Chapter One: The Man Who Calls Me Wife
The fluorescent lights buzzed above her, humming like a warning she couldn't quite understand.
Elara blinked up at the ceiling, cold, sterile, unfamiliar. Her mind was fogged, like a mirror wiped just enough to show her own reflection, but not clearly. She lay in a narrow hospital bed, wrapped in a thin blanket. Her wrists ached faintly, red marks where restraints had once been. A dull throbbing pulsed at the base of her skull.
She sat up slowly, her arms trembling under her own weight.
Where am I?
More importantly: Who am I?
The door creaked open.
A man entered, tall, sharply dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. He walked with precision, like every step had been measured in advance. His face was clean-shaven, handsome in a cold, calculating way. He moved to the chair beside her bed and smiled.
Good morning, he said.
Elara stared at him. Something in her gut tightened..
I… I don't know who you are, she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
That's alright, he said calmly. It's normal after what you've been through. Your body's healing, but your mind needs time.
She shifted away from him instinctively.
He noticed.
I'm Damian Wolfe, he said. Your husband.
Her blood ran cold.
Husband? she echoed.
He nodded, reaching for her hand, but she flinched before his fingers made contact.
His smile faltered for a moment, just long enough for her to see something lurking behind it. Control. Practice.
I know this is hard, he said. You had an accident, bad car crash. You've been here for a few months now. They kept you sedated for your own safety.
Her throat tightened. I don't remember anything.
That's okay, he said. I'll help you remember. One day at a time.
But something inside her screamed: Don't believe him.
She didn't know who she was. But she knew what fear felt like, and her body recognized him as a threat.
Over the next few days, she tried to piece herself together. But there was nothing. No childhood memories. No birthdays. No parents. Just brief, flickering images: a flash of red hair in the sunlight, a pair of hands covered in ink, the sound of waves crashing against a dock.
She began to notice things.
How the staff always looked at Damian before answering her questions.
How her room had no mirrors. No phone. No windows that opened.
How she was never allowed out alone.
He brought flowers. Books. Watched her read them like he was measuring her reactions. Always watching.
And then there were the pills.
Every night, without fail, a nurse brought her two white tablets and a cup of water. Elara pretended to swallow them. Waited until the cameras turned. Spit them out in the sink. She didn't know what they were giving her, but she didn't trust it.
One night, a different nurse came in.
Younger. Nervous. Hands trembling as she checked the monitors.
She leaned in, her voice barely audible.
You're not safe here.
Elara's breath caught. What?
The nurse glanced at the security camera and lowered her voice further. He's not who he says he is. None of this is.
Then who am I? Elara whispered. Why won't anyone tell me?
The nurse shook her head. They're watching. I can't say more. But if you want to survive, leave. Tonight.
Before Elara could ask anything else, the nurse backed away and exited the room as the door handle turned again.
Damian stepped in, carrying a bouquet of white lilies.
Everything alright? he asked, his tone casual.
The nurse forced a smile. Just finishing her vitals.
Good. He placed the flowers on the side table. Because my wife is coming home tomorrow.
Elara froze.
Tomorrow?
He walked to her bedside and took her hand, ignoring how stiff she went. It's time we got back to real life.
She said nothing. Just nodded, barely.
When he left, the nurse returned, her urgency doubled.
Get dressed," she said. Now.
She tossed a bundle onto the bed, scrubs, sneakers, a thin hoodie. There's a maintenance exit on the lower level. Swipe this, she handed over a keycard, and go. Don't stop for anyone. Don't look back.
Why are you helping me? Elara asked.
The nurse's eyes filled with something that looked like guilt. Because I didn't help the last one. And she didn't make it.
That was all Elara needed to hear.
Her hands trembled as she peeled off the hospital gown and slipped into the clothes. Her body felt weak, but adrenaline made her faster. She tied her hair back, grabbed the keycard, and slipped into the hallway.
The corridors were quiet. The night shift had started. Dim lights lined the walls. Machines beeped from behind closed doors.
She kept to the shadows.
The stairwell loomed at the end of the hall. She reached for the handle,
A voice rang out behind her.
Where do you think you're going?
Elara turned.
Damian stood at the other end of the corridor, his silhouette framed by fluorescent light. His voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed with something sharp.
You weren't planning to leave me, were you?
She said nothing.
He stepped forward. Come back, sweetheart. You're not well enough yet.
She shook her head slowly.
I remember enough, she said.
And then she ran.
Down the stairs, two at a time. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart thundered.
At the bottom, she swiped the card.
The door clicked.
She threw it open and bolted into the night. The cold slapped her skin, but she didn't stop.
She didn't know who she was.
But she knew she wasn't his.