Page 2

I wake to a rhythmic beeping.

There’s something cold at the bend of my arm. A sharp sting pulses just beneath the surface of the skin. My mouth is dry. My tongue is thick. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar: white, bright, lined with soft panels and recessed lights that hum low like insects.

The room stutters into focus.

There’s a clear plastic cannula taped to the inside of my elbow, secured with medical dressing. A transparent IV bag hangs beside the bed, its line connected to the cannula.

Panic blooms in my chest—sudden, acidic.

I push up. My spine arches sharply, muscles protesting. A wave of vertigo slams into me as I try to sit, but I fight through it. My fingers tremble as they close around the IV line. I tear it free.

Pain flares hot and fast.

A spurt of blood stains the sheet. The cannula flaps, half-stuck in flesh, then falls. The monitor alarms in shrill panic. My heart is beating too fast now. My body is moving faster than my mind can catch up.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They dangle—bare, weak. My feet touch the tile.

The door opens, and a man enters. Huge. Thick shoulders beneath a black suit. Matte gun in hand, not raised, but ready. His eyes lock on me instantly. He freezes when he sees I’m upright. Bleeding. Awake.

He lifts a hand to the radio at his shoulder, speaking in quick, clipped Italian. “She’s awake.”

I flinch.

My knees buckle, and I crumple onto the floor, palms slapping against polished stone. My breath comes fast, broken. My body screams danger even if my brain hasn’t caught up.

The man doesn’t come closer right away. When he does, his movements are careful. His voice is low.

“Ma’am?” he says. “Are you alright?”

There’s something in his tone—reverence. Hesitation. As if he’s afraid of me. Or afraid for me.

I scuttle backward, palms smearing the blood on the floor as I drag myself away from him.

Another shift behind the door.

Two more armed men enter. One sweeps the room with a trained eye. The other stays at the threshold. But it’s the man between them that draws my eyes.

No gun. No fear.

A doctor. Late fifties, lean build, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. His coat flares slightly as he steps forward. He raises both hands to show he isn’t a threat.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

I don’t believe it. But I don’t have the strength to crawl any farther.

He approaches slowly, then kneels beside me. Not close enough to touch—yet. He pulls a small penlight from his pocket.

“Your heart rate’s spiking,” he says. “Let me check you, alright?”

I nod—barely.

His hand brushes mine. He presses two fingers to the inside of my wrist, eyes on the second hand of his watch. Then his hand moves to my neck, just under the jaw. His expression tightens, but he hides it well.

He adjusts the light and flashes it briefly across my eyes.

“Mrs. Accardi,” he says carefully, “can you hear me?”

The name hits like a slap. I recoil, eyes darting from the doctor to the guards to the man with the radio.

They’re all watching me. Waiting for me to answer.

“Is….” My voice cracks. “Is that my name?”

The doctor’s sigh is small. Heavy.

“Do you remember anything?” he asks. “Anything at all about yourself?”

I search. I dig. I try to grasp something—a name, a memory, a sound, a face.

There’s nothing.

Only fear.

And pain.

And blood.

I shake my head.

The doctor nods once, slowly. “Alright,” he murmurs. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

My fingers twitch when the tape is peeled away.

The doctor works on carefully bandaging the back of my hand where the IV left torn flesh. He’s professional, but his eyes are cautious—like I might bolt again. Like he’s stitching up something more dangerous than a confused woman in a hospital gown.

I sit across from him now, clothed in pale grey sweats someone must’ve picked for me. My hair hangs damp around my shoulders, and my skin—it looks wrong. Washed out. Like I’ve been asleep for a century.

He asks me to do a few things.

Follow his pen with my eyes. Squeeze his fingers. Lift one leg, then the other.

I obey—mechanically. The responses are there, but hollow.

“Good,” he says softly, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. “Go ahead and sit.”

I do. The leather chair is cold beneath me. I clutch my hand against my chest as if that might stop the bleeding.

The door screeches open, and the man who steps in fills the space instantly.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Black suit, wet around the collar. His presence hits like a silent weapon—dangerous. His hair is raven dark, pushed back from a face too chiseled to be soft. His eyes….

They stop me.

Cold. Icy gray. Almost silver. Like winter storms over still water. He doesn’t look at me right away. He just nods once to the doctor.

I stare at him. I don’t know him. But something in my chest twists.

He moves to the chair beside mine and sits like the space belongs to him.

The doctor clears his throat. “Well. Good news is that she’s recovered well. No residual swelling on the brain, no major neuromuscular damage. She’s healed up…very nicely.”

I don’t relax.

He continues. “The bad news is…she’s experiencing post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. Most likely from the head trauma. My neurologist will evaluate her later today. We’ve already started labs—CMP, CT recon, EEG baseline. Just precautionary.”

I glance at the man beside me.

Then, back at the doctor.

“Why does he need to know my medical history?”

The doctor shifts uncomfortably. Before he can speak, the man beside me does. He reaches for my chair and pulls it toward him. I freeze as he stares into my eyes.

“I’m your husband.”

The words don’t land. They drop.

My gaze narrows. “What?”

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t soften. Just lifts his left hand.

A silver band glints on his ring finger.

I look down.

There’s one on mine, too. Slim. Pale. Elegant. It fits like it’s always been there.

“This isn’t funny,” I whisper, looking between them. “Is this some kind of joke?”

The doctor shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s not.”

The man—my supposed husband—doesn’t blink. “I’ll be taking her home. All future checkups will be done privately.”

“Home?” I ask. The word feels foreign in my mouth. “What do you mean, home?”

The doctor nods.

The office fades behind us. I follow him reluctantly, heart thudding as the hall opens into a quiet corridor.

“Hey,” I murmur. “Look, I know there has to be some sort of mix-up here, okay? I don’t remember anything for now, but if I had a husband who looked like you, I would.”

He turns his head slightly. A smile ghosts across his lips. “So you think I’m good-looking.”

I freeze. “That’s—no, I didn’t mean that. I meant—”

He slows, watching me.

I step away from him. “I’m not going anywhere with you until I remember my name.”

He says it softly. “Fioretta. Your name is Fioretta Celeste Accardi.”

The sound tastes unfamiliar. Like a language I should know but no longer speak.

“I want to see my parents,” I say quickly. “If I’m married to you, then surely you know them.”

His pause is too long.

“They’re dead.”

My breath catches.

“Both of them?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

I stare down at the ring. It’s too perfect. Too convenient.

“No,” I snap, yanking it off. “You could’ve slid this on when I was unconscious. The doctor said I’ve been out for months, right? How hard would it be to fake a wedding band?”

The ring hits his chest when I throw it. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets it drop.

I turn and walk fast toward the lobby I glimpsed earlier. Toward anywhere but him.

His hand closes around my wrist. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you. I need to think.”

Without warning, he moves.

His arms wrap around my waist. My feet lift from the ground.

I scream—loud, furious. “Put me down!”

He tosses me—tosses me—over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.

My fists pound against his back. “Let go of me! Help! Somebody help me!”

But no one looks. Not the security by the elevator. Not the nurse down the hall. Not the man with the clipboard who steps politely out of his way.

He carries me out of the hospital like he’s done it before.