The hospital discharged her two weeks later.
By then, she had learned exactly three things about herself:
Rebirth of Reina 1. She was allergic to strawberries.
2. She healed fast—too fast, according to Dr. Patel.
3. No one was coming for her.
The police visited twice, both times leaving with polite apologies and vague reassurances about "ongoing investigations." They couldn't identify her. No missing person reports matched her face.
It was as if she had appeared out of thin air in a torn wedding gown, clutching a warning and half a photograph.
And so, when the nurse at the discharge desk asked for her name for the last time, she gave them a new one.
"Reina," she said, the syllables tasting strange but right on her tongue. "Reina Blake."
The surname came from the street she could see from her hospital window—Blake Avenue. She chose it because it was ordinary. Safe.
The first week outside the hospital was brutal. She rented a single room above a bakery in a neighborhood that smelled of yeast and rain. Nights were the hardest. She would lie awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, the torn wedding photo hidden under her pillow. Sometimes she would dream—bits of memory too fractured to trust. The sound of a man's laugh. The weight of a gold band on her finger. The scent of smoke.
She didn't know if the man was Damian Stone. She didn't know if he was the faceless groom in the photo. All she knew was the warning burned into her mind: Don't trust him.
Months blurred into a year. Then another.
She built a life from nothing. At first, she cleaned offices and worked night shifts at a convenience store, saving every coin she could. She learned how to move quietly, how to read faces, how to tell when someone was lying.
By the third year, she had turned those skills into a job—private investigator. A risky profession for someone with no past, but Reina thrived in the shadows. She found missing persons, exposed cheating spouses, tracked runaway teens. The anonymity worked in her favor; no one could dig up dirt on someone who didn't officially exist.
But her greatest treasure wasn't her new name or her independence. It was the boy with wide brown eyes and a stubborn chin—Ezra.
He was three now, his hair dark as midnight, his gaze sharp enough to make grown men fidget. He had her mouth but… sometimes, in certain light, she caught a glimmer in his eyes that made her chest tighten in ways she didn't want to examine.
They lived in a small apartment with peeling wallpaper, but it was home. Ezra's laughter filled every corner. He liked to line up his toy cars along the windowsill, whispering to them as if they were his soldiers.
On the morning everything began to change, Reina sat at their tiny kitchen table, coffee cooling in her hands. Ezra was in the corner, building a fortress out of cereal boxes.
The knock at the door was sharp.
She opened it to find a tall man in a charcoal suit, his hair slicked back. He didn't smile. "Ms. Blake? I have a client who requires your… particular skills."
She studied him for a beat. "You'll have to be more specific."
He handed her a sealed envelope. "All details are inside. If you accept, you'll be compensated handsomely."
When he left, she sat back down and opened the envelope. Inside was a manila folder—and a name on the first page.
Damian Stone.
Her blood went cold.
The file contained photos—recent ones. Damian Stone at a boardroom table, Damian Stone stepping out of a black car, Damian Stone shaking hands with men in expensive suits. His jaw was sharp, his eyes pale and unreadable.
The same jaw from her torn wedding photo.
Her fingers curled around the paper until it crumpled.
The job was simple on paper: follow Damian Stone, document his movements, and report back to the client. No questions asked.
But for Reina, there was nothing simple about it. This was the man someone had told her not to trust. This was the man who might hold the key to everything she couldn't remember.
That night, after putting Ezra to bed, she sat by the window with the torn wedding photo. She placed it beside one of the recent shots from the file. The edges didn't match perfectly, but her gut whispered it was the same man.
She told herself this was just another job. That she could handle it. That she would keep her distance.
But deep down, she knew—once she stepped into Damian Stone's orbit, there would be no going back.
---
The next evening, she followed him.
Damian Stone moved like a man who owned the ground under his feet. Expensive suit, perfect posture, a watch worth more than her rent for the year. His presence drew eyes wherever he went, though he didn't seem to notice—or care.
She trailed him from his office tower to a sleek black sedan, then to a glass-walled building glowing against the city skyline. A gala, judging by the glittering gowns and flashing cameras at the entrance.
She hesitated across the street. This wasn't part of the plan. But curiosity—dangerous, relentless curiosity—pulled her forward.
The security at the door barely glanced at her forged pass. Inside, crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over marble floors. Music floated through the air, rich and slow.
She spotted him near the center of the room, surrounded by powerful men and beautiful women. He laughed at something, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Then, as if sensing her, Damian turned.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
For a heartbeat, the room fell away. His expression froze, his gaze locked on her face as if he'd seen a ghost.
And maybe he had.
Reina forced her lips into a cold, polite smile before turning away, her heels clicking on the marble. She didn't wait to see if he followed.
Outside, the night air was sharp against her skin. Her heart was still pounding when she slid into her beat-up sedan.
She had come here for answers. Inst
ead, she'd left with more questions—and the unsettling certainty that Damian Stone recognized her.