Chapter 3

I don't sleep.

After leaving Damien's room, I go to the on-call quarters. Lie on a narrow bed that smells like bleach and exhaustion. Stare at the ceiling.

My hand still feels warm where he held it.

I tell myself it's just body heat. Nothing more.

But my treacherous brain keeps replaying his words. *Losing you feels like the worst thing that could happen.*

He doesn't know me. He's confused. The amnesia is making him believe Marcus's lie.

That's all this is.

At 6 AM, I give up on sleep. Shower in the staff bathroom. Change into spare scrubs I keep in my locker. Tie my hair back. Look at myself in the mirror.

My eyes are shadowed. I look older than twenty-nine.

Five years of holding everything together does that.

I grab coffee from the break room. Check my phone.

No more threatening messages. Just the usual collection calls and payment reminders.

Nothing from Marcus.

I head toward Damien's room. Tell myself I'm just checking on a patient.

The lie is easier than the truth.

When I open the door, he's awake. Sitting up slightly. Looking out the window at the sunrise.

He turns toward me. His face transforms.

"Emma."

The way he says my name makes something in my chest tighten.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"Better now that you're here." He gestures to the chair beside his bed. "Will you sit? Please?"

I sit. Keep professional distance. "Pain level?"

"Manageable. The medication helps." He studies my face. "You didn't sleep."

"How do you know?"

"The shadows under your eyes. The way you're holding your coffee like it's a lifeline. And you're in different scrubs than last night." He notices everything. "You stayed at the hospital. Because of me?"

"I had paperwork. And I wanted to check on you."

"Just me? Or all your patients?"

"All of them."

"Liar." But he smiles when he says it. "I'm special. Admit it."

"You have a head injury. You're all my special cases."

He laughs. Then winces. Hand moving to his ribs.

I stand immediately. "Don't laugh. You have bruised ribs. Deep breaths only."

"Yes, doctor." His eyes don't leave mine. "You're good at this. Taking care of people. It's not just your job. It's who you are."

I sit back down. Uncomfortable with how clearly he sees me.

"Tell me about the accident," I say. Change the subject. "What do you remember?"

His expression shifts. Becomes focused. "I was leaving the office. Late. Around 10 PM. I got in my car. Started driving." He pauses. Thinking. "The brakes failed. I tried to pump them. Nothing. I was heading toward an intersection. Couldn't stop."

"Do you remember the impact?"

"Glass. Metal. Then nothing. Then waking up here. With you." He reaches for my hand. I let him take it. Part of the role. That's all. "Marcus said someone cut my brake lines."

"That's what he told me."

"Do you know why someone would want me dead?"

The question is direct. Challenging.

I could lie. Should lie.

Instead, I meet his eyes. "I imagine you've made enemies. Successful men usually do."

"That's diplomatic." He squeezes my hand gently. "What would the non-diplomatic answer be?"

"That you've destroyed companies. Ruined lives. Made choices that benefited you at others' expense." I don't look away. "Corporate warfare creates casualties."

"Including you?"

My breath catches. "What?"

"You said 'ruined lives' like you know something about it. Like I've hurt you somehow." His thumb traces circles on my palm. Unconscious gesture. Intimate. "Have I? Before the accident? Did I do something to hurt you?"

This is dangerous territory.

I pull my hand back gently. "You should rest. The neurologist will be by soon."

"Don't." His voice is quiet but firm. "Don't deflect. I can handle the truth. Whatever it is."

"You have amnesia. Your memories are fragmented. You don't need stress right now."

"Emma." He says my name like a prayer. "I wake up with holes in my head. Gaps where important things should be. And the only thing I know for certain is that you matter. You're important. I feel it even though I can't remember why."

"That's the amnesia creating false patterns."

"Is it?" He leans forward slightly. Winces again but doesn't stop. "Or is it the only real thing in a head full of broken pieces?"

The door opens. Marcus walks in.

"Damien. Thank god." He stops when he sees us. The tension in the room. "Am I interrupting?"

"No." I stand quickly. "I was just checking vitals. Everything looks good. I'll let you two talk."

"Emma, wait—"

I'm already at the door. "Rest. Doctor's orders."

I escape into the hallway. Lean against the wall.

My heart is racing. My hands are shaking.

He sees too much. Asks too many questions.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

Marcus follows me out. Closes the door.

