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I turn to him, the question forming before I can consider its implications. “Did I give you any money here?”

His eyebrows lift slightly— surprise flickering across his face before his expression settles back into careful neutrality. “You paid off your brother’s debt.”

My stomach twists at his confirmation, another piece of the puzzle clicking into place. I remember the weight of that bag now, how my arms had ached from carrying it, how each stack of bills represented something I can’t quite grasp.

For Nick.

Always for Nick.

My brother. I remember that I have a brother, but I don’t know where he is right now. The word “brother” conjures a face— younger than mine, with the same green eyes but sharper features, a crooked smile that could charm anyone.

“Nick,” I say, the name emerging from somewhere deep in my memory. “Do you know where he is?”

Aleksei’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “No.”

There’s something in his tone— a finality that suggests this isn’t a topic he wants to pursue.

Why not?

His shoulders have tensed, his fingers curling slightly against his thigh. I sense I shouldn’t push further, so I drop the subject. Something about Nick clearly troubles Aleksei, and the way his jaw tightens when I mention my brother’s name makes my stomach knot with worry. There’s history there— something Aleksei isn’t telling me.

In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s a lot Aleksei isn’t telling me.

My throat feels suddenly parched, my lips dry. The tension in the room makes it hard to swallow, and I need a moment to collect my thoughts.

“May I please have some water?” I ask, grateful for the excuse to change the subject. My hands fidget in my lap as I wait for his response, wondering what secrets he’s keeping about Nick, and why the mere mention of my brother’s name can transform Aleksei’s expression from concern to cold detachment in an instant.

His expression softens immediately, the hardness in his eyes melting into something that looks almost like tenderness. It catches me off guard, this sudden shift from intimidation to care, and I find myself drawn to the way his features transform— stern lines easing into something more approachable, more human.

“Of course. You must be hungry as well. I asked the cook to prepare something for you.” His voice has changed, too, gentler around the edges, and I realize how desperately I need both water and food. My stomach gives a traitorous little growl at the mere mention of a meal, reminding me I haven’t eaten properly since this morning.

Remember you have a baby to feed too…

He rises with fluid grace and returns moments later with a glass of water. I take it gratefully, our fingers brushing during the exchange. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, and I nearly spill the water. I drink deeply, aware of his eyes on me, watching with an intensity that makes my skin warm despite the cool liquid sliding down my parched throat.

When I’ve finished, I set the glass down on the nearby table with a soft clink. My hand trembles slightly— whether from hunger, nerves, or that unexpected touch, I’m not certain. My stomach feels hollow, a persistent ache reminding me that I’m responsible for two lives now, not just my own.

“What happened to me?” I ask, then touch my head briefly. “Nobody in the hospital would explain anything to me about it. What happened when…?” I pinch my lips together, knowing that this is going to open up something I may not want to know.

He studies me for a long moment before responding. “You were kidnapped. It was a traumatic experience, and it seems your brain has suppressed or deleted some of those memories.”

His words hang in the air between us, heavy and dangerous. My chest tightens as fragments of memories— flashes of darkness, muffled voices, the taste of fear— try to surface but slip away. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the room’s warmth.

“Kidnapped,” I repeat. “By whom? Why?” My voice sounds distant, as if it belongs to someone else. Part of me wants to know everything, while another part recognizes that these blocked memories might be my mind’s way of protecting me from something unbearable. Yet the questions tumble out, my need for answers overriding my caution.

“Gianni, your ex-fiancé,” he tells me, his voice hardening. “We took care of him.”

Gianni.

The name stirs something— a flash of dark eyes, a cruel smile, hands that grip too tightly. But the memory vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving me with nothing but an overwhelming sense of unease.

“Took care?” I repeat, uncertain what he means, although a small part of me suspects it can’t be good.

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. There’s something in his expression— a darkness that warns me not to dig deeper. Instead, I ask the question that’s been weighing on me since I woke up in the hospital.

“And where is my family? My parents?” It feels impossible that there could be no one out there for me. A brother who’s in the wind. No sign of my mother or father, though I can feel their presence so clearly.

A long silence follows. Aleksei seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Gone,” he finally says.