The world didn't change overnight.
It fractured.
Hilary discovered this the next morning.
She woke up to light—soft, pale, unfamiliar. The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and linen detergent, layered beneath something warmer.
She inhaled again.
Cedar.
Amber.
That scent.
Her chest tightened.
Before she could think, a voice spoke.
"Good morning."
Hilary's eyes flew open.
A man sat beside her bed, his posture stiff, his hands clasped together like he'd been afraid to move. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked exhausted.
He smiled.
The smile did nothing to her.
Panic stirred, sharp and immediate.
"I'm Gerard," he said quickly, gently. "Your husband."
The words hit her like cold water.
Hilary swallowed. "You don't have to say it like that."
His smile faltered. "Like what?"
"Like you're introducing yourself to a stranger."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Gerard nodded once. "Okay," he said quietly. "How would you like me to say it?"
Hilary stared at his face—at the curve of his mouth, the faint line between his brows, the familiarity that should have been there and wasn't.
She closed her eyes.
"Say it slowly," she whispered. "Please."
Gerard inhaled.
"I am Gerard," he said. "Your husband."
A pause.
"I love you."
Her chest ached.
Not because she remembered him.
But because she could feel the weight of his love pressing into the space where recognition should have lived.
Hilary nodded. "Okay."
She reached for the sheets, grounding herself in texture instead of faces.
"Jess?"
"She's with the nurse," Gerard said immediately. "She didn't want to leave, but she fell asleep around dawn."
Hilary exhaled. "Good."
A fragile calm settled between them.
Until footsteps echoed in the hallway.
The door opened.
Three people entered.
White coats.
Clipboards.
Familiar shapes arranged in unfamiliar faces.
Hilary's heart began to pound.
"Mrs. Laurent," one of them said kindly. "How are you feeling?"
Hilary forced herself to breathe. "I have a headache."
"That's expected," the doctor replied. "We'd like to run a few more tests."
Gerard stood instantly. "I'll stay."
The doctor nodded. "Of course."
They spoke around Hilary—about scans, pressure, observation.
She caught words like *progressive*, *monitoring*, *risk*.
She focused on Gerard's scent.
Anchored herself to it.
Then the doctor turned to her.
"Mrs. Laurent," he said gently, "do you recognize me?"
Hilary hesitated.
The room tilted.
"I… can see you," she said carefully. "But I don't know who you are."
The doctor nodded, unsurprised.
"And this man?" He gestured to Gerard.
Hilary's fingers clenched.
"I know he's my husband," she said. "Because he told me."
The air thickened.
"And if he hadn't?" the doctor asked.
Hilary looked at Gerard.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were fixed on her, waiting.
"I wouldn't know," she whispered.
Silence.
The doctor made a note on his clipboard.
"Thank you," he said. "That's all for now."
They left.
The door clicked shut.
Hilary felt like she couldn't breathe.
She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I don't want them asking me that in front of people."
Gerard's voice softened. "They need to understand—"
"I need to survive," she cut in.
Her hands shook.
"If this gets out, the board will destroy me."
"They won't," Gerard said immediately.
"They will," she snapped, then stopped herself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I know," he said. "You're scared."
She laughed weakly. "I don't even know who's allowed to scare me anymore."
Gerard didn't respond.
Hilary looked up.
He was watching her like she might disappear if he blinked.
"I need rules," she said suddenly.
"Rules?" he echoed.
"So I don't fall apart," she explained. "So this… thing doesn't swallow me."
Gerard nodded slowly. "Tell me."
She swallowed. "One—don't touch me without warning."
Pain flickered across his face.
"Okay," he said.
"Two—if we're in public, you stay on my right."
"Why?"
"Because I'm right-handed," she said. "If I panic, I'll reach there first."
He absorbed that. "Alright."
"And three—" Her voice wavered. "If I don't recognize you… you don't look offended."
His throat worked.
"I won't," he promised.
A knock interrupted them.
A nurse peeked in. "Your daughter's awake."
Jessica ran in moments later, her red ribbon bouncing wildly.
"Mama!"
Hilary's heart surged with relief. She opened her arms instinctively.
Jessica barreled into her chest, clinging tightly.
"I was scared," she whispered.
Hilary pressed her face into her daughter's hair, breathing her in.
Strawberry shampoo.
Crayons.
Something warm and alive.
"I'm here," Hilary murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."
Jessica pulled back, studying her face with unnerving seriousness.
"Papa told me you're sick," she said. "In your head."
Hilary stiffened.
Gerard stepped forward. "Jess—"
"It's okay," Hilary said softly. "What did he tell you?"
"That sometimes you forget faces," Jessica replied. "Like when I forget names at school."
Hilary smiled faintly. "Something like that."
Jessica nodded, accepting it.
Then she reached up and touched Hilary's cheek. "I'll help you."
Hilary's throat tightened. "Help me how?"
Jessica thought for a moment.
"I'll be your eyes," she declared. "Papa can't be everywhere."
Gerard sucked in a breath.
Hilary laughed weakly. "That's not your job."
Jessica frowned. "I want it to be."
She untied the red ribbon from her hair and wrapped it gently around Hilary's wrist.
"So you don't forget me," she said.
Hilary stared at the ribbon.
Her vision blurred.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Jessica beamed.
Later, after Jessica fell asleep curled beside her, Hilary lay staring at the ceiling.
Gerard sat nearby, working silently on his phone.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Canceling my flight," he replied.
Hilary frowned. "What flight?"
"The one to Singapore," he said. "Board meeting."
Her stomach dropped. "You can't do that."
"I already did."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he said firmly.
She turned toward him. "Your company—"
"Is not more important than you," he said.
Her chest tightened. "That's easy to say now."
He looked at her. "It's always been easy."
She searched his face.
Nothing.
Only the scent told her the truth.
"I'm going to be a burden," she whispered.
Gerard stood and moved closer—slowly, deliberately.
"I married you," he said, "not your perfection."
Tears slid down her temples.
She didn't see him wipe them away.
But she felt the warmth of his hand.
That night, when Hilary finally slept, Gerard remained seated beside her bed.
He watched her chest rise and fall.
And wondered how long the world would let him protect her before demanding proof she no longer had.
---
The next morning, the hospital room filled with voices.
Suit jackets.
Perfume.
Authority.
Hilary's heart began to race.
She recognized none of them.
The board of directors had arrived.
And she had never felt more exposed in her life.