"He's sharp," I say before he speaks. "Even with the amnesia. He's going to figure this out."

"Not if we're careful." Marcus hands me a folder. "His schedule. Meetings he needs to attend. People he needs to see. You'll need to be with him. As his girlfriend. Starting today."

"He's still in the hospital."

"The board is coming here. In three hours. They want to assess his condition. Decide if he's fit to continue as CEO." Marcus's voice is urgent. "If they see him alone, confused, they'll vote to remove him. But if they see him with you, supported, stable..."

"Then he looks less vulnerable."

"Exactly."

I flip through the folder. Board member photos. Names. Titles. Brief descriptions.

I stop on one photo. A man in his sixties. Stern face. Gold ring with a red stone on his right hand.

"Who is this?"

"Richard Chen. Board member. My uncle, actually." Marcus's voice is careful. "Why?"

"I saw him at a hospital fundraiser once. There's something about him that bothered me. I couldn't place it then."

"Stay away from him." Marcus's tone sharpens. "He's been pushing for Damien to step down. Claims the company needs 'fresh leadership.'"

"And the timing of the accident?"

"Is suspicious. Yes." Marcus meets my eyes. "Which is why I need you. Not just to play a role. To be alert. Watch. Listen. If someone on that board tried to kill Damien, they might try again."

A chill runs down my spine. "You're asking me to be bait."

"I'm asking you to be smart. You're a doctor. You read people. You see things others miss." He steps closer. "And you have a reason to care beyond money now. You want to know why Damien's been watching you. That answer is in his world. His company. His files."

He's right. I hate that he's right.

"What time does the board arrive?"

"Ten AM. You'll need to look the part. I had clothes sent to the on-call room. Your size. Appropriate for a CEO's girlfriend."

I stare at him. "You assumed I'd say yes."

"No. I hoped." Marcus pulls out a key card. "Damien's penthouse. You'll need access. He'll expect you to be comfortable there. To know where things are."

"I can't just move into his apartment."

"You don't have to stay there. Just be familiar enough to be convincing." Marcus hands me the card. "There's a car waiting downstairs. It'll take you there and back. One hour. Learn the layout. Make it believable."

"This is insane."

"This is survival." Marcus's expression is grim. "For both of you. Someone wants Damien dead. And they know about you. That photo of your father wasn't random. You're connected to this whether you like it or not."

I take the key card. The weight of it feels significant.

"One hour."

"That's all you need."

I head toward the on-call room. Find the clothes Marcus mentioned. A designer dress. Shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. Jewelry that looks real.

I change. Look at myself in the mirror.

I don't recognize this person.

She looks expensive. Confident. Like she belongs in a billionaire's world.

Nothing like me.

I grab my phone. Check one more time for messages.

Nothing.

Maybe the threat was empty. Maybe I'm overreacting.

Then I remember the photo of my father. The way someone knew exactly where he was.

This is real. The danger is real.

And I just agreed to walk straight into it wearing designer heels and a lie.

I take the elevator to the parking garage. Find the car Marcus mentioned. Black. Sleek. Driver waiting.

"Dr. Lawson?" He opens the door.

I slide in. The interior smells like leather and money.

This is Damien's world. Luxury I can't imagine. Power I'll never have.

And for the next three days, I have to pretend I belong in it.

The car pulls away from the hospital. Heads toward downtown. Toward towers of glass and steel.

Toward a penthouse owned by a man who destroyed my family.

A man who's been watching me for five years.

A man who just told me I matter more than anything.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I almost don't look.

Almost.

It's a photo of me. Right now. In this car. Taken from another vehicle.

The message below: *Nice dress, Dr. Lawson. Playing the part already? Good girl. Keep going. Your father's life depends on your performance.*

I look out the window. Searching for the camera. The follower.

Nothing. Just traffic and morning commuters.

But someone is watching.

Someone knows exactly what I'm doing.

And they want me to keep doing it.

The question is: Are they helping Marcus?

Or are they playing a completely different game?

The car pulls up to a building that touches the sky. Doorman waiting.

"Mr. Cross's private elevator is on the left, Dr. Lawson."

They know who I am. They're expecting me.

Of course they are.

I step out of the car. Walk toward the building. Toward the life I'm about to step into.

And I wonder: Am I walking into a trap?

Or toward the only truth that matters?