The sterile white walls of the hospital room were beginning to suffocate her.
Eliana stood by the window, her fingertips grazing the cool glass as she looked out at a world that somehow felt familiar… yet completely foreign. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting sharp lines across her pale wrist, like the bars of a cage.
She was recovering physically. At least that's what the doctors said. But her mind?
That was another story entirely.
Behind her, the steady beeping of the heart monitor hummed like a mocking lullaby. She hated that sound. It reminded her she was still here—still broken, still blank.
Still someone else's wife.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
The door opened slowly, and Damon stepped in.
Today, he wore a deep navy shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal powerful forearms, and the crisp scent of his cologne preceded him. He always looked composed, polished… in control. It irritated her more than it should.
"You're out of bed again," he said gently, eyes sweeping over her. "You should be resting."
"I've rested enough," she replied, not turning around. "I'm not made of glass."
There was a pause. She felt his gaze linger on her back before he crossed the room.
"Eliana," he said, voice soft but firm. "You need to give yourself time."
Time? All she had was time. Stolen time. Empty time. Time filled with strangers and lies.
"I want to be discharged," she said abruptly, facing him now.
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn't seem surprised. "So soon?"
"I'm not sick," she said, frustration rising in her throat. "I don't need to be here anymore. My injuries are healing, my scans are clear, and I'm—"
"Still recovering," he interjected. "You lost your memory, Eliana. That's not a broken leg you can just walk off."
"But I can't heal here," she shot back. "Every day I wake up in this bed, surrounded by white walls and nurses who call me 'Mrs. Blackwood' like it's supposed to mean something—I feel more lost."
His jaw tensed. "It does mean something."
"Not to me," she said, softer now.
Silence stretched between them. He looked away first.
"You don't trust me," Damon murmured.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to scream it. But instead, she crossed her arms tightly across her chest.
"I don't even trust myself," she said bitterly. "I look in the mirror and see a stranger. I don't know who I was. Who I am. But I know I don't belong in a hospital bed like some caged pet."
Damon stepped closer. Too close.
"Eliana, just give it a little more time. I've already arranged for your discharge—but the doctor recommended at least two more nights under observation. You hit your head. Hard. And after what happened—"
She flinched. "Don't talk like you know what happened."
"I was there," he said, voice strained. "I watched the car flip. I pulled you out of that wreck myself."
Her breath caught. She hadn't known that.
Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe. Or guilt. But it vanished too quickly.
She took a slow step back, needing space.
"Then you should understand why I can't stay here. I need… to feel normal again."
Damon exhaled through his nose. "If you leave, it'll be to come home with me."
She stared at him, heart thudding. "Home?"
"Our penthouse. It's already being prepared. Your room is just as you left it."
My room.
She wasn't sure what unsettled her more—his certainty that she belonged with him… or the fact that she couldn't contradict it.
"Can I speak to the doctor myself?" she asked.
"I'll call him in," he said.
"Alone," she added.
He hesitated. His lips pressed into a tight line.
"I'm not a prisoner, Damon."
"No," he said, backing away. "You're my wife."
He turned and left without another word, closing the door behind him.
Her knees trembled as she sank onto the edge of the bed.
Wife.
The word felt like a costume too tight for her skin. Every time he said it, it made her feel like she was being pulled into a role she didn't audition for.
The door creaked again, and this time, it was Dr. Ivan—the attending physician with silver-rimmed glasses and a patient smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Eliana," he greeted warmly. "I hear you'd like to be discharged."
She nodded quickly. "Yes, please. I'm tired of being here."
"I understand. But memory loss isn't something we treat with a cast or a pill. It's complex. And you're still under observation for post-traumatic symptoms—your vitals spiked again last night in your sleep."
"I had a nightmare. That's all."
"About the accident?"
She hesitated. "I… don't know."
The doctor pulled a chair closer, sitting beside her.
"You've made good progress, but emotionally, you're still healing. Your husband is—"
"Please stop calling him that," she whispered. "I don't even remember marrying him."
He blinked, then cleared his throat. "Legally, he is your next of kin. But I'll note your preference in the record. Eliana… are you feeling unsafe with Mr. Blackwood?"
She looked up sharply. "What?"
"We take emotional trauma seriously. If there's something you're not telling us—"
"No," she said quickly. "He's… not violent. Just—too much. He treats me like porcelain, like I'll shatter if he says the wrong thing. But I don't want to be handled. I want answers."
Dr. Ivan nodded slowly. "In that case, I can approve your discharge—with a few conditions. You'll need outpatient checkups, therapy sessions, and someone nearby in case of memory-triggering episodes."
She swallowed. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
Relief flooded her chest.
"Thank you," she breathed.
"But Eliana," the doctor added, standing, "recovery isn't just about leaving this place. It's about facing what comes next. And sometimes… the answers you find aren't the ones you want."
She didn't respond.
After he left, Eliana sat in silence.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the bedsheet, mind spinning.
Tomorrow she would leave. Tomorrow she would enter the world again.
With a man she didn't remember… calling her his wife.
But at least she'd be one step closer to the truth.
And whoever she was before—the real Eliana Moore—wasn't going to be lost forever.