Chapter 3:

The Wife I Don’t Remember

CALLUM:

Iris was gone.

Vanished.

One second she was in the manor, and the next… no trace. Her phone left charging on the nightstand. Her shoes neatly by the door. Her scent still in the sheets.

But no Iris.

I searched the estate for hours. Questioned staff. Checked the cameras.

Nothing.

As if the house itself had swallowed her whole.

And somehow, none of them seemed surprised.

Especially Lenora.

“She probably left, darling,” she said smoothly over her morning tea. “That girl was always fragile. It’s only a matter of time before she cracks.”

“She didn’t crack,” I snapped. “She was scared. Something happened.”

Lenora tilted her head. “Or maybe she finally realized what we all know—you were never truly hers.”

The words slithered into my skull and stayed there.

Because the truth was, Iris did feel like a stranger sometimes.

But so did everyone else.

And lately, I was starting to wonder if I was the one lying.

---

I sat in the garden, the place Iris said we used to sneak away to. A place I didn’t remember—but somehow felt familiar. Like the scent of a dream.

I opened the journal she gave me. My journal.

Most of it was scattered madness—sketches, words scratched over again and again, as if I was begging myself to remember something I couldn’t say aloud.

But then I turned the page.

And froze.

There, written in my own hand, was one line:

“If she returns, I won’t recognize her—but I’ll feel it in my blood.”

A chill gripped my spine.

Who was I talking about?

Seraphine?

A soft voice spoke behind me.

“Callum?”

I turned.

And saw her.

Long golden hair. Red lips. Dressed in ivory. The same color Iris wore the day she claimed to be my wife.

But this woman didn’t look broken. She didn’t look lost.

She looked like she owned the ground she walked on.

“Do you remember me?” she asked, voice trembling just enough to feel sincere.

I stood slowly. “You’re...”

She nodded. “Seraphine.”

A crack opened in my mind—like a dam I didn’t know was holding something back just burst.

Fire.

Screaming.

A hand slipping from mine.

I staggered.

She rushed forward, catching my arm. “Easy. You always got dizzy when your memories tried to force themselves through.”

Her touch was warm. Familiar. Terrifying.

“I thought you were dead,” I managed.

She smiled. “I was. In every way that mattered.”

Then her voice softened. “But I came back. For you.”

I pulled away. Something in me recoiled.

“I’m married,” I said.

Seraphine tilted her head. “To a liar.”

I froze.

“She isn’t who you think she is,” she whispered. “Iris manipulated you. She forged letters. Framed me. Staged her innocence.”

I shook my head. “No. That’s not what—”

“She poisoned you, Callum.” Seraphine’s voice cracked, perfectly timed. “She made you forget me. But I forgive you. I forgive you for forgetting your real wife.”

The blood drained from my face.

“No,” I said. “That can’t be true.”

Seraphine stepped forward, pulling something from her pocket.

A marriage certificate.

My signature.

Her name.

And a photo—me and Seraphine.

Wedding rings. A kiss. Fireworks in the background.

The date was six months before Iris and I supposedly met.

I stared at it, throat tightening.

And in that moment… I didn’t know who the hell I was married to.

IRIS:

Waking up felt like drowning in silk.

Everything was soft. The bed. The blankets. The pillow under my head. But it wasn’t comfort—it was control. A cage disguised as luxury.

I opened my eyes.

The room was unfamiliar. Lavish. Cold. Draped in red velvet curtains and gold fixtures. A chandelier flickered above, casting shadows across the ceiling like spider legs.

I tried to sit up.

My wrists burned.

Tied.

I looked down. Satin cords—looped in neat bows, just tight enough to bruise but not bleed. Of course. Seraphine never did anything messy.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Seraphine.

Wearing my face.

Hair darkened to match mine. Makeup softened to mimic my features. Even her perfume—the jasmine oil I used to blend myself—lingered on her skin.

She smiled like we were old friends. Or sisters.

“You’re awake.”

“What do you want?” I rasped.

“To correct a mistake,” she said simply. “You were never meant to be part of this story, Iris. You were background. A servant girl with a pretty face and clever tongue. But you got greedy. You thought love would save you.”

She leaned closer.

“It never does.”

I stared her down. “Callum knows me. You can pretend all you want, but he’ll never believe your act.”

“Oh, but he already is,” she said sweetly. “You’d be amazed what a forged certificate and a few planted memories can do to a broken mind. Especially when it’s trying to forget you.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“No,” I said. “He’s stronger than that.”

Her smile widened. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

She stood and walked toward the mirror.

