I stared at the glowing screen in the hospital lobby. *Meet me in the lobby in five minutes if you want your fiancé back.*
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Before I typed a single letter, the sterile smell of the corridor dragged me backward. Three months backward.
Twisted metal. Shattered glass. The deafening wail of sirens.
"Leave me," a bleeding stranger had groaned, his head slumped against the steering wheel of a burning sedan on Route 9.
"Shut up and use your legs," I had grunted, hauling his heavy frame over the rough asphalt just before the engine exploded.
Two days later, he woke up in a standard-issue ward. Thick medical gauze wrapped entirely around his eyes and skull.
"Who is there?" His hands battered the empty air, knocking a plastic water pitcher to the linoleum floor. "Turn the lights on!"
I caught his flying wrists. His pulse hammered violently against my palms.
"The lights are on," I told him, keeping my tone steady. "You had a major eye operation. You need to stay still."
"I see nothing." He yanked his arms away, his chest heaving under the thin hospital gown. "I have no idea where I am. I do not even know my own name."
"You were in a severe crash," I explained, picking up the fallen pitcher. "I brought you here."
He stopped thrashing. His head tilted directly toward the sound of my voice. "You saved my life?"
"I pulled you out of the wreckage."
He reached out blindly. His fingers brushed my forearm, gripping the fabric of my sleeve. "Do not leave me. Please."
For weeks, I stayed. I fed him cold soup. I guided his hands to the water cup. He had no phone, no wallet, and an entirely blank memory. He relied on me for everything.
"You smell like vanilla and old paper," he murmured one evening. I was wiping dried blood from his collarbone with a damp cloth.
"I work at a library," I replied, tossing the rag into a plastic basin.
He caught my fingers, his grip surprisingly strong. "You are the only real thing in this dark room, Loria."
"You will remember your life soon enough."
"I have no interest in my old life. I just want to look at you."
But the doctors painted a far bleaker picture.
Dr. Evans pulled me into the hallway one rainy Tuesday, his expression grim.
"His physical wounds are healing nicely," the doctor murmured, flipping a metal clipboard. "But the brain contusion is highly unpredictable."
"He still has no memory of his family," I pressed, glancing through the glass window.
"The human brain is a fragile machine," Evans replied, tapping his pen against the chart. "The trauma to his frontal lobe caused severe dissociative amnesia. He forgot his identity to protect his mind from the shock."
"Will it last forever?"
"As the swelling goes down, his past might flood back all at once. But there is a massive risk." Evans lowered his voice. "If he experiences another spike in stress, or a sudden shock, the brain might reset again. He could lose the last three months entirely."
"He would forget me."
"He would forget everything post-accident."
I looked back into the room. Darius sat on the edge of the mattress, his head turned toward the window, listening to the rain hit the glass.
"I will keep watching him," I promised.
Then, exactly one week ago, everything shifted.
I walked into his room carrying a tray of lukewarm tea. Two men in sharp black suits stood at attention by the door.
Darius sat upright. The hesitation in his posture was completely gone.
"Loria," he commanded. The raw panic had vanished from his tone, replaced by absolute, unquestionable authority. "Come here."
I set the tray down on the nearest table. "Who are they?"
"My security team," he stated. "My memory returned last night. My name is Darius Caldwell. I run a private equity firm in Manhattan."
A harsh, unexpected laugh scraped its way out of my throat. "A CEO."
"Does my profession amuse you?"
"It terrifies me," I admitted, taking a step backward. "I make fifteen dollars an hour organizing dusty books. So, you are leaving."
"No." He snapped his fingers.
The suits immediately exited the room, shutting the heavy door behind them.
"I had my team secure a VIP suite upstairs," Darius announced. "We are moving."
"We?"
"You are coming with me." He patted the mattress beside him. "Sit down."
I stayed glued to the floor. "You have a family. A real life. You do not need a charity nurse anymore."
"My life is right here." He stood up, navigating the space flawlessly despite the thick bandages over his eyes. He found my shoulders, his hands warm and firm. "You fed me. You grounded me when I was terrified. I am marrying you, Loria."
My stomach twisted into a painful knot. "You do not even know what I look like."
"Let me touch your face." He lifted his right hand.
"No!" I scrambled backward, my spine hitting the cold plaster wall.
His arm dropped. A muscle leaped in his jaw. "You flinch every time I try to touch you. Why?"
"I wear a veil," I blurted out. The truth tasted like ash on my tongue. "I never take it off outside my house."
"Why?" he demanded, stepping closer.
"There was a house fire when I was ten. The left side of my face is ruined. It is an ugly, jagged burn scar, Darius."
Silence stretched between us. The heart monitors beeped in a steady, mocking rhythm.
"Do you honestly think a scar matters to me?" His voice dropped, vibrating with fierce intensity.
"You will care when the bandages come off."
He closed the distance, trapping me against the wall. "I spent three months in complete darkness. You were the only light I had."
"Darius—"
"Listen to me." He gripped my chin, keeping his thumb carefully away from my cheek. "I survived a burning car. A burn scar does not scare me. I do not care if you hide your face from the rest of the world. I love you."
Tears spilled over my lashes, soaking into the thick mesh of my veil.
"When they remove this gauze," he vowed, his breath warm against my forehead, "you will be the first thing I see. And I will put a ring on your finger."
The memory shattered like cheap glass.
I stood in the present-day hospital lobby, the phantom weight of his promise still burning on my skin. He had sworn the scar would not matter.
But Celeste did not have a scar. Celeste had perfect, flawless porcelain skin.
And Darius had forgotten me all over again. The doctor's warning echoed relentlessly in my skull. *He could lose the last three months entirely.*
My phone buzzed a second time, vibrating violently against my palm.
*Four minutes. Lobby cafe. Do not keep me waiting.*
I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. Shoving the phone into my pocket, I pushed through the glass doors toward the hospital cafe. I needed that security footage. I needed to prove to Darius who really sat by his bed.
The cafe was nearly empty. I spotted a man sitting in the darkest corner booth, his face shadowed by a low baseball cap.
He slid a sleek silver flash drive across the table.
"Sit down, Loria," a smooth, calculating voice instructed. "We have a lot to discuss about your sister."
