The room had fallen into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning. Eliana's fingers toyed with the edge of her hospital blanket, her mind racing faster than her body could handle. Her memory might have failed her, but instinct hadn't.
Something wasn't right.
And the more Damon smiled, the more it all felt like a carefully woven lie.
She glanced at the muted television screen, now off but still reflecting a distorted version of herself. Her face—pale, confused, bandaged—wasn't the only thing unfamiliar. Everything felt foreign. The way Damon looked at her, spoke to her, hovered like a protector and prison guard wrapped into one.
Her eyes scanned the room again. There was nothing here that belonged to her. No flowers. No cards. No sign that anyone else cared she was here.
Only Damon.
And that only deepened her unease.
The door clicked open once more.
Damon entered again, quieter this time, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up. His eyes fell immediately on her untouched tray. "You didn't eat."
"I wasn't hungry," she said simply.
"You need strength," he said, walking over and placing a hand on the side of her bed. "You're still healing."
She looked at him. Really looked. He was handsome—undeniably so—with sharp features, a strong jaw, and dark eyes that saw more than they let on. But it was in those eyes that she saw the real problem.
There was no warmth.
No real affection.
Only calculation.
She tried again. "Why were we fighting before the accident?"
Damon didn't blink. "It was about work. You wanted more independence. I was worried about your safety. We disagreed."
That sounded like a script.
She tilted her head. "What kind of work was I doing?"
He paused—just a beat too long. "You were helping with a charity I fund. I already told you that, remember?"
Eliana nodded slowly, eyes never leaving his face. "Right. You did."
But something in his tone didn't sit right. Too controlled. Too careful.
As if he was checking off a box.
Damon stepped closer, his voice softening. "You always said it gave you meaning. That helping other women find their strength reminded you of your own."
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture too intimate for a woman who barely knew him.
"You were strong, Eliana," he murmured. "You still are. That's what I've always admired most about you."
She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to flinch. The tenderness in his words might have melted her… if they didn't sound so perfectly rehearsed.
She nodded slowly, absorbing the non-answer. "And my phone?"
"We had to secure your belongings during transport. I'll get it for you soon."
Right.
Secure it.
Or erase it?
Before she could ask another question, there was a knock at the door. A doctor entered—a tall woman in her mid-forties with a clipboard and kind eyes. Her name tag read Dr. Rowe.
"Good afternoon, Eliana. How are you feeling today?"
Eliana welcomed the change of energy. "A bit tired. My head still hurts sometimes."
"That's expected," Dr. Rowe said, flipping through the chart. "You're making good progress, though. The scans look stable. Some short-term memory loss like this can take weeks—or even months—to recover fully."
Damon shifted beside the bed. "What about physical therapy?"
"We'll begin light sessions next week," Dr. Rowe answered. "But only if she's ready."
"I am," Eliana said quickly, before Damon could speak for her again.
Dr. Rowe smiled. "That's the spirit."
She asked a few more questions, took some notes, then gently excused herself.
When the door closed, Eliana turned to Damon. "Can I get some fresh air?"
He hesitated. "You're not discharged yet."
"Then a wheelchair. A walk down the hallway. Anything."
Damon studied her. "I'll ask the nurses."
She forced a smile. "Thank you."
He left again, and she watched him go with a sigh of relief.
The moment the door shut, she climbed out of bed. Her legs trembled, her stitches tugged, but she grit her teeth. She needed to know if she could trust herself again—if she could move, function, fight.
She shuffled to the bathroom, gripping the wall for support.
Once inside, she locked the door.
The mirror above the sink reflected a tired woman with fire still burning in her eyes.
She stared at herself, whispering, "Who the hell are you?"
The memories didn't come, but something inside her did—like a quiet storm rising. A sense that she'd been through worse. That she'd fought harder.
And survived.
She washed her face, took a deep breath, and stepped back out.
Damon returned moments later with a nurse and a wheelchair. "Careful," he said as he helped her in.
She let him touch her, but every part of her recoiled.
The hallway was quiet, sterile. Nurses passed with polite nods, but no one stopped. Damon wheeled her past closed doors and pale walls. Everything smelled like antiseptic and secrets.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"There's a small garden on the terrace," he said. "Thought you might like some sun."
She didn't respond.
They reached the terrace—a small, private space with potted plants and a bench overlooking the city. Damon parked the chair beside the bench and sat down.
Eliana tilted her face toward the sun, letting the warmth settle over her skin.
For a moment, they were silent.
Then she spoke. "Do you love me?"
Damon turned sharply to her. "What?"
She met his eyes. "Do you love me?"
His jaw clenched. "I married you, didn't I?"
"That's not what I asked."
Another pause. Too many pauses.
He looked away. "I care about you. I've done everything I can to make sure you're safe."
"Safe," she echoed. "Not loved."
Silence.
She let the words hang between them like a veil. She needed him off-balance. She needed to see if the truth would slip through the cracks.
He stood. "You're not ready for this conversation."
"No," she said softly. "Maybe you're not."
They returned to the room in silence.
But Eliana's thoughts were louder than ever.
She didn't know everything.
But she knew one thing for sure.
Whatever relationship she and Damon had before… it hadn't been built on love.
And if this was a second chance, it wasn't one she asked for.