“It’s not about him remembering you. It’s about making sure no one else does.”

And then she opened a drawer.

Inside were objects I hadn’t seen in months. My journals. My sketches. My wedding ring. Even my mother’s necklace—the one I lost the night of the crash.

“Where did you get these?” I demanded.

“I took them. Slowly. Quietly. Every piece of you Callum ever loved.”

She turned back to me, holding the necklace in her hand.

“Soon, no one will remember your name. Not Callum. Not this house. Not even you.”

She leaned in close, her voice like ice against my cheek.

“Because you’re not the first woman I’ve erased, Iris.”

She pulled away.

“And you won’t be the last.”

Then she stepped back, pressed a button on the wall, and the lights began to dim.

“Sleep tight. While you still exist.”

The door closed. The lock clicked. Darkness fell.

And I screamed—not in fear.

But in rage.

Because now I knew one thing for certain.

She hadn’t come back for love.

She’d come back to erase history.

And she was starting with me.

CALLUM:

The world felt quieter since Iris vanished.

Too quiet.

Even Lenora’s endless performances had dulled. The estate was holding its breath. And deep down, I knew why.

Because it wasn’t just Iris who’d disappeared.

The truth had, too.

I stared at the marriage certificate Seraphine gave me. Every detail looked real. Our signatures. The date. The smiling photo. But none of it felt real.

And nothing inside me reacted the way it should have.

I remembered her—Seraphine—but the memories didn’t bring warmth. Only dread. Smoke. Screams. Blood on my hands.

Then came the headaches. The blackouts. The dreams I couldn't explain.

I needed help.

Not from my family.

From someone who had nothing to lose.

Ezra Vale arrived two days later.

A former investigator with a past as messy as the files he carried. Rumors said he was kicked out of law enforcement for digging too deep into elite families—and surviving it.

The man was sharp, young, and completely unimpressed with the Thorne estate’s luxury.

“You want answers,” he said, tossing his coat onto a priceless armchair. “But I don’t work miracles. Only truth. And that usually hurts.”

I handed him the journal. My journal.

“Start here.”

He flipped through the pages, his brow furrowing. “You were paranoid before the accident.”

“I was being watched,” I said. “Someone was setting Iris up. I just don’t know who.”

Ezra gave me a long look. “What if it was you?”

I tensed.

“I mean before the crash,” he continued. “What if you uncovered something that made you a threat—to the people closest to you?”

“I think I already did.”

Ezra nodded once. “Then we dig.”

That night, I wandered the east wing alone. I wasn’t supposed to go there, but Iris had once said it was where the real secrets lived.

I passed the old chapel. The locked hallway. The covered mirror.

And then I saw her.

Not Seraphine.

Not Iris.

A girl, maybe seventeen, no more than skin and bones, standing barefoot at the end of the hall with a candle.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She tilted her head, eyes too old for her face.

“I’m Nina,” she said softly. “I clean the rooms no one’s supposed to enter.”

“Have you seen Iris?”

Her gaze flickered.

“She’s here,” Nina whispered. “She just can’t be seen. Not by you. Not yet.”

“What does that mean?”

She looked past me, like she was afraid to say too much.

Then she reached into her apron and handed me something small.

A pressed flower.

Lavender.

I knew it instantly.

Iris used to tuck them in my coat pockets before meetings.

“She left that for you,” Nina said. “So you’d know she’s still fighting.”

---

I returned to the study.

Ezra was already digging through archived blueprints of the estate.

“You know there’s an entire floor that doesn’t exist on paper?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He pointed. “There’s a sealed sublevel beneath the west wing. No stairs. No access. Not unless you know the passcode.”

I stood.

And suddenly, I remembered something.

A number. Four digits.

Etched in my mind like it had been burned there.

0721.

Ezra noticed my expression. “You remember something?”

I nodded.

“I think I just remembered where she’s being kept.”

We found the access panel behind an old wine rack in the cellar. Hidden keypad. Dustless handle.

I punched in the numbers: 0-7-2-1.

The lock clicked.

Metal gears shifted.

And the door swung open.

A staircase spiraled into blackness.

The air that spilled out was cold. Metallic. Wrong.

Ezra pulled out his flashlight. “You ready?”

No.

But I nodded anyway.

We started down the stairs, every step echoing like a countdown.

When we reached the bottom, there was a long corridor. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Walls lined in stone and steel. Soundproofed.

A red door waited at the end.

As I reached for it, my hand trembled.

And just before I touched the knob—

I heard Iris.

Screaming my name.