Chapter Four

Damon’s POV

The silence in our new apartment struck me harder than any confrontation ever could. The space felt empty, clinically sterile—luxurious, but devoid of warmth. Kiara and I had moved here after I asked Isabella to leave the marital home. But no amount of marble counters or polished floors made it feel like home.

“It’s a fresh start,” Kiara had said. “A clean slate.”

To me, it felt more like an echo chamber.

This wasn’t my sanctuary. It wasn’t hers either. It was just a placeholder—an existential waiting room until Isabella officially moved out, and Kiara fully settled in.

Kiara flitted around the place as if she owned it: rearranging books by color, switching my coffee ritual, switching furniture according to her preference. Everything she did screamed familiarity—too familiar, like she was trying to rewrite history. The apartment echoed with her laughter, her voice when she sang in the shower. But none of it reached me. It only underscored what had been lost.

One morning, as sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, she leaned across the kitchen island and said, “You need to stop looking so miserable.”

I met her in the reflection of the black granite countertop—jaw clenched, eyes empty.

Snapping my mouth shut, I brushed past her with a weak smile and headed for the study she had ‘suggested’ we turn the second bedroom into. This office wasn’t the one I’d built with Isabella. It didn’t hold our memories—just the faint scent of fresh paint and the echo of decisions I didn’t want to make.

Turning the knob, I stepped inside and froze.

On the desk lay a manila envelope. Next to it—my wedding ring, worn and tarnished.

The ring I’d given Isabella beneath a canopy of stars in my family’s estate garden. A ring that glimmered in candlelight while she whispered “Yes.” It had once represented everything pure and promising between us. Now, it sat there, flat and meaningless.

My fingers itched to drop it, to crush it. Instead, I picked it up. The cold metal in my palm transported me back—our first fight, her laughter, the way she’d blush when I’d call her “Bella.”

A memory engulfed me. Sitting on the grass under the night sky, weathered blanket beneath us, she traced the engraving on the ring and said, “I never thought someone like you would choose someone like me.” I smiled then. I felt invincible.

Now, invincibility felt impossible.

I tucked the ring into the drawer and slammed it shut. My heart pounded against my chest as though that simple click had shattered something else too.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

I didn’t want to answer. But a nagging curiosity—maybe guilt—made me pick it up.

“Hello?”

Silence. Then static.

Suddenly, a beep.

A voice—modulated, mechanical: “Check your email.” And it hung up.

My thumb hovered over the file as I opened my inbox.

Subject: You deserve to know

No sender address, no greeting. Just one attachment: a P*F.

The name at the top of the report made my heart hitch:

Isabella Grace Foster

Admission: Fire-related injury, eight years ago

Diagnosis: Smoke inhalation, third-degree burns, head trauma

Memory status: Partial retrograde amnesia; patient remembers name only

My mouth went dry.

Eight years ago? That would’ve been just before she and I met. I stared at the screen, feeling a vacuum open up beneath me.

She never told me. Never hinted. The Isabella I knew seemed cautious, reflective—guarded, maybe—but not broken.

What had happened to her?

My hand shook as I scrolled to the bottom. A few lines, scribbled in shaky red:

“You took her in… but do you even know who she is?”

“She forgot the fire. But the fire never forgot her.”

Dropped at the bottom was the word “burn”, highlighted.

The room spun.

The ring in my pocket, the apartment around me—it all felt false.

My breath caught. I stood there, email open, phone in one hand, vision spinning.

Kiara strolled in humming. She caught sight of my face and asked, “Everything okay?”

I shook my head, unable to form words.

Two hours later, I was pacing in the same apartment. The tea was untouched on the counter. Sun streaming through the windows felt mocking now. Everything was out of sync.

I thought of Isabella—her pain, her reticence, those silences in bed when she stared at the ceiling. Maybe—I’d mistaken her healing for something else.

Did I know her at all?

I pulled out my laptop. Searched medical records. Hospital names. Nothing. That P*F was anonymous and unofficial. But it felt too heavy to be random.

So I called an old friend from my charity board days—a doctor in neurology. I didn’t mention Isabella. Just gave the details. The doctor said records like those were private, classified. I might need a subpoena. Unless… a family member requested them.

I swallowed hard.

Was I creating a path to revisit everything?

I ended up at the marital home later that day—the first time since Isabella left. The house was dim, disrupted. Her toothbrush was strewn across the counter. A single white mug with my lipstick still drying around the rim.

Standing there, I realized how deeply her presence defined the space. Without her, the walls felt bare.

I lingered in the bedroom—our bedroom. Sunlight painted patterns across the quilted headboard. I touched the pillow she once slept on. I imagined the bed creaking under us during soft mornings and nights we spent tangled in dreams.

I left eventually, but I didn’t lock the door.

Back here, that evening, Kiara had invited me to a fundraiser. She was radiant, poised—but I couldn’t be. The ring burned in my pocket all night. My phone buzzed again: another unknown call. But I ignored it.

Sleep wasn’t possible. I lay in bed, watching the clock. The darkness of the apartment seemed to press against the window. The city lights taunted with their distance.

At 3 AM, I slipped out, drove to the cliffside overlook—our place. The wind tugged at my coat. Moist air carried salt from the distant harbor. Waves crashed against rocks. Below, a boat glowed yellow.

I closed my eyes and imagined Isabella’s face. I imagined her telling me about her past. About fire. About loss.

I imagined everything I never knew.

Morning found me back at the house. The door I’d left unlocked still creaked. I stepped inside, pushed open the drawer where I had slipped the ring.

And there it was.

The filed divorce papers. They were gone.

My pulse jolted. Who had taken them? Kiara? Isabella?

A rush of panic.

I grabbed my coat and left, heading to the café near our old place—where Isabella and I used to share coffees in the mornings, waiting for traffic lights.

She wasn’t there—not yet. But I stayed.

I ordered two espresso shots, no sugar.

And waited.

Two hours passed.

I debated going in, the weight of undone conversations pressing on me.

But then I saw her.

Isabella.

She moved slowly, mascara smudged in one corner. Her hair was tied back carelessly. She looked… other. Different. Not my Isabella—but hers.

My chest tightened.

She passed the table. Should I speak? Should I call her name?

I stayed silent.

She approached the counter to order. I held my breath.

She paused.

She turned slowly and our  eyes met.

Her eyes.

She looked at me with cautious shock—and something deeper. Recognition? Fear? Confusion?

Neither of us moved.

Then she got her coffee and turned away too quickly.

I wanted to run after her. Stop her. Ask a thousand questions.

I didn’t.

When I returned home, the ring was back on the desk—placed so neatly it looked deliberate. No note.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

Reluctantly, I pressed answer.

“Do you remember?” the voice said—same modulated tone.

My heart pounded.

“How could I forget?” I whispered into the void of the silent apartment.