Rain tapped softly against the high windows of the Reign estate, a steady, rhythmic sound that somehow made the silence between them even louder.
Eliza Hart sat at the long dining table, her posture straight, every inch of her effort trained to appear composed even as her heart wilted behind her ribs. She wore a navy silk dress that he had never complimented, hair pinned with a comb she bought with hope, only to wear it in vain.
Across from her, Alexander Reign flipped through messages on his phone, untouched glass of wine to his right, untouched wife to his left.
"I was thinking," she said quietly, breaking the silence that had wrapped itself around them like a second skin. "Maybe next weekend, we could visit your grandmother's vineyard in Saint-Émilion. It's been almost a year since"
"No." His voice was clipped, final. "My calendar's full."
Her throat tightened. "Of course."
He didn't look up. He never did—not unless it was business.
To the outside world, they were a golden couple. Billionaire mogul marries the daughter of a powerful legacy family. They graced magazines, attended galas, smiled on red carpets. But the truth lived here—beneath chandeliers, behind closed doors, between two people who shared a last name and almost nothing else.
He finally glanced up, and his blue eyes—cold and sharp as winter skies—met hers. "You don't need to keep playing house, Eliza."
"I'm not playing," she whispered.
He pushed his chair back. "Then stop pretending this is something it isn't."
When he disappeared into his study, the silence returned. Thicker. Crueler.
She stayed at the table long after the food had gone cold. Her heart, she realized, had done the same.
That night, Eliza wandered the halls of the estate like a ghost haunting her own life. She paused before the guest bedroom—her room—and pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door. When they married, she'd hoped things would change. That maybe, in time, he'd see her as more than an obligation. But love doesn't bloom in ice.
She reached for her phone and stared at an unsent message to her best friend:
I don't think he'll ever love me.
She deleted it. What was the point?
Three hours later, her world fractured with a single phone call.
"Eliza Hart?" The voice on the other end was urgent. "Your husband's been in an accident. We need you at St. Regis Hospital—now."
The breath rushed from her lungs.
"What happened?"
"Car collision. He's alive, but unconscious. We'll know more once you arrive."
She didn't remember grabbing her coat. Didn't remember the drive through pouring rain. Only that her heels echoed through the sterile halls of the hospital, her heart beating faster with every step.
When she reached the ICU waiting room, she saw one of Alex's assistants, pale and tight-lipped.
"Where is he?" she asked.
"They're stabilizing him. Internal bleeding. Concussion. Broken ribs. But he's alive."
Alive. But broken.
Just like their marriage.
It was nearly dawn before a nurse finally came to her.
"He's awake," the woman said. "But… he's confused."
Confused?
Eliza followed her down the corridor, each step heavier than the last. Her hands trembled as she pushed open the door.
Alex lay in the hospital bed, pale, bruised, wires trailing from his arms and chest. His gaze flicked to her, confused, searching.
She smiled, tentative. "Alex, it's me…"
He frowned. "Do I… know you?"
The words sliced through her.
"It's me Eliza. Your wife."
His brows furrowed. "Wife?"
A long silence.
Then, almost painfully, he whispered, "I… I don't remember pretending to Love You.
The morning after Alex's accident, Eliza sat in a hospital chair beside his bed, her hands folded in her lap, nails bitten down to the quick.
He was awake. Alert. But blank.
She watched him gaze around the sterile room like a stranger dropped into a foreign land. Every beep of the monitors, every rustle of sheets, was a reminder that this was not a dream.
He didn't remember her.
Not her name. Not her voice. Not their wedding day. Not the years of cold dinners, missed birthdays, and aching silences.
And cruelly, the doctors had filled in the blanks for him.
"She's your wife," they said. "You two are married."
She should've corrected them. Told them the truth that the marriage was arranged, that they barely touched, that he had once said he'd never love her.
But when he looked at her with tentative hope Is it true? Were we happy? her throat locked. The lie had already been planted.
So she nodded. "Yes. We were… in love."
And the lie became hers.
In the following days, Eliza became both nurse and actress.
She brought books she knew he wouldn't remember liking. Played music they had never danced to. Told stories from a marriage that had never existed.
He listened with quiet fascination, clinging to every detail as though it would stitch together the torn canvas of his memory.
"Did we laugh a lot?" he asked once, his voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled gently. "Yes. All the time."
Another lie. But one that made him smile.
She hated how easily he trusted her now.
One afternoon, as she helped him into a wheelchair for a short walk down the corridor, his hand brushed hers. He didn't pull away.
Instead, he laced their fingers together.
"You're so kind to me," he said. "I feel like I've known you forever."
Tears threatened behind her lashes.
"I wish you had," she murmured.
Because maybe then, he would've loved her.
She wasn't prepared for the guilt. Or the warmth.
The man she'd married had been cold, calculating, emotionally unreachable.
But this Alex? He was softer. Curious. Sometimes even funny.
He looked at her like she mattered.
And for the first time, she felt what it might've been like to be truly loved by him.
But it wasn't real.
She was building a house of cards, and any moment, it could come crashing down.
The crash began the day Cassandra Vale walked back into their lives.
Tall, poised, and venomous beneath her beauty, Cassandra entered the hospital room uninvited, red lips curled into a predatory smile.
"Well," she said, her eyes scanning Eliza with disdain. "Looks like the accident didn't fix everything."
Alex looked up, puzzled. "Do I… know you?"
Cassandra's smile widened. "You did. Intimately."
Eliza stiffened. Cassandra's gaze flicked to her, dagger-sharp.
"Oh, don't look so shocked, darling. I was his fiancée before you walked into the picture."
Alex blinked. "Is that true?"
Eliza's voice caught. "It… it was complicated."
Cassandra stepped closer to the bed. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm here now. I'll help you remember who you really are."
Eliza's heart thudded. The performance was ending. And the villain had taken center stage.