Page 2 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

I pop open the trunk of my old Datsun 510 and take in the sight of the wooden treasure barely squeezed inside.

There it is. My grandmother’s rocking chair. It’s wedged tight between the torn lining and a spare tire I haven’t touched in years, but the way the fresh sunlight catches the new coat of paint?

Absolutely stunning.

The antique restorer spent six long weeks bringing it back to life—six weeks of stripping, sanding, and painstakingly matching the original grain. It also cost me a serious chunk of my savings. But you know what? Totally worth it.

It looks just like I remember.

The wood is a rich, deep cherry, and the spindles are smooth and sturdy. The seat’s not exactly the same shade, but close enough that only someone with my memories would notice. The armrests gleam, polished to perfection, and even the hand-carved details have been carefully restored.

The guy did an incredible job. I’ll have to leave him a glowing review once I get the chair inside—he’s definitely earned it.

But before I do anything, I just stand there and stare at it. It’s a big piece of furniture. Honestly, it’s a miracle it even fit in my poor old car’s trunk. Actually, scratch that—it must’ve been divine intervention. My grandmother must’ve put in a word with the big guy to make sure I could get it home. Because if she’s watching from up there, she knows Mark would never let me take his precious, polished Lexus to haul something “sentimentally useless,” as he calls Gran’s antiques.

That being said… I have no idea how I’m getting it inside, let alone up the stairs. The restorer loaded it into my trunk for me, but getting it out on my own? That’s a whole different challenge.

I exhale, roll my shoulders, and grip the sides of the chair. It’s wedged in so tight it doesn’t budge at first. I give it another tug. Nothing.

I glance toward the house. Mark's Lexus is parked farther up the driveway, so he must be home. Probably working. He doesn’t like to be interrupted, but…

I shut the trunk for now and head inside. Just like the chair, this house was hers. My grandmother's. She’s still here with me, in every creaky floorboard and sunlit windowpane, in every corner where dust gathers just a little too quickly—just like it did when she lived here. Somehow, it even still smells like her, despite Mark’s many attempts to get rid of it.

Some things just aren’t meant to fade, I think. And she's one of them.

I step into the hallway, slipping off my shoes as I glance up the stairs. He’s probably locked in his office, buried in numbers. Accounting is as much a part of him as breathing.

I hesitate before calling out.

“Mark?”

Silence.

Figures.

I sigh, debating whether to try again or just deal with the chair myself. I don’t want to piss Markoff. His anger lingers for hours after it appears, and nothing I do ever makes the process easier. He has to burn it out.

I don’t want to spend the rest of the day getting the cold shoulder just because I asked for help at the wrong time.

I rub the back of my neck, turning back toward the door. Maybe I can manage on my own. It’ll be awkward, probably painful, and I might scratch up the doorway trying to squeeze it through, but I’ve dealt with worse.

I know how to count on myself.

With a deep breath, I step outside and pop the trunk again. I plant my feet, brace my hands against the sides, and pull with everything I’ve got.

At first, it’s like trying to move a damn boulder—it just won’t budge.

Then, with a groan, it lurches forward.

Too fast.

I stumble back, arms flailing as the weight of it throws me off balance. My foot catches on the edge of the driveway, and before I can stop it, I go down—hard.

The chair, thankfully, doesn’t come crashing down on top of me. Instead, it teeters at the edge of the trunk, still half-wedged inside.

I wince, pushing myself up onto my elbows and brushing the dirt off my palms.

“Could’ve been worse,” I mutter. The chair could have fallen and shattered to pieces. I can heal. My bank account if I had to restore it yet again? Not really.

I quickly glance around to see if any of the neighbors saw me before scrambling to my feet. Not that I care much about what they think. People have never really bothered me. But I don’t need anyone joking about me to Mark like they’ve done before.

