I zipped my suitcase. The metal fastener snapped shut with a sharp, final sound.
Sunlight poured into the master bedroom, but the space felt entirely dead.
I grabbed the handle and rolled my luggage into the hallway.
Downstairs, the torn shreds of my divorce agreement still littered the foyer. I stepped right over them.
I pulled a fresh copy from my purse, signed the bottom line, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
An unknown number flashed on the screen.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Is this Mrs. Ivy Mercer?" a woman asked, her tone rushed. "I am calling from New York Presbyterian Hospital."
"Yes."
"Your husband was involved in a severe high-speed collision on the interstate. He is in critical condition."
A dry, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat.
Silence stretched on the other end of the line.
"Mrs. Mercer? Did you hear me? He just got out of emergency surgery. He barely survived."
"I heard you," I replied, keeping my voice flat.
"You need to come immediately."
I stared at the fresh divorce papers resting on the table. "I will be there."
I walked into the ICU wing an hour later. The sterile smell of iodine burned my nose.
"Room 412," the head nurse told me, pointing down the hall. "But stay outside. He just woke up, and he is highly agitated."
I stopped a few feet from the open doorway, hiding in the shadow of the alcove.
Through the glass panel, I saw him.
Bandages wrapped around his head. A massive bruise darkened his jaw. Tubes snaked from his arms to a wall of monitors.
Dr. Evans stood over him, shining a penlight into his eyes.
Lucas swatted the doctor's hand away.
"Stop shining that damn light," Lucas croaked.
"Mr. Mercer, you suffered massive trauma. You need to stay calm."
"Where is she?" Lucas demanded.
"Who?"
"My wife!" Lucas roared, his voice tearing at the end. "Where is Ivy?"
I pressed my spine against the corridor wall. My stomach twisted into a tight knot.
"Your wife was notified," Dr. Evans said gently. "Please, your heart rate is spiking."
"I do not care about my heart rate!" Lucas grabbed the bedrails, trying to haul himself up.
The monitors shrieked a high-pitched warning.
"Bring her to me," Lucas gasped, his face contorting in agony. "I need Ivy. Now."
Why was he screaming for me? Less than ten hours ago, he had chosen his mistress.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open.
Chloe sprinted out.
She wore a pristine white designer dress. Her makeup was flawless, though she forced a dramatic sob for the nurses to see.
She ignored the shadows where I stood. She shoved past the orderlies and burst into Room 412.
"Lucas!" Chloe wailed, rushing toward his bed.
I shifted closer to the doorframe, watching the scene unfold.
Chloe reached out to grab his uninjured hand. "Oh, my poor darling. I came as soon as I heard."
Lucas ripped his arm away as if she had burned him.
"Do not touch me," he snarled.
Chloe froze, her fake tears stalling on her cheeks. "Lucas? It is me."
He squinted, scanning her face with absolute revulsion. "Who the hell are you?"
"It is Chloe," she stammered, her voice dropping its theatrical pitch. "We work together. We were together last night."
"I have no idea who you are," Lucas spat.
"You are confused," Chloe insisted, stepping closer. "The crash must have rattled you. I am your—"
"Get away from me!"
His shout echoed down the hallway.
"You reek of cheap perfume and desperation," Lucas growled, his eyes narrowing. "Why is a stranger in my room crying fake tears?"
"Fake?" Chloe's jaw dropped. "Lucas, I love you. You bought me this bracelet yesterday!"
She held up her wrist, flashing the heavy diamonds.
Lucas stared at the jewelry, utterly blank. "I would never buy something so tacky. Where is my wife?"
"I am the one you want!" Chloe yelled, losing her temper. "Ivy is a cold bitch! You hate her!"
Lucas lunged forward.
The IV needle ripped from his vein. Blood splattered across the white sheets.
"Security!" Lucas bellowed, ignoring the crimson stain spreading over his arm. "Get this lunatic out of my sight!"
"Lucas, no!" Chloe shrieked as two large guards rushed into the room.
They grabbed her arms, hauling her backward.
"Release me! You are making a mistake! He loves me!" she screamed.
The guards dragged her out of the room, her shoes sliding uselessly against the floor tiles. She thrashed and cursed, all her elegant pretense entirely destroyed.
I watched them haul her into the elevator.
She was gone.
Inside the room, Dr. Evans rushed to compress Lucas's bleeding arm.
"You tore your stitches, Mr. Mercer. You have traumatic selective amnesia. Your brain is protecting itself by blocking recent memories."
"I remember my wife," Lucas gritted out, wincing as the doctor applied pressure. "I remember Ivy."
Mark, Lucas's executive assistant, jogged into the room, out of breath.
"Mr. Mercer, I am here."
"Mark," Lucas snapped, his gaze burning with feverish intensity. "Find Ivy."
"Sir, we called the house. The housekeeper said she packed a bag and left."
"Then track her phone."
"She turned it off. Her signal is dead."
Lucas shoved the doctor aside again, sitting up fully despite the fresh blood soaking his bandages.
"I do not pay you to make excuses!" Lucas shouted.
"Sir, you need surgery on that arm—"
"I need my wife!" Lucas's voice broke, vibrating with a raw, desperate panic I had never heard before. "Call the police. Call the mayor. Hire every private investigator in the state."
"Mr. Mercer, that will cost millions. The board will—"
"I do not care about the board!" Lucas grabbed a metal tray from the bedside table and hurled it across the room.
It smashed against the wall, sending medical supplies flying.
Mark flinched.
"Hack the city grids," Lucas ordered, his chest heaving. "Pull every traffic camera. Put a bounty on the wire. Nobody sleeps until Ivy is standing in this room."
"Understood, sir," Mark said, pulling out his phone immediately.
"Find her," Lucas whispered, his head falling back against the pillows, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "Please find her."
I stepped away from the door.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
He did not remember his betrayal. He did not remember the divorce papers. He only remembered me.
But I remembered everything.
I turned and walked quietly down the corridor, slipping out the emergency exit before anyone could spot me.
I hailed a cab outside.
"JFK Airport," I told the driver.
As the car merged onto the highway, my new burner phone lit up with a breaking news alert.
MERCER ENTERPRISES OFFERS $5 MILLION REWARD FOR INFORMATION ON CEO'S MISSING WIFE.
I stared at the glowing screen. The hunt had just begun.
