Ava's POV
I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls. Morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, showing a view of Central Park covered in snow. The sight is beautiful enough to hurt. For a moment, I forget where I was. Then I remember. The accident. Amnesia. The stranger who says he's my husband.
Damien enters carrying a breakfast tray. He's dressed in a dark suit that probably costs more than a car, but his tie is loose and his hair slightly messy, like he tried to look casual but couldn't quite manage it. When he sees I'm awake, his face lights up.
"Good morning," he says softly. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I had the kitchen make a bit of everything."
The tray holds coffee, juice, pastries, fruit, and scrambled eggs. It's too much food for one person but I didnt say that. Instead, I sat up carefully, my head still aching but better than yesterday.
"Thank you," I say, because I was raised to be polite even when I'm terrified.
He sets the tray on my lap and sits in the chair beside the bed. Watching. Always watching. His gray eyes tracking every movement I make, like he was afraid I'll disappear if he looked a second away.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Confused,Scared." I replied honestly.
Something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or satisfaction that was vulnerable enough to admit it. "That's understandable. It must be overwhelming. But you're safe here, Ava. I promise you that."
Safe. He keeps using that word. But safety shouldn't feel like this, heavy and suffocating. I sip the coffee, needing something to do with my hands. It's perfect, exactly how I like it, which means he knows things about me that I don't know about myself. The thought made my skin crawl.
"Can I see pictures?" I ask. "Of us. Our wedding. Anything that might help me remember."
"Of course." He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a moment, then hands it to me. "We got married at a small ceremony in the Hamptons. Just close friends and family. You said you didn't want anything too big."
I look at the photo on the screen. It's me, but not me. The woman in the white dress was smiling, her arm linked with Damien's, looking at him like he hung the stars. She looked happy, in love. I didn't recognize her at all.
I scroll through more photos. Christmas markets, holding hands. Candlelit dinners. A trip to Paris. Every picture showed a perfect couple living a perfect life. But something about them felt staged, like we're actors in a movie rather than people in a marriage.
"You don't remember any of it," Damien says. It's not a question.
"No. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." But his voice was tight, controlled like he was angry ,hurt or both, hiding it behind soothing words.
I handed the phone back. "Tell me about us. How we met. What was l like before."
He leans back, and for the first time since I woke up, he looks uncertain. Like he was choosing his words carefully, deciding what story to tell me. "You were brilliant, you worked in corporate strategy, consulting for major companies. We met when you were hired to analyze a potential merger I was considering. You saw problems in the deal that no one else caught. You saved me from making a costly mistake."
"And we fell in love?"
"I fell first," he admits. "You were cautious. You said you didn't date clients. But I was persistent." His smile almost boyish, charming in a way that would work on most people. "I sent flowers every day for a month. Finally, you agreed to have dinner with me. After that, we were inseparable."
It sounds romantic,sounded perfect.like something from a movie, not reality. But I didn't have any other version to compare it to, so I nodded like I believed him.
"What about my family?" I ask. "Do I have parents? Siblings?"
His face changed, sympathy replacing the careful charm. "Your mother passed away five years ago. Cancer. You don't have any siblings. No extended family that you're close to. You've always been... independent. Self-sufficient. I think that's part of what drew me to you."
Alone, then. No one asked about my past except the man who controls my present. The realization settles over me like a cold blanket.
"I'd like to take a shower," I say. "Get out of bed for a while."
"Let me help you." He sprang to his feet immediately, reaching for me.
"I can manage." The words came out sharper than I intended.
He paused, hands hovering. "You hit your head pretty hard, Ava. You might get dizzy. I don't want you to fall."
There was logic in what he said, but I still didn't want his hands on me. Still weak and unsteady, I let him help me stand. His grip was firm, supporting my weight as we walked to the bathroom. It was massive, all marble and gold fixtures, with a shower big enough for four people. Everything screamed wealth and luxury.
"I'll be right outside," he said. "Call if you need anything."
When the door closed, I locked it immediately. The click was small but satisfying. I look at myself in the mirror. I was thinner than I expected, with dark circles under my eyes and a healing cut near my hairline. Whoever I was before, she's not looking back at me now. This woman looks haunted.
The shower helped, hot water washing away some of the fear. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, putting off the moment when I have to go back out there and face him. Face this life I don't remember but somehow lived.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel, Damien was gone. A woman stood in the bedroom instead, young and nervous-looking, holding fresh clothes. She jumped when she saw me.
"Sorry, ma'am. Mr. Cross asked me to bring you something comfortable to wear. I'm Claire. I work here."
Ma'am. The formality felt wrong. "Thank you, Claire. You can call me Ava."
She looked uncomfortable, like I've broken some rule. "Mr. Cross prefers we maintain professional boundaries."
Of course he does. "How long have you worked here?" I ask, pulling on the soft sweater and leggings she brought.
"Three months, ma'am."
"Do you like it?"
The question surprises her. "It's a good job. Mr. Cross pays well."
She's not answering what I actually asked. I will try a different approach. "Was I... was I nice to you? Before the accident?"
Claire's face shifts, something like sadness crossing it. "You were always kind. You remembered my name. Asked about my classes. You're in college, right?"
"Night school," she says quietly. "But you shouldn't tire yourself with questions. Mr. Cross said you need to rest."
Mr. Cross said. Everything in this house seems to revolve around what Mr. Cross says. I wonder what happens when people don't follow his instructions.
"Where is he now?" I ask.
"In his study. He has a video call with Tokyo. But he said to tell you he'll be back soon and you shouldn't leave your room until he returns."
The phrasing bothers me. Shouldn't leave, or can't leave. As if I have a choice but we all know I won't make the wrong one.
"Thank you, Claire," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
She hurries out, clearly relieved to escape. I'm alone again, in this beautiful room that feels more like a prison with every passing minute. I walked to the windows, looking out at the city below. People were going about their daily lives, free and unaware. While I'm trapped in a penthouse with a man I barely know, playing a role in a marriage I can't remember.
The door opens. Damien enters, his phone in his hand, his expression distracted until he sees me standing by the window. Then his face softens.
"You look better," he says. "More like yourself."
"Do I?" The question comes out hollow.
He crosses the room, standing close but not touching. "I know this is hard. I know you're scared and confused. But we'll get through this, Ava. I'll take care of you. I'll protect you. You don't have to worry about anything."
His words should be comforting. Instead, they sounded like a threat wrapped in silk. Because being taken care of means being controlled. Being protected means being watched. And not having to worry about anything means not being allowed to make my own decisions.
"I want my phone," I say suddenly. "My laptop. My things."
"Of course. I'll have them brought up. Though your phone was damaged in the accident. I've ordered you a new one. It should arrive today."
Convenient. A new phone means no history, no contacts, no way to reach anyone from my old life. If there even is anyone.
"What about friends?" I ask. "Do I have friends who might want to visit?"
"A few, but the doctor advised limited visitors while you recover. Too much stimulation could be overwhelming." He reaches out, tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear. The gesture is tender but I had to fight not to flinch. "For now, it's just you and me. We have time to rebuild what we had. To fall in love all over again."
His words settle over me like a sentence. Just you and me. No one else. No escape.
And in that moment, standing in the winter sunlight with this beautiful, terrifying man watching me like I'm the most precious thing in the world, I realize something that made my blood run cold.
He's not afraid I won't remember.
He's afraid I will...