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As if on cue, Aleksei appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a tailored suit that molds to the lean, hard lines of his shoulders and chest, the dark fabric accentuating his imposing frame. Every inch of him radiates that unnerving power, but there’ssomething almost vulnerable in the way he looks at me, a softness around his eyes I haven’t noticed before.

“Ready to go home?” he asks softly, his deep voice carrying that distinctive Russian lilt.

Home.

The word feels foreign to me, hollow and uncertain. What does home even mean when you can’t remember having one? My stomach knots with anxiety.

“Sure,” I say, pressing my lips together in the semblance of a smile, hoping he can’t see how my hands tremble slightly at my sides. I have no choice but to trust this stranger who claims to know me.

The discharge process passes in a blur of paperwork and instructions. A nurse rattles off care guidelines while I nod mechanically, barely processing her words. Something about watching for signs of infection, taking prescribed medications, following up with a neurologist.

I try not to fidget as Aleksei takes control of the situation, briskly flipping through forms and signing them with a flourish. I find myself captivated by those hands, imagining them touching my skin, exploring me.

Cut it out, Stella!

That unsettling tightening in my core is happening again. How the hell can this man turn me on at the same time as he scares me?

God, what if I’m some kind of sexual freak?

You’re not.

Get a grip.

It’s not my fault that my thoughts are racing. The fluorescent hospital lights seem too harsh, making everything appear slightly unreal, as though I’m watching this scene unfold from somewhere outside my body. I should be asking questions, but my mind feels wrapped in cotton, still struggling to connect the fragments of my shattered memory.

“Take care, Miss Fermont,” Dr. Malhotra says as he scribbles his signature across the forms. “I’ll see you at your follow-up.”

I nod mutely. My brain feels far away, struggling to process anything beyond the immediate moment.

Before I know it, I’m sitting in Aleksei’s luxury car— a sleek black Bentley with butter-soft leather seats that seem to envelop me— watching unfamiliar landscapes scroll past the window. Palm trees and modern buildings blend together in a disorienting parade of shapes and colors, none triggering even the faintest hint of recognition. My fingers anxiously trace the stitching on the seat as I try to ground myself in this strange reality.

“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to recognize anything in the passing scenery.

“To the manor,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“The manor?” I repeat.

We live in a freaking manor?

He glances at me, his expression gentle. “It’s our home,zaychik. In Los Angeles.”

“Our home?” My voice cracks slightly. “I… I don’t remember.”

Surely the thought of home should switch something on in my brain?

He reaches over and takes my hand, his touch warm and somehow familiar despite my memory loss.

“It’s okay, Stella. You’ve been through a lot. The doctor said your thoughts might be foggy for a while.”

Foggy?

Yeah, right.

The word almost makes me laugh. Foggy suggests something you can see through if you try hard enough. This isn’t fog— it’s a complete blackout.

Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.

“Hey,” Aleksei says softly, squeezing my hand. “You’re safe now, and that’s what matters. We’ll take it slow, yes?”