Isla's eyes fluttered open, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling her nostrils as harsh white lights blurred above her. Her throat felt dry, her limbs heavy. For a long moment, she stared at the ceiling, disoriented, before realizing she wasn't alone.
"She's awake! Call Mr. Blackstone," a voice whispered urgently.
Footsteps echoed around her as people scurried out. Isla turned her head slowly, her neck stiff, her heart pounding against her ribs with a terrifying rhythm she couldn't explain.
Who was Mr. Blackstone? Where was she? And more importantly—who was she?
Panic clawed at her chest as she tried to sit up, only to be gently pushed back down by a nurse.
"You need to rest, Mrs. Blackstone. You've been through a lot."
Mrs. Blackstone? The name hung heavy in the air like a foreign language she couldn't translate. Her lips parted to speak, but no words formed. Nothing made sense.
"Where am I?" she finally croaked, her voice brittle.
"You're in St. Eleanora's Hospital. You had an accident on your wedding day. You're safe now."
Wedding day?
Her heart thudded in her ears. She searched her mind, but it was a blank canvas. No memories. No flashes of a white dress, no faint whispers of vows. Just a hollow void.
"I don't remember... I don't remember anything."
The nurse's face softened, but before she could respond, the door swung open with a force that made Isla flinch. A tall man in a tailored black suit strode in, his presence commanding, his expression unreadable.
His eyes, cold and piercing, landed on her. "Isla."
The name rolled off his tongue like he owned it. Like he owned her.
"You're awake. Thank God."
He crossed the room quickly, his movements calculated but urgent, and took her hand in his.
It should have felt comforting. But his touch sent an odd chill down her spine, both foreign and disturbingly familiar.
"I... I'm sorry," Isla stammered, "I don't know who you are."
His jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "I'm your husband. Damien Blackstone."
The words shattered her fragile composure. Husband? She had no recollection of him. No wedding memories. No lingering emotions. Nothing.
"I... I don't remember getting married. I don't remember you. I don't remember anything."
Damien's gaze briefly flickered with something—relief? Sadness? Or was it something else? Something darker?
"You had a head injury during the accident. The doctors said memory loss was possible. But don't worry, I'm here now. I'll help you remember."
His hand tightened around hers. It was meant to reassure her, but it felt like a cage.
The following days were a surreal blur.
Damien took her to a penthouse that felt more like a high-security vault than a home. The walls were pristine, the floors a cold marble that clicked under her bare feet. Every corner screamed wealth, but none of it felt familiar.
Servants greeted her with practiced smiles. They called her "Mrs. Blackstone" with a reverence she didn't understand.
"Your favorite breakfast, Mrs. Blackstone," one said, presenting avocado toast and fresh strawberries.
She hated avocado. She didn't know how she knew that—but the revulsion was instinctive.
Damien was attentive, but distant. He answered her questions, but never elaborated. He spoke of their wedding as if it had been a grand, private affair, but offered no photos, no videos. When she asked to see her family, his response was always the same: "They're abroad. I've contacted them. They'll reach out soon."
Soon never came.
The house was both a palace and a prison. Security guards were stationed at every exit. Every time she tried to step outside alone, someone appeared at her elbow, gently steering her back inside.
Her phone had no contacts, no messages, no trace of her life before the accident. The wardrobe was filled with designer clothes, but none felt like hers. Every tag was new. Every item untouched.
It was like her life had been manufactured overnight.
Late one evening, Isla found Damien in his study, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the glittering city skyline. The air between them was always thick with unspoken words.
"Damien, please... I need to know who I really am. This doesn't feel right. None of this feels like me."
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "You're my wife. That's all you need to know."
"But I don't remember marrying you. I don't remember falling in love with you. How can you expect me to live like this?"
For the first time, frustration cracked his polished demeanor. "I've done everything to make you comfortable, to help you adjust. Why can't you just trust me?"
"Because nothing adds up!"
His gaze hardened. "Sometimes, Isla, knowing less is safer."
"Safer? From what?"
His silence was deafening.
Isla stormed out, her heart hammering with a mix of fear and fury. In her gut, she knew she wasn't just battling memory loss—she was drowning in carefully constructed lies.
Determined to uncover the truth, she began searching the house at night when the halls were quiet and Damien was asleep—or pretending to be.
In a locked drawer of Damien's study, she found a thin envelope tucked beneath financial documents. It was addressed to someone named "Selene."
The letter inside was brief:
"You know the plan. She takes the fall. You get your life back."
It wasn't signed.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she read it over and over.
Who was Selene? Who was meant to "take the fall?"
She flipped the envelope over. Scrawled on the back was a date: the same day as her wedding.
Her hands trembled as she pieced together what she feared was the truth.
She wasn't the intended bride.
She was a substitute.
A pawn.
And Damien Blackstone knew it.
As she stood in the grand hallway, clutching the letter like it was the only thread holding her sanity together, Damien appeared behind her.
"You shouldn't have seen that."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Who is Selene?" she whispered, her throat tight.
"It doesn't matter now."
"It matters to me!"
His jaw clenched, and for a fleeting second, she saw something in his eyes—regret? Guilt? Or perhaps he was simply calculating his next move.
"You can't run from this, Isla."
"Watch me."
She bolted past him, her bare feet skidding on the marble floor. But the moment she reached the front door, two guards blocked her path.
"Mrs. Blackstone, please..."
Their politeness made her skin crawl.
"Let me go!"
Damien appeared at her side, gently taking her arm. "I told you, knowing less is safer."
"Safer for who?"
His grip tightened, but his smile was soft, almost sorrowful. "For both of us."
Her vision blurred with tears, but her resolve hardened.
She would find the truth. Even if it shattered her. Even if it destroyed him
Because something told her this was never about love.
It was about power. About control. About secrets buried beneath vows neither of them had willingly spoken.
And Isla Blackstone, whether that was truly her name or not, refused to be anyone's pawn.