Page 1

Scarlett

M etal crashes into metal. It screeches, it bellows, it caves in, fracturing into a mass of indistinguishable carnage.

That sound, that blaring, continuous screaming of the car horn rings out in my head.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

The world is swallowing me whole, devouring me entirely.

My legs are trapped. My body is forced into its unnatural position, suspended in place by a seatbelt too twisted to get loose.

I know my left leg is broken, that the bone has shattered, splintered. I can feel bits of it piercing through my skin, emerging into the world.

But none of that matters.

Not the pain, not the screaming sound of the horn. None of it.

Because my brother is there, within touching distance, and yet, he is gone. Dead.

His chest is still, his eyes are open, staring off at something that no longer matters, and there’s a faint trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

I should be freaking out. I should be reacting. But I’m not, I’m just there, staring at his face like I’m waiting for some miracle, like I’m too stupid to understand that nothing can undo this.

As I gasp in one violent breath of air, it slices through my lungs and my own blood splatters across my lips. I reach out, trying to grab hold of him, and the whole vehicle lurches forward, pitting us onto a steeper, more treacherous angle.

We’re hanging on a knife-edge, dangling literally between life and death.

“Seb…”

My voice sounds as pathetic as I feel. As useless too.

He is gone. Dead.

And if fate has its way I will be too before any chance of rescue comes.

So I shut my eyes, I try to calm the hammering in my chest, fearful that even those tremors are forceful enough to upturn us, and I lay there, waiting for death to sweep in and take me back to them, to him, to my family.

“Sebastian…” I cry out the name as my legs kick me awake.

The room is hot, sweat is already pouring down my skin and my hair is plastered to it. The sheets are tangled up, as if I spent the night fighting them instead of actually sleeping.

I blink, once, twice, forcing my vision into focus as I take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

The room is opulent, walls papered in a pattern I don’t recognize, the curtains drawn back to reveal a vista of crashing waves and brooding dark sky.

It’s beautiful. Stark. Dramatic in a way that feels daunting, frightening even.

I sit up and the silk sheets shift enough to let that tepid air coming in from the open window steal the warmth from me.

I’m naked, and that realisation puts me more on edge.

I’d never sleep naked, that just isn’t me.

My fingers graze the thick band of metal on my left hand, a weight that shouldn’t be there.

And the diamond, the huge diamond that feels more weighty than a millstone glints mockingly back at me.

Oh god, I’m married.

To him.

Alex Forster, the man whose face is both a comfort and a puzzle I can’t quite solve.

How? When did this happen? It feels like a freight train has just slammed into me, and my head is suddenly pounding.

Memories come in fractured flashes; laughter over candlelit dinners, the hum of a helicopter’s blades slicing through the air as we embark on some fancy trip or other, the cool touch of his hand on the small of my back.

But there are other memories, too.

Darker ones.

Ones that don’t make any sense right now.

A chill that has nothing to do with the breeze coming off the sea slides down my spine. I married Alex? I married him?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into the plush rug. Only, the room spins for a moment, and I’m forced to close my eyes, waiting for the awful dizziness to pass.

When I open them again, I’m still here, in this strange, beautiful space and if anything, that confuses me more.

“Scarlett?” Alex’s voice calls from the doorway, smooth as honey, but with an underlying steel that tells anyone who’s paying attention that he takes no shit. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

He enters the room wearing his usual attire of a tailored navy suit and crisp white silk shirt that clings just enough to show his toned body beneath.

His dark brown hair is peppered with streaks of grey, but it only emphasises that delicious silver fox aura he has.

His skin is tanned, glowing, he looks as ageless as he always has, despite the fact that he’s over forty.

And even now, in this moment when I’m spiralling in confusion and panic, his god-like looks still make me catch my breath, stealing the oxygen from my very lungs. He really is an Adonis. A masterpiece. An ethereal being turned into living, breathing flesh.

The confidence that oozes off him would make him a fortune if he could package it up and sell it. But then, he’s a Forster. He doesn’t need to sell anything. He was born richer than most people could ever dream of being.

