"You will never walk away when I am speaking to you. Do you understand?" her father's voice rang out. He had also stood up from his chair.
Elisa stood frozen, her back still turned to him. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she didn't flinch. Slowly, she turned around to face him.
"How can you ask me to do something like that?" she asked, her voice breaking with emotion. "You can't force me to marry him. Please, don't make me do this."
"You will marry him," her father said coldly, stepping closer. "It's not a request. It's a command."
"Well, I'm not marrying him." Her voice trembled but remained steady. "You can say whatever you want, but you can't drag me to the altar."
Before she could brace herself, his palm struck her across the face with a loud crack. Her head jerked to the side, her skin stinging from the impact.
"Don't you ever talk back to me," he growled. "Tomorrow, you'll go with your mother to prepare for your wedding. Understood?"
"I am not marrying him," she said again, more quietly but firmly.
Another slap. This time on her other cheek.
"I said," her father spat, "you will marry him."
"I won't," she said, standing her ground, though her cheeks throbbed painfully. "I am not marrying him."
His hand came down again, a third time, hitting the same cheek as before. Her vision blurred from the sting, but she didn't back down.
"I didn't hear you well," he said, his face twisted in rage. "What did you say?"
"Patrick, please! That's enough!" Her mother shot up from her seat, rushing to his side. "She's confused — she's scared! I'm sure I can help her see reason."
"She will marry him," he barked. "I don't care if she's confused or dying. In three days, she will walk down that aisle."
"I—am—not—marrying—him."
Another slap.
Elisa's legs wobbled under her. Her skin burned. Her ears rang. Her eyes began to sting, but she still held his gaze.
Her mother lunged forward, catching his raised arm mid-air.
"Enough, Patrick! This is enough!"
The next sound wasn't what Elisa expected. It wasn't a slap landing on her.
It was the thud of her mother hitting the floor.
Elisa's eyes widened. She looked up, stunned, and saw her mother crumpled against the tiles, clutching her cheek. A bright red mark was already forming on her skin.
"Don't you ever try that again, you ungrateful whore," Patrick hissed.
He turned toward her mother with fury in his eyes. "I see you've forgotten your place. I'll have to teach you again."
His fingers went to his belt buckle. Elisa watched in disbelief as he pulled the belt free in one smooth motion.
"No—" she breathed, panic rushing up in her chest.
Her father raised the belt.
"Stop!" Elisa's scream cut through the air. She stepped forward, her voice shaking. "I'll do it. I'll marry him. I'll marry Stefano. Just... just let her go."
Her father paused mid-strike. His chest heaved, but he lowered the belt slowly.
"See?" he muttered with a cruel smile. "It doesn't always have to be difficult."
He walked toward the door. "You'll go with your mother tomorrow for the final preparations. And fix your face. You look hideous."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Her mother still sat on the floor, shoulders trembling, her head bowed. Elisa stood there, unsure, her own face stinging with pain and humiliation. Her throat felt tight.
She took a small step closer, careful not to get too near. "Do you… do you need help?"
Her mother didn't look up. Her voice was quiet. "No. I'm fine. Go to bed. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Elisa stared at her for a moment, guilt curling inside her. She wanted to say something, to apologize but the words just wouldn't come.
She turned away and left the room.
The next morning, Elisa had woken up with a throbbing headache and something far more disturbing — a memory.
It wasn't clear. Just a blurry flash. Laughter. A warm table setting. She remembered sitting with people… laughing freely, with ease she hadn't felt since waking up in this cold, unfamiliar house. The strange thing was, the dining space in her memory didn't look anything like the one downstairs. It had no chandeliers or polished silver. It was modest. The plates didn't match, and the tablecloth was a bit faded — homely in a way that made her chest ache.
For a brief moment, she had wondered if her parents had another house. Or maybe… had they once been poor?
She didn't get the chance to think too deeply. Mrs. Cooper had come knocking, her voice sharp and alert, announcing breakfast. And knowing what her father was capable of, Elisa had forced herself out of bed and went downstairs without complaint.
Her parents were already seated, as usual — her father at the head of the table, and her mother silently by his side. Always by his side. Like a perfectly placed ornament.
