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Gillian

T he car ride is silent.

I don’t ask where we’re going.

I already know.

Ellis’s home is the kind of place you don’t forget, even if they try to make you. Especially then.

The driver doesn’t speak. His hands grip the wheel, ten and two, eyes fixed on the road. Outside, the city blurs into a smear of neon and shadow. Inside, it’s too quiet—traffic noise muted by tinted glass, the thick silence of the back seat stretching between us. The leather creaks when I shift, a small sound that seems too loud in the heavy stillness.

I catch my reflection in the window—my own face staring back. Blank. Unreadable.

I wonder if I’m forgetting something important.

No.

I know I am.

Ellis likes that.

The gates slide open before we even reach them. By the time the car stops in front of the house, the door is already open.

He’s waiting.

I’m not sure why. Ellis always gets what he wants.

I step out, smoothing my dress with careful hands.

He doesn’t greet me. He just watches, relaxed and composed, like a man who doesn’t question how the night will end.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“I didn’t know I had a choice.”

That makes him smile. “You didn’t.”

Inside, nothing is out of place. The lighting is low, soft music curling through the air—something curated, something designed. No different than everything else in his world.

The staff is there but not there. A shadow in the periphery. A woman in uniform lingers at the edge of the hallway, her gaze carefully averted.

Ellis leads me into the dining room. Two plates. Two wine glasses. A meal laid out as if this were a date.

We both know it isn’t.

He pours the wine himself, slow and deliberate.

“Do you know why you’re here, Gillian?”

I should.

I don’t.

His eyes flicker, amused. He sees the hesitation. He likes it.

I test him. “You said you missed me.”

A smirk. “Did I?”

I lift my glass. “Didn’t you?”

His lips twitch. He enjoys this. The pretense, the unraveling.

I play along. It’s easier that way. Safer.

“You’ve been distracted,” he says, swirling his wine. “Forgetting things.”

The words settle between us. Heavy. Pointed.

I know what he’s doing.

I’ll play his games. But not that one.

“I remember this.” I gesture at the table. “Dinner. Wine. You like red, but not too dry.”

Ellis’s gaze sharpens.

I don’t know if I’m right.

But I know I’ve shifted something.

“You always were clever,” he says, reaching for my wrist. His thumb strokes slow circles against my pulse.

It’s either a test or a warning. Probably both.

“Do you remember the last time we had dinner together?”

I should.

I don’t.

He tilts his head. “I don’t like being forgotten, Gillian.”

I want to say you’re impossible to forget.

I want to say I wish I could.

Instead, I say nothing.

Ellis leans in, his breath warm against my skin. “That’s why this time I made sure you wouldn’t.”

A chill slides through me.

No.

No, he wouldn’t.

He would.

The resets aren’t universal. They aren’t complete.

He chooses what stays.

His fingers slip beneath my chin, tilting my face to meet his.

“I don’t forget my nights with you, Gillian.”

His lips brush my ear. “You shouldn’t, either.”

The air shifts.

I remember.

The warmth of his hands, the press of his body, the way he peels away every layer like he’s entitled to what’s underneath.

He’s right. I shouldn’t.

But I do.

My fingers tighten around my glass.

Ellis leans back, satisfied.

“Finish your wine,” he says.

No command. No request. Just the weight of expectation.

I drink.

He raises his glass in a slow, deliberate toast. “To us.”

I clink my glass against his, and I drink, because I don’t have a choice.

I smile, because that’s what he expects.

But inside, something is screaming.