🩷THE MAN WHO WEARS HIS FACE🩷

Chapter Two

He was still in the living room when I came back inside, one leg crossed over the other, a book in his lap he couldn’t possibly care about.

I paused in the doorway.

He glanced up, eyes crinkling with a smile. “Thought I’d find you out back. You’ve always liked the garden when you’re restless.”

My fingers clenched slightly on the doorknob. I used to sit out there—yes—but never when Liam was home. It was my escape. My little breath of air before the storm of his presence sucked it all out of the room. He used to mock the garden, say it was a waste of money, a distraction from more important things.

And yet here he was, knowing things the real Liam never noticed.

He patted the couch beside him. “Sit with me.”

I moved stiffly across the room and lowered myself into the cushions, careful to keep a cushion’s worth of distance between us.

“You’re reading,” I murmured, eyeing the book in his lap. The Bell Jar.

He followed my gaze and lifted the book. “It was in your stack. Thought I’d see what you liked about it.”

“I didn’t think you liked fiction,” I said before I could stop myself.

His smile didn’t falter. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I do now.”

I turned away, studying the fireplace. “People don’t change that fast.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I was in a coma for three weeks, Celeste. Do you know what that does to your brain? How it rewires things?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust myself to.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “a close call makes you see everything clearer. I remember waking up and thinking, I have to do better. Be better. For you.”

I wanted to believe him. God help me, a part of me still wanted to believe that some twist of fate had turned my husband into a good man.

But belief is dangerous. It makes you put down your guard. Makes you ignore the voices inside you screaming this isn’t right.

And Jordan’s voice, low and cutting, rang in my head like a bell:

“If this guy isn’t Liam… then who the hell is he?”

His voice fades into the background, like water running behind a closed door.

I’m not here anymore.

---

I’m in the ICU. The antiseptic sting of bleach and latex gloves clings to the air. Machines beep steadily. The room is cold, but I remember sweating through my blouse from the sheer pressure of it all—three weeks of waiting, not knowing if I wanted him to live or not.

And then, just like that, his fingers twitched.

“Mrs. Monroe,” the nurse had said gently, “he’s coming out of it. You should talk to him. Familiar voices help.”

I’d stood by his bedside, watching his lashes flicker. Watching the heart monitor tick faster. His chest rose and fell, more labored now.

Then his eyes opened.

I expected hate. Contempt. I expected the sharp-edged smirk he always wore, even in sleep, the one that said he could see every secret you were too afraid to name.

Instead, his expression was… soft.

“Baby?” he rasped.

My breath hitched.

Liam never called me that.

Not once.

He called me Celeste. Or woman when he was mad. Or princess when he was mocking me.

But baby? No. That word had warmth. Familiarity. Affection.

It didn’t belong in his mouth.

“I’m here,” I’d whispered, because I didn’t know what else to say.

His gaze swept over my face, as if memorizing me for the first time. Like I was new to him.

His eyes were still Liam’s eyes—gray with flecks of green—but they didn’t hold the weight of everything he’d done. No cruelty. No suspicion. Just… awe.

“Thought I lost you,” he’d murmured. “I’m so damn glad you’re here.”

The nurse had smiled. I had smiled.

But inside me, a cold certainty had settled.

Something wasn’t right.

This wasn’t my husband.

And the worst part?

In that moment, I felt safe for the first time in years.

---

Back in the present, I blink, pulled from the memory by a warm hand brushing my knee.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Sorry. Just tired.”

He watches me for a long moment, then rises and sets the book aside. “You should rest. I’ll make dinner tonight. That chicken thing you like—what’s it called? The lemon one.”

I stare at him.

Lemon garlic rosemary chicken. My comfort meal. The one I make when I’m overwhelmed.

Liam hated it. Called it “rabbit food.”

I never once cooked it for him.

So how the hell does this man know?

“Sure,” I say slowly. “That sounds perfect.”

He leaves the room, and I’m left staring at the cushion where he sat, heart thudding wildly.

Something is happening. Something I can’t explain.

And I’m not sure who’s playing who anymore.

He’s already halfway to the kitchen when I force myself to speak again.

“Wait.”

He turns, his brow arched. “Something wrong?”

I swallow. “I… I don’t know. I guess I’m still getting used to everything. To you. To us.”

He crosses back into the living room, eyes softer now. “I get it. It’s a lot. I feel like I’m meeting you all over again. It’s strange, right?”

I nod, though I’m not sure I’m agreeing with him. It is strange, but it’s not just because of the amnesia. It’s because of the way he looks at me. Like I’m the only thing that matters. Like he’s studying my every movement, my every breath, trying to carve out a space for himself in my life that wasn’t there before.

His hand rests lightly on the arm of the couch. “Is it hard, being with me now? After all that’s happened?”

It takes everything in me not to flinch. Instead, I draw a slow breath. “You mean, after the coma?”

He looks down, nodding once, like he’s acknowledging something painful. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s harder—remembering things I didn’t know, or the things I did know that feel like a lie now.”

“Lies?”

He looks up, eyes a little more vulnerable than I’ve seen them. “When I woke up, I thought maybe… maybe everything I was before was just the result of not knowing better. Maybe the person I was… wasn’t the person I wanted to be.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. He sounds so earnest, so real, but I can’t help the nagging voice in my mind.

