Novel & Cerita The Forgotten Baldacci Novel

Bald rushed in and took one look at Flynn, and his murderous intent flared up. However, when he noticed Fred and the bodyguards, he hesitated. "Who the hell are you? You dare come buy things here? Are you looking to die too?" Flynn immediately grabbed the statue on the table, ready to bash Bald's head in. But when Fred saw his sacred statue being lifted, he quickly demanded, "What's going on?" "What's going on? Who the hell are you? Don't you know this place is set for demolition? Get the hell out, or I'll beat you up too!"

Snow muffled everything. Even the sound of her breath. Mila Renard stepped out of the black car and into the cold silence that blanketed the Swiss Alps. The world was white and still, save for the distant groan of iron gates closing behind her. She did not flinch. She simply stood there, wrapped in her too-thin coat, clutching a worn leather suitcase that held less of her life than the hollow in her chest. Ahead, Halden Institute rose from the mountains like a glass-and-stone fortress — beautiful, modern, and merciless. It didn’t look like a clinic. It looked like a place where people disappeared.

She had the breaking — and then she had stillness. Four feet on cold stone. Still Aria. Still thinking. Still the person who had followed the pull east. But herself was different, and the difference was not subtraction. It was the specific quality of an addition she had not known was missing. The scent of the courtyard arrived in full — cold stone, frost, iron, and beneath it the estate itself, forty-three days of familiarity given back in a register she had never accessed before. The lavender. The archive's cold paper. The particular warmth, fifty feet north, that she had been not-naming for fifteen days.

"Don't." The room went still. They didn't understand. The Godfather's wife carrying his heir should have been enough to bring half the Family to its knees. But I knew better than anyone that if Damian found out now, this baby would be dragged into Serena's mess with me. In my last life, I had already let my child die once. "Seal today's record," I said, folding the report and slipping it into my bag. "No one hears about this except me." When I left the medical wing, Lucchese Manor was being dressed for a welcome party. White roses lined the halls, guards pinned silver wolf badges to their jackets, and every window in the main house blazed with light.

I stared at them leaving in disbelief, my face pale. Sure enough, it was not long before a hypnotist came to see me. Unfortunately for them, they underestimated how alert I was. The hypnosis failed. I only pretended to forget. For the next two years, I never brought it up again, and I never went looking for them either. Even after I was diagnosed with stomach cancer last year, I told no one. I kept it buried inside me. Only after my inheritance landed in my account did I make a post online to hire a family.

But then I released him, my hand dropping to my side. “You forget your place,” I said coldly. “And you forget yours,” Ricardo shot back, smoothing his coat. “The girl is the key. Without her, Valeria will never bend. And yet you keep circling instead of striking.” I dragged another pull from my cigarette, the smoke burning my lungs. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Try me.” I looked past him, at the empty road ahead. “When she held that child… when she glared at me with that fire in her eyes… I saw something. Not weakness. Not fear. But the same hunger that burns in me.”

No sound of traffic, no distant hum of technology, nothing but a stillness that made her feel like she was walking through a forgotten graveyard. She looked around, her heart beating faster as the realization sank in: this was **Nyxterra**. The place she had only heard whispered rumors about, a world where lost memories supposedly went to die. It was said that those who wandered too far into the shadows of Nyxterra rarely came back. The city itself was a labyrinth of half-formed structures, their outlines blurred as though they were fading in and out of existence, forgotten by time and memory.

Outside, the wind moved through the trees like an old friend returning. No longer a storm just soft and free. -------------------------------- Because some love stories aren’t made of grand beginnings… They’re made of the courage to begin again. And again. And always. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Author’s Note: By Ernest Brooks Dear beloved reader, When I first began writing The Billionaire’s Forgotten Wife, I thought I was telling a story about loss of memory, of identity, of trust. But as the chapters unfolded, I realized it wasn’t just about what had been forgotten… it was about what could be remembered, rebuilt,

Dominic’s POV The world fell apart in a few lines of code. It started with a call that didn’t go through. A wire transfer that bounced. The sterile screen of his banking app, usually a display of untouchable zeroes, now flashed an alert: ACCOUNT FROZEN. CONTACT YOUR BANK. He tried another account, then another. The same message, every single time. A cold, surgical execution. His father wasn’t just cutting him off; he was amputating him from the global financial system.

The God reclined on a long sofa, the body supported by the arching backs of golden hounds, opposite a line of shelves that took up the full length of the wall, broken only by a fireplace that was never used. "This belonged to Kisha." The butler's bald head cast an odd lustre as he bowed mournfully. "I fear the worst. And Ishaq is missing also, I do not know if it is linked." At the mention of Ishaq's name, Am-Heh looked up sharply. "What do you mean? Are you insinuating he has murdered her?" "No! Not at all!" The butler bowed lower. "That would be a preposterous supposition! I fear that he has fallen into the same hands that might have claimed her."