The kitchen smelled like perfection.
Butter melting into copper pans.
Rosemary crushed between careful fingers.
The low hum of industrial ovens breathing warmth into marble walls.
Hilary loved this moment—the fragile calm before chaos.
"Five minutes!" someone shouted.
Hilary adjusted her chef's jacket and leaned closer to the plating table, her eyes scanning every detail with ruthless precision. The lamb was seared exactly where it should be, the glaze shining under the lights like polished amber. She inhaled softly.
Perfect.
"Mama!"
A small voice cut through the noise.
Hilary turned, instantly smiling. Jessica stood near the doorway, her red ribbon bouncing against her dark hair. Seven years old, too small for a place this busy, but stubborn enough to follow Hilary anywhere.
"Hey, starshine," Hilary said, crouching. "You're not supposed to be here."
Jessica shrugged. "Papa said it's okay. He's watching."
Hilary glanced up instinctively.
Gerard stood near the glass wall overlooking the kitchen, tall and immaculate in a charcoal suit that looked absurdly out of place among stainless steel and fire. His eyes met hers immediately. There was that familiar look—quiet pride mixed with worry.
He gave her a small nod.
Her heart steadied.
Hilary reached for Jessica's hand. "Alright. But you stand right here. Don't move."
Jessica saluted. "Yes, Chef."
Hilary laughed, brushing a kiss into her daughter's hair before standing again.
This was her kingdom.
This kitchen.
This moment.
The floor trembled.
At first, Hilary thought it was just another industrial vibration—something heavy shifting below ground. But then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The hum of the ovens faltered.
"—What the hell was that?" someone muttered.
The tremor returned, stronger.
The ceiling groaned.
"Earthquake!" someone screamed.
Everything happened at once.
Plates shattered.
Steel racks rattled.
A deafening crack split the air as part of the ceiling collapsed near the prep station.
"Jessica!"
Hilary didn't think. She ran.
The floor lurched violently beneath her feet. She slipped, caught herself, then lunged again as another shockwave slammed through the room. Dust filled the air, choking and blinding.
Jessica was frozen, eyes wide.
"Mama!"
Hilary reached her just as a heavy light fixture tore loose from the ceiling.
Hilary wrapped her arms around her daughter and turned—
Pain exploded.
Her head struck the marble counter with a sickening force.
The world shattered into white noise.
The last thing Hilary smelled was smoke and rosemary.
Then nothing.
---
Hilary woke to silence.
Not the comforting quiet of early mornings.
Not the gentle stillness of a kitchen after service.
This silence was hollow.
She opened her eyes.
White ceiling.
Soft beeping.
The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic.
Hospital.
Her head throbbed violently. She tried to move and winced.
"Mama?"
Hilary turned her head toward the voice.
Jessica stood beside the bed, eyes red, face blotchy from crying. Relief flooded Hilary's chest so hard it hurt.
"Jess…" Her voice came out hoarse. "Are you okay?"
Jessica nodded quickly. "I'm okay. Papa saved me."
Papa.
Hilary's heart squeezed.
She looked past Jessica.
A man stood on the other side of the bed.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair slightly disheveled.
His suit was wrinkled, his tie gone.
He looked at her like the world might end if she blinked.
Tears streaked down his face.
Hilary stared.
Something inside her chest twisted.
She waited for the familiar rush—the instinctive recognition, the warmth that always came with seeing him.
It didn't come.
The man stepped closer. His hand trembled as he reached for hers.
"Hils," he whispered. "You're awake."
Hilary flinched.
Not because of his voice.
Because she didn't know him.
Her fingers curled slowly into the sheets.
Jessica frowned. "Mama?"
Hilary swallowed. Her mouth was dry, her pulse suddenly racing.
"Who…" Her voice shook. "Who are you?"
The man froze.
The room shattered.
A sound tore out of his chest—half breath, half sob.
"I—" His throat worked. "I'm Gerard."
Silence crashed down harder than the earthquake ever had.
Jessica looked between them, confusion blooming into fear. "Mama, that's Papa."
Hilary's heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
She looked at the man again.
Really looked.
She could describe him perfectly—every line of his face, the shape of his jaw, the color of his eyes.
But none of it meant anything.
There was no recognition.
No emotional anchor.
No sense of *this is mine.*
Only a stranger standing too close.
"I'm sorry," Hilary whispered, panic curling through her veins. "I… I don't know you."
Gerard's knees buckled slightly. He gripped the bedrail to steady himself.
The beeping monitor spiked.
Doctors rushed in.
Nurses crowded the room.
Questions flew past Hilary like debris.
She answered what she could.
Name.
Age.
Date.
All correct.
"Do you recognize your husband?" someone asked gently.
Hilary hesitated.
She looked at Jessica.
At the man who was supposedly her husband.
"I don't," she said softly.
Gerard closed his eyes.
---
The diagnosis came in pieces.
CT scans.
MRIs.
Whispers in hallways.
Hilary listened, numb.
"Progressive prosopagnosia," the neurologist finally said. "Face blindness."
Hilary stared at the doctor. "I can see faces."
"Yes," he replied. "But your brain can no longer attach identity to them."
Gerard stood rigid beside her.
"There's a mass," the doctor continued. "A small tumor pressing against the area responsible for facial recognition."
Hilary felt cold.
"Is it permanent?"
The doctor hesitated.
"It may worsen."
Silence swallowed the room.
After they left, Gerard sat beside her bed. He didn't touch her. He didn't move closer.
Like he was afraid she might recoil again.
"I'll fix this," he said hoarsely. "I'll get the best doctors. Anywhere. Any cost."
Hilary nodded, unable to speak.
She hated the way he looked at her.
Like he was losing her while she was still breathing.
"I don't want anyone to know," she said suddenly.
Gerard blinked. "What?"
"If the board finds out," Hilary said quietly, "I'm finished."
"You're not—"
"I am," she cut in. "They'll call me unstable. Dangerous. A liability."
Gerard clenched his jaw.
Hilary met his eyes—studying them, memorizing them, knowing it wouldn't matter.
"Please," she whispered. "Just… help me pretend."
He inhaled sharply.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "We'll keep it between us."
A pause.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
Hilary tensed.
He leaned closer, his voice low.
"I'm going to introduce myself every morning," he said. "Every time you need it."
He met her gaze.
"I am Gerard," he said clearly. "Your husband. And I love you."
Something shifted.
Not recognition.
But something else.
A familiar warmth brushed against her senses.
She inhaled.
Cedar.
Amber.
Something clean and steady beneath it.
Her chest loosened.
She didn't know his face.
But she knew that scent.
Hilary's eyes filled with tears.
---
Later that night, when the room was dark and quiet, Hilary tried to sit up on her own.
Her gaze drifted to the mirror across the room.
A woman stared back at her.
Pale.
Bandaged.
Terrified.
A man stood behind her reflection.
Tall.
Unfamiliar.
Her heart began to race.
She turned slowly.
The same man stood beside her bed.
He spoke gently.
"It's me."
Her breath hitched.
Hilary stared at his face.
And realized—
She couldn't recognize her husband even in the mirror.
The darkness pressed closer.