They don’t mean any harm. Their teasing about my obsession with Gran’s antiques is always in good fun. But Mark never laughs. He just gives that tight-lipped smile—the one that never quite reaches his eyes—and later, when we’re alone, he asks why I have to make a spectacle of myself.

Another thing I’d rather avoid.

There’s no one in sight, though.

Good.

Shaking off the thought, I square my shoulders and turn back to the chair. Now that it’s loosened, I should be able to pull it free. I grip it again, this time more carefully, and inch it out of the trunk, letting its weight shift gradually. It’s heavy, but manageable.

I can do this.

Once it’s fully out, I set it down gently on the driveway and wipe the sweat from my brow. My arms already ache, but there’s no way I’m stopping now. I just have to get it inside. Then upstairs. Then into the small reading nook I’ve been setting up for weeks—where it belongs.

Easy, right? Right.

“Uhh,” I groan to myself.

I bend my knees, gripping the chair firmly before hoisting it up. It’s more awkward than anything, its bulk making it hard to see past. Step by step, I shuffle toward the porch, nudging the door open with my hip and maneuvering my way inside.

I barely make it through without knocking something over. A picture frame rattles on the entryway table, and I wince as I set the chair down just inside the door. My arms are screaming, but the hardest part is still ahead.

The stairs.

Taking a deep breath, I tilt the chair onto its side, hoping that’ll make it easier. Then I start the slow climb—step by step —adjusting my grip every few seconds. The wood digs into my skin, but I grit my teeth and keep going.

Painful minutes later, I finally make it to the first floor.

Panting, I shove the chair into the corner of the bedroom, right next to Mark’s office, and close the door behind me. I press my forehead against it for a second, catching my breath. My arms feel like jelly, my shoulders ache, and my fingers feel permanently molded to the shape of the chair’s rungs.

But I did it.

Gran’s chair is inside. Safe. And most importantly, right where it belongs.

Straightening up, I turn to look at it. Even through my exhaustion, I can’t help but smile. It looks perfect here. This little corner, with a simple standing lamp, a small table for books, and a view of the weeping willow swaying in the garden seems made for it.

My great-grandfather planted the weeping willow tree outside when he built this house with his own two hands. Gran used to tell me stories about how she played under its branches as a little girl. She’d pretend the hanging vines were curtains, hiding her from the world. Or, on special days, she’d twist them into a veil and let them drape over her face like a bride on her wedding day.

That tree was special to her. It’s special to me, too.

Mark’s wanted it gone for a long time now. Says it’s too close to the house, that the roots might damage the foundation, that the falling leaves clog the gutters every autumn. He even called a tree removal service once, got a quote. I still remember how my heart skipped a beat when they explained it wouldn’t be possible. Apparently, the roots have grown too deep, too intertwined with the land. Removing it would risk damaging the house itself.

And just like that, it’s still here.

Just like Gran’s antiques.

Just like me, too.

My smile spreads slowly, but it doesn’t last. The sound of Mark’s office door creaking open makes my shoulders tense. I don’t turn around right away, hoping—maybe foolishly—that he won’t come looking for me. Maybe he’ll head straight to the kitchen or back downstairs.

But then his voice comes, smooth and detached.

“You were making a lot of noise,” he says.

I close my eyes briefly before turning to face him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but edged with mild disapproval. He’s still in his usual work attire—pressed slacks, a button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless but still polished. His hair is neatly combed.

Correction. When I say “work attire”, I mean his usual outfit. Because Mark never takes a day off.

“Sorry,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Had to get Gran’s chair inside.”

His gaze flicks to the rocking chair in the corner. For a moment, he just stares at it, lips pressing into a thin line. I brace myself for whatever he’s about to say. We usually have the same conversation at times like this. The one where he tries to realign my priorities, remind me that there are more important things than sentimental antiques.

But this time, it doesn’t come.

Instead, he glances at his watch and exhales sharply through his nose.

“I'm waiting for a client,” he says. “He’ll be here any minute. I need you to stay in here and not make a sound.”