The voice that says, This isn’t him.

“I don’t understand,” I say quietly, voice trembling. “I don’t… I don’t know who you are anymore.”

He steps closer, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. His presence fills the room, and I can almost feel the heat of his gaze on my skin.

“I’m the man who loves you,” he says simply, as if it’s the only truth he knows. “I’m the man who wants to spend the rest of his life making up for the things I’ve done.”

I blink, and suddenly, I’m so close to him that I can feel the rhythm of his breath. The tension between us is thick, thick enough that I could reach out and touch him, feel the warmth of his body against mine.

For a split second, I wonder if I should.

But then my mind shatters the moment with a simple thought:

Liam never would have said that.

Liam never would have wanted to make up for anything.

I pull back slightly, gripping the edge of the couch to steady myself. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” His voice softens, just a little. “Let me show you who I am? What I can be?”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. His silence presses on me, heavier than anything he could say. Then, finally, he speaks again, his voice quiet, but there’s a sharpness to it now—a hint of the man I used to know.

“I wish you’d let me be the man I’m trying to be, Celeste. The man who’s here for you. The one who doesn’t want to hurt you.”

I meet his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I almost believe him.

But then the memory hits me like a punch.

The last time I saw Liam like this—his eyes wide with innocence, like he didn’t know what he’d done—was the night before the accident. The night before everything changed.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t understand how this is tearing me apart.”

His gaze softens again, though there’s a glint of confusion in his eyes. “I know it’s hard. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you.”

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block out the ache in my chest. “I don’t want you to leave. I just… I need time.”

And for the first time since the accident, since everything changed, I see the real doubt flicker in his eyes. Just for a second, before it’s buried again beneath that smile.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Take all the time you need.”

He turns, heading toward the kitchen once more, leaving me with nothing but the emptiness between us.

And the question that keeps echoing in my mind: If this isn’t him… who is he?

---

The chicken was in the oven. He'd even lit candles.

I’d barely touched my plate.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. Let me show you who I am.

The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want to let him. The problem was that part of me already was—in stolen moments, in split seconds of lowered guard. And if he was playing me, if this was all a trick, then I was halfway to letting it work.

Which was why I needed Jordan.

I stepped out onto the front porch when the sun dipped low enough to dye the sky in orange and bruised violet. A car slowed at the curb—a nondescript, dusty silver sedan—and then rolled past without stopping. But three minutes later, I heard the faintest knock on the back kitchen door.

I opened it to find Jordan crouched low, wearing a black hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low. His backpack was slung across one shoulder.

“You could’ve come through the front like a normal person,” I whispered.

He gave me a dry look. “And let your maybe-husband see me? Not a chance.”

I stepped back, letting him in.

Inside, the kitchen was warm with the scent of roasted garlic and lemon. Jordan wrinkled his nose as he passed the oven.

“He cooks now? What is this, a N*****x reboot of you guys?”

“Keep your voice down,” I snapped, glancing nervously toward the hallway.

“He’s watching some British show in the den,” I added quietly. “With subtitles.”

Jordan nodded, his expression turning all business. “Good. Let’s make this fast.”

He set his backpack down and started pulling out equipment. Small cameras. A listening device. Motion alerts. I watched him move with swift, practiced hands. No wasted effort. No emotion.

I used to think he was reckless. Now I understood he was simply precise.

“You’re sure you can do this without being seen?”

He arched a brow. “You forget who you’re talking to?”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

He stopped, looking at me. “You okay?”

The question hit me harder than it should have. No one asked me that. Not really. Not like that.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

Jordan reached into the cabinet beneath the sink, fiddled with something, and then glanced back up at me. “He touch you yet?”

I tensed. “What kind of question—”

“Not like that,” he said quickly. “I mean… does he act like Liam did? The way he stood too close? The way he... controlled you without even speaking?”

I swallowed. “No. It’s not like that.”

His jaw tightened. “Then he’s either playing a long game—or he’s not who we think he is.”

“Or both,” I whispered.

Jordan finished planting the camera inside the cabinet, facing the kitchen and angled toward the den. “I’ll install two more in the bedroom and hallway. Keep him out of here for five.”

I nodded. “He likes music. I’ll ask him to play piano.”

Jordan paused. “Liam never touched the piano.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But he does now.”

Jordan didn’t respond, but his eyes darkened with something that looked like dread.

---

Five minutes later, the cameras were live.

Jordan stood by the back door again, his hoodie pulled up, backpack slung over one shoulder. “I’ll tap into everything from my end. Audio, video, even motion. If he starts making calls, opening secret drawers, or doing… anything out of character, I’ll know.”

I hesitated. “And if he’s just… being good?”

Jordan didn’t smile. “Then we wait. And we keep you safe. Either way.”

I opened the door, just a crack. “Thank you.”

He hesitated a moment, then his voice softened. “If things get weird, really weird—call me. Don’t give him the benefit of the doubt. You’ve done that enough.”

He slipped out into the night, and I closed the door gently behind him.

Inside, the soft hum of a piano floated from the den. Gentle notes, unsure at first, like he was trying to remember how music was supposed to feel.

I stood in the doorway, listening.

A man who looked like Liam was playing piano.

Cooking dinner.

Smiling at me like I was a dream.

And I had no idea who he was.