Her mother's face was covered in heavy makeup, but it couldn't fully hide the swelling or the bruise. Elisa saw it clearly. The way the left side of her face puffed slightly, the way her hand lingered on her cheek when she thought no one was watching.
Elisa didn't say anything. She couldn't. She wanted to feel sorry for her mother — maybe even comfort her — but she couldn't understand how any woman would remain with a man like that. A man who hit her. A man who shouted commands instead of speaking.
She wasn't like her mother. She might have lost her memories, but not her sense of self. She wouldn't sit there quietly and marry a stranger. All she needed was an opportunity — just a little freedom, a little access to money — and she would disappear.
She sat far from them again, taking her place at the other end of the table. Like yesterday, nobody commented on it.
They were nearly finished when her father glanced at her mother and asked, "Have you spoken to the dressmaker?"
"Yes. She's coming today."
He gave a small nod, clearly pleased. "What about… those other things? Have you spoken to Elisa?"
That caught Elisa's attention. She looked up from her plate.
"Not yet," her mother replied, her voice softer now.
"What are you waiting for?" her father snapped. "I want everything concluded today."
"Of course."
He checked his watch. "I have to go. Make sure you two are done by the end of the day."
Once he left, her mother turned to her, trying to smooth over the tension. "How was your sleep?"
"It was okay," Elisa replied flatly. "Yours?"
"Good. Did you wake with a headache?"
"No."
"Any memories?"
"Not yet."
Her mother nodded, offering a small, tight smile. "That's alright. Just take your time."
Elisa gave a slight nod, focusing on the last bite of toast on her plate.
"Are you done? We have a lot to do today."
The rest of the day felt like a blur. They went to a high-end bridal boutique in the city. The dressmaker greeted them like royalty and had Elisa change into a gown she had supposedly picked out before the accident.
It fit almost perfectly, though a few adjustments were needed around the shoulders and waist.
Then came the spa — expensive, over-scented, and warm. They received full body massages, facials, and skin treatments. Despite herself, Elisa felt her body start to relax. It wasn't the bonding she wanted, but it was the closest her mother had come to treating her like a daughter all week.
They sat side by side, waiting for their manicures and pedicures to dry, when a tall, skinny blonde girl strutted toward them.
"Elisa?" the girl's voice was high and sharp, with no warmth behind the fake surprise. "My God. How are you? I heard you had an accident."
Elisa looked up, unsure. "I'm better now."
"You look… different," the girl said with a smirk.
"It's just the accident," her mother cut in smoothly. "She's been in the hospital for weeks."
"Right," the girl replied, eyes drifting toward Elisa's hair. "Love the hair, by the way."
Instinctively, Elisa touched her head. "My hair? What's wrong with it?"
"Ashley," her mother warned, her voice tight.
"Oh—my bad." Ashley gave a laugh that sounded like a cough. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mancini. I'll be on my way." She turned back to Elisa, flashing a smug smile. "Congrats on the wedding, by the way."
Then she twirled and strutted away like she was on a runway.
Elisa frowned. "What was wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing."
"She clearly said something. Why would she comment on it?"
"This isn't the place, Elisa. We'll talk about it later."
"I want to talk about it now."
Her mother gave a short sigh. "You dyed your hair."
Elisa's frown deepened. "What do you mean, dyed it? What's with the colour?"
"You've always preferred being blonde. And Stefano likes blonde too."
"That's ridiculous. Why would I hate my natural hair?"
"You said it made you look less… glamorous."
"Well, I like it now," Elisa said firmly. "And I'm not changing it."
Her mother stiffened. "Mr. Bellucci likes blonde hair. He may not go ahead with the wedding if you change it."
"That's his problem. Not mine."
"Elisa," her mother's voice was tense now. "Please don't be difficult. Just a few more weeks. You can go back to your natural colour afterwards."
Elisa crossed her arms. "Mother—"
"Just leave it, for now," she cut in. "If you try to strip the dye and go back, it might damage your hair."
"…What was the original colour?"
Her mother paused.
"Red. Like mine."