My brow furrows. “Someone important?”

“Yes. That’s why, please, Skye… I need this to go well.”

Something in his tone feels off—too clipped, too sharp. It’s not just his usual irritation with me or my antiques. It’s something else.

But he doesn’t explain. He just stands there, waiting for me to agree, like he always does. Like it’s expected.

Frustration bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it down.

“Fine,” I say, because arguing won’t get me anywhere. “I’ll stay here. Just… let me know when it’s safe to come out.”

Mark gives a curt nod before turning on his heel and heading back to his office, shutting the door behind him. The latch clicks into place.

I exhale, rubbing my temples.

If my grandmother were here, she’d grab my shoulders and shake me. Hard. I just know it. This is my house. I should be able to move freely, not tiptoe around like some kid in detention. But that’s how it’s been for years with Mark and me.

It's only technically that the house is mine. Mark pays for the renovations, the upkeep, the bills. I’ve never been the breadwinner in our relationship. Even back when we were students, when we first met, he was the one with a plan, the one mapping out our future in neat, orderly steps while I trailed behind, clinging to the things that made me feel grounded.

So, I learned to comply. Most of the time.

Because honestly, what’s a little silence when I’ve had to work two jobs just to keep the lights on? When I’ve watched the walls of my childhood home fall apart because I couldn’t afford to fix them?

Mark saved me from all that. He’s always saving me from it.

He's always had clients. He’s always had work that I shouldn’t interfere with. It's all about appearances in his line of work, and I’ve never been one for keeping things neat. I’m the one who doesn’t fit into the image Mark wants to project.

The sound of the front door opening snaps me back to reality, followed by a low murmur of voices. I catch the occasional deep, sharp syllable—firm but unreadable.

I shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t let my curiosity get the better of me.

And yet…

I move across the room, careful to keep my steps light, and press my ear against the door.

Normally, Mark’s clients come up to his office. They walk in, close the door, and discuss whatever financial matters brought them in. But this time, something’s different.

They’re talking downstairs.

Maybe I should just sit down, rock in Gran’s chair like I planned, and ignore whatever business Mark is dealing with. Pretend it doesn’t bother me that I’ve been shoved into silence, like I’m an afterthought.

Except… I don’t.

I crack the door open—just an inch. Just enough to hear the conversation.

Mark’s voice is easy to recognize, smooth and polished—the one he uses when he wants to sound impressive, professional, in control.

But the other voice?

It’s not a client’s voice. Not the usual buttoned-up, nervous professional looking for financial advice or investment strategies. No, this one is different. Rougher. Lower. Sharper. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask—it demands.

A frown tugs at my brow.

Is Mark in trouble?

I shift closer, trying to make out their words.

“…not part of the deal.”

Mark.

The other man’s response is quieter, but there’s sharpness to it, something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You don’t get to decide that.”

A heavy silence.

Then Mark speaks again, tension barely concealed beneath his tone.

“You’ve got what you came for. That should be enough.”

A short, humorless laugh.

“You really think that’s how this works?”

My pulse picks up. This isn’t just another business transaction. That unknown man isn’t some pissed-off client—he’s threatening Mark.

But… Mark was expecting this, right? He told me to stay put, not to interrupt when the man arrived.

So what the hell is going on?

Mark exhales sharply.

“Fine. Let’s talk about this outside.”

The other man doesn’t respond right away, but I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps—Mark’s, heading toward the door. A pause. Then, after a beat, the deeper voice speaks again.

“Be careful. Someone might think you’re trying to hide something, Dilano.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark says. “I just don’t want your grimy boots all over my house.”

I strain to hear more, but their voices are already fading. And I know I should leave it alone. I know I should. I should trust my husband and stay hidden.

But for some reason, I just… can’t.

Maybe it’s the way Mark sounds—controlled, but not as composed as usual. Maybe it’s the way the other man’s voice gives me chills, something dark, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface of the way he speaks.