There’s a concern in his eyes that doesn’t quite reach his mouth as he watches me.

I remember that look though, the way it can switch from solicitous to something harder in a heartbeat. Though that hardness was never directed at me. At least, it never used to be or did it? I frown more, memories flickering but none of it makes any sense. Where the fuck am I?

“I, I don’t know,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. “Where are we?”

“Our family home,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee brushes against mine and I feel that old hit of butterflies at the touch. “Don’t you remember? We brought you here. You’re safe here. Safer than in the city.”

Safer from what? I want to ask, but the words catch in my throat. So instead, I nod, playing the part of the dutiful wife, even as suspicion coils in my stomach like a snake.

He’s lying.

He isn’t safe.

Those thoughts come out of nowhere, and they’re gone almost the moment they form. But I know I have no reason to doubt him. I know Alex is a good man, at least, he’s always been good to me.

He reaches out, tucking a strand of shoulder length hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle, but I flinch nonetheless. He notices, but of course he does, and his hand drops to his side and a flash of sadness shows in his eyes. “You need to rest, Scarlett. The doctors said?— “

“What doctors?” The question bursts from me, sudden and sharp, and so not me at all. I’m not an angry person, not irrational. And yet that’s how I feel. Irrational, out of control, and so horribly confused. “What’s, what’s happening to me, Alex?”

His expression hardens, just for a moment, before returning back to one of concern. “You’ve been ill, my love. It’s why we’re here, so I can take care of you properly. So all my family can be here, and we can look after you away from prying eyes.”

Ill.

The word echoes in my mind like a hollow drumbeat.

Oh, I remember the hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the relentless beep and hum of machines.

But I can’t remember why .

What illness could possibly have caused this? My eyes cast down, seeing the bruises, the pink lines of freshly healed scars. No illness would explain that. I look like I’ve been in a fight with a beast, that something has clawed at me, torn at me. Practically ripped my body to shreds.

Was I ill or is he covering for something, concealing the real truth because he thinks it’s too horrific for me to know ?

As I meet his gaze, I get this awful feeling of déjà vu. I’ve been here before. Have had this very conversation before. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. What the fuck is going on right now?

I stand up, practically jumping from the bed, needing distance from him, from the unspoken words that hang in the air between us. The room tilts again, and I frantically reach out, snatching at the bedpost for support so I don’t fall flat on my face.

“Scarlett.” Alex is at my side in an instant, his arm wrapped around my waist, supporting almost my entire weight. “You need to be careful. You’re still recovering.”

Recovering from what? I want to scream the words at him, to lash out too.

Pound my fists into his perfectly honed chest until I get some rational answers - but a fear I can’t explain keeps them locked inside.

Somehow, I know if I push him away, if I stop being anything but placid, then this will only become worse.

But can it get any worse than this? I feel like I’ve already lost my mind, lost who I was. What surely could be worse than that?

I allow him to guide me back into bed, his strength feeling like both a shield and a cage.

Once I’m settled, he steps back, his gaze lingering on my face and he leans down to cup my cheek so tenderly. “I’ll have breakfast sent up. You should eat.”

I watch him leave, the click of the door behind him a sound as final as a prison lock.

But is it? I’m here, in his home, I’m safe, I’m cared for. What cause do I have to even question his motives?

And yet, the luxury that surrounds me feels more like a gilded cage with each passing moment. And the more I sit here, docile, and stagnant, the more that delirium seems to settle in me.

My studio, I need to get to my studio.

I get back up, determined to shake off this fog of confusion, draping a robe around my body to hide my nakedness.

Art has always been my sanctuary, a place where I can pour my thoughts and fears onto canvas, translating them into something tangible.

But as I wander the labyrinthine halls of this mansion, doubt creeps in. Every painting that hangs on the walls is a stranger’s work, not a single one is mine. And a greater sense of disorientation washes over me, a tide of unease that I can’t escape.

When I find my studio at last, it’s more out of sheer luck than anything else, but the smell of oil paints and turpentine feels like a balm to my fractured senses.

I expect to see mess; a jumble of paintings, colour splashed on the floor from where my clumsiness has spilled paint.