01
Elena opened her eyes slowly, the bright light from the ceiling stinging her vision like a thousand needles.
Everything was white too white. It was a blinding, clinical void that made her stomach churn with a sudden wave of nausea.
As her senses slowly returned, the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic and medicine filled her nose. It was a smell she had always hated, one that felt like a cold hand wrapping around her throat.
She tried to swallow, but her throat felt like she had been drinking sand.
She tried to move her arm, but her body felt like lead, pinned down by an invisible weight.
A sharp, throbbing pain exploded in her head, pulsing with every heartbeat. She let out a soft, broken groan, the sound echoing hollowly in the quiet room.
Taking a shaky breath, she looked down at her pale hand and froze.
There was a thin, clear tube running into her vein, but that wasn't what caught her eye. On her ring finger sat a massive diamond ring. Its gold band shone brilliantly under the harsh hospital lights, looking heavy and foreign on her skin.
Am I married? she wondered.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to rise in her chest. She searched her mind for a face, a name, a simple memory of a wedding day or a whispered "I do."
But there was nothing.
Just a dark, silent abyss where her life used to be. It was as if someone had reached into her skull and wiped the chalkboard clean.
"Who am I?" she whispered to the empty room.
Her own voice sounded like a stranger's.
Suddenly, the heavy door creaked open. Elena flinched, her eyes darting toward the sound.
A man stepped inside. He was tall, his presence immediately swallowing the air in the room.
He was dressed in an expensive charcoal suit that screamed power and old money, his shoulders broad and tense.
He was undeniably handsome, with a jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite.
But as he drew closer, Elena saw the deep lines of exhaustion and raw sadness etched into his face. His dark eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept in days.
When his eyes met hers and he realized she was awake, the breath seemed to leave his body. He rushed to her side, the expensive leather of his shoes clicking sharply on the floor.
He dropped to his knees by the bed, his large, warm hand gripping hers with a desperate, almost painful strength.
"Elena! Thank God!" he whispered, his voice thick and broken with emotion. "I thought I had lost you forever. The doctors... they said you might never wake up."
Elena pulled her hand away, her heart racing like a trapped bird. The warmth of his skin felt wrong. She didn't recognize this man.
She didn't recognize the way he looked at her, as if she were the only thing keeping him from drowning.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"And... who am I?"
The man recoiled as if she had physically struck him. For a split second, the tenderness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hard mask of pure shock. It was a fleeting transition, but it sent a shiver of dread down Elena's spine.
He quickly forced a gentle, reassuring smile, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. They remained dark and watchful.
"I am your husband, Dante Moretti," he said, his voice dropping to a low, possessive tone that made her skin crawl.
"And you are my lovely wife. We've been married for five years, Elena. You had an accident... a terrible crash."
Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, gold trimmed phone.
He scrolled quickly, his fingers trembling slightly, and showed her a photo.
In the picture, Elena was radiant, wearing a stunning white lace wedding dress.
She was laughing, her head tilted back, standing behind two small children adorable twins with curly hair who were giggling at the camera.
"These are our children, Leo and Lia," Dante whispered, his voice softening. "They've been crying for their mama every night."
Elena felt a heavy, suffocating sadness sink into her chest.
The photos showed a dream life, a perfect family with wealth and love.
But looking at Dante, she felt no spark of recognition.
No warmth. No love.
To her, he was just a beautiful, dangerous stranger.
As she looked at him, she didn't feel like a cherished wife who had been saved.
She felt like a prisoner who had just woken up in a very expensive, very beautiful cage.
Something in the way he stood over her felt less like protection and more like... ownership.
"I'll go call the doctors," Dante said, standing up.
He lingered for a moment, his gaze dragging over her face with an intensity that made her want to hide under the thin hospital sheets.
He leaned down, pressing a cold kiss to her forehead that felt more like a brand than a blessing.
"Don't move, Elena. You're safe now. I'm never letting you out of my sight again."
He stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut with a finality that sounded like a prison cell locking.
As soon as the silence returned, Elena reached up and touched her forehead where his lips had been.
Her skin felt icy.
She closed her eyes, trying to force her brain to give her something anything.
Suddenly, a single name echoed in the silence of her mind like a ghost, loud and clear.
Razack.
She didn't know who he was or what he looked like, but the name brought a warmth to her chest that Dante's presence hadn't.
It felt like a lifeline in the dark.
Driven by a sudden, desperate urge, Elena sat up, ignoring the stabbing pain in her head. She looked at the nightstand. Dante had left his phone there in his rush to find the doctor.
With trembling hands, she grabbed the device.
It was locked, but a notification popped up on the screen a message from an unsaved number.
"Is she dead yet, Dante? If she wakes up, she'll tell them what you did to her."
Elena's breath hitched in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at the screen.
At that moment, the door handle began to turn.