Or maybe it’s the nagging feeling that, for the first time in a long time, Mark has secrets I don’t know about. And that? That’s not something I can ignore.

Either way, I push the door open just a little, take a step forward, just a little.

And the floor creaks.

I freeze. The sound is small, barely noticeable—but in the silence of the house, it might as well be a gunshot.

Everything goes quiet.

I barely have time to breathe before I hear it—the distinct shift in weight as someone turns.

“Who’s there?” the low voice says.

Footsteps.

One pair moving toward the front door.

The other…

Coming back inside.

“It seems to me like you’ve never been in an old house before,” Mark says. “They tend to creak.” His voice is smooth, dismissive, but there’s a thread of warning beneath it.

Mark? Warning a client like this? Never.

I swallow hard, pressing myself against the wall. My heart pounds as I hear the footsteps pause—then resume. Slower this time. Less… suspicious. More knowing .

“That so?” the stranger murmurs. “This house must have a lot of history, then. Maybe I should take a look around.”

I barely breathe.

There's something unsettlingly casual about his tone, like he's just toying with the idea of looking around rather than making a real suggestion. But even from my hiding spot, I can tell—he's testing Mark. And I’ve never met anyone who dared to test him like that. Mark is the one who shines in society. He’s the one who does the testing. Not the other way around.

Maybe that's exactly why my heart leaps into my throat, fear tightening around my ribs. Maybe this is the reason why I'm suddenly so scared.

You're in your own house, Skye , I remind myself. No one can hurt you here—especially not some… client. Or whoever this man is.

But is that really true? Because my body sure as hell doesn't believe it.

Downstairs, Mark chuckles. “I'd rather you didn’t. I like my privacy, and I’m sure you’re a man who understands the value of that.”

Silence.

Then—the sound of heavy boots stepping onto the hardwood.

Mark’s words are not working.

The man is coming here.

I press myself flat against the wall, my breath tight in my throat. Every instinct screams at me—run, move, disappear before he finds me. But I can’t. Not without making noise. And even if I could, where would I go?

This is my house. Staying silent and out of sight is one thing. But hiding? I’m not going to do that.

“What's the matter, Dilano?” The man's voice is smooth, almost amused. “Won't you show me around?”

I don’t dare look, but I hear Mark shift—the quiet rustle of fabric as he squares his shoulders.

“It’s been a long morning,” he says, cool and steady. “And you're wasting my time.”

“Wasting your time,” the man repeats, like he’s turning the words over in his mouth, savoring them. “That’s interesting, Dilano. Real interesting.”

Then—another creak.

Closer.

And before I can react, before I can do anything at all—the floor creaks right in front of me.

I freeze.

I know—I know—that if I look up, I’ll see him. I’ll see the man standing there, looking down at me like a cat that just found a particularly amusing mouse.

So I don’t look up.

I just breathe. One second. Two.

And then, a voice—deep, amused, far too knowing.

“Well, well,” the man drawls. “What do we have here?”

My heart stops.

Slowly, I lift my head.

And I find myself staring into a pair of eyes—dark, sharp, and gleaming. Bad intentions—that’s what this man looks like.

His gaze sweeps over me in an instant, taking me in, assessing. His lips quirk—not a smile, not really, but something close. Something worse .

“You must be the wife,” he says.

Mark moves so fast I barely see it. One second, he’s nowhere—the next, he’s in front of me, blocking the space between us. I didn’t even know he could move that fast, but I’m grateful. I don’t want to be alone with this man.

“She’s none of your concern.”

The man doesn’t step back. Doesn’t move at all. He just watches me, head tilting slightly, like he’s intrigued.

And then, he smiles.

“Is that right?” he murmurs. “Because from where I’m standing… she looks exactly like my concern.”

Unfortunately, for both of us, his words would turn out to be very true.