memories may come back slowly or all at once," Dr. Chen says. "Some might never return. We can't predict it. For now, you need rest and familiar surroundings. Mr. Cross has arranged for your care here at home."

Home. I look around the room again. This isn't a hospital. This is somewhere private, expensive, controlled. A hospital room built inside a penthouse. The Christmas tree in the corner suddenly looks less like decoration and more like a stage prop in someone else's play.

"I'd like to go to a regular hospital," I say.

Dr. Chen glances at Damien before answering. "Mr. Cross has brought in the best specialists. You'll have round-the-clock care here. Moving you could be risky right now."

She's kind but firm, and I realize the decision has already been made. By him. Not me.

After Dr. Chen leaves, Damien sits down again. He's closer this time, close enough that I can smell his cologne, expensive and woodsy. Close enough to see the exhaustion around his eyes, like he hasn't slept in days.

"I know this is frightening," he says quietly. "I can't imagine waking up and not remembering your own life. But I'm here. I'll help you remember. I'll tell you everything about us, show you pictures, take you to places we love. We'll get through this together."

His words should comfort me. Instead, they feel like chains wrapping around my chest, tight and suffocating. There's something in the way he looks at me, something that isn't just love or concern. It's possession. Like I'm something he owns and he's relieved to have me back under his control.

"I'm tired," I say, because I need him to leave. I need to be alone to think.

"Of course." He stands, leans down, and kisses my forehead. His lips are warm but I go cold all over. "Rest. I'll be just outside if you need anything."

When the door closed behind him, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The room is beautiful, filled with white roses and soft lights and Christmas magic. But it feels like a cage. A gilded, perfect cage.

I look at the Christmas tree again. Something about it bothers me. The ornaments are expensive, tasteful, and perfect. But they don't feel like mine. Nothing in this room feels like mine except the fear growing in my chest.

What kind of life did I have before the accident? Why can't I remember the man who claims to love me? And why does every cell in my body tell me that I'm not safe here, even though he's given me every reason to believe I am?

The questions circle in my mind as I close my eyes, exhaustion pulling me under. But just before sleep takes me, I hear something. Footsteps outside my door. Steady. Patient. Waiting.

He said he'd be just outside if I needed anything. But it doesn't sound like he's there for me. It sounds like he's there to make sure I don't leave.