CASS
I'm not pretending!
The words explode out of me. I shove Damien's chest, pushing him back. He barely moves, but surprise flickers across his face.
I'm not playing games, I continue, my voice shaking with anger and fear. I'm not lying. I don't remember anything! Not you, not a wedding, not coming here. The last thing I remember is my engagement party two weeks ago, and then I woke up in your bed with a ring on my finger and a hole in my memory!
Damien studies my face for a long moment. Whatever he sees there makes his shoulders relax slightly.
You're telling the truth, he says. It's not a question.
Yes! I want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Why would I lie about this? Why would I want to forget three entire days of my life?
You wouldn't. His expression darkens. Which means someone wanted you to forget.
A chill runs down my spine. What?
Your phone, he says, changing the subject. You want to call your family, right? Come on.
He walks toward the door. I hesitate, then follow. What choice do I have?
The penthouse is huge. We pass through a living room with windows overlooking the city, down a hallway lined with expensive art, and into a kitchen that's bigger than my entire apartment.
My phone sits on the counter, plugged into a charger.
I grab it like a lifeline. The screen lights up, and my stomach drops.
Forty-seven missed calls. Sixty-three text messages. Twenty voicemails.
Oh my God, I whisper.
The calls are from everyone: my father, Marcus, my sister Vanessa, numbers I don't recognize. I start scrolling through the texts with trembling fingers.
Dad: Cassandra, where are you? Call me immediately.
Dad: This is unacceptable. You will come home NOW.
Dad: Fine. If you won't answer, I'm calling the police.
Marcus: Cass, baby, please call me. Everyone's worried about you.
Marcus: Your father told me about your episodes. It's okay. We'll get you help.
Marcus: You're scaring me. Please, just let me know you're safe.
Vanessa: Cass! Please answer! I'm so worried! Dad says you're missing!
Vanessa: Where did you go? Marcus is freaking out. We all are.
Vanessa: Please come home. We love you. We want to help you.
Episodes? Help me? What are they talking about?
I open one of the news articles Damien showed me on my phone's browser. My hands shake so badly I almost drop it.
The headline screams at me: WHITMORE HEIRESS VANISHES BEFORE WEDDING
There's a photo of Marcus looking devastated, his perfect face twisted with concern. The article says I disappeared three days before our wedding. That I've been struggling with mental health issues. That my family is desperately searching for me.
This is insane, I breathe. Our wedding isn't for another month. I wasn't supposed to marry Marcus for weeks.
Actually, Damien says quietly, according to the wedding planner's records, your wedding was moved up. It was scheduled for this Saturday. Two days from now.
I stare at him. That's impossible. I would remember planning—
I stop. Because I don't remember. I don't remember the last two weeks at all.
My father's next text makes my blood run cold:
Dad: Dr. Cross is ready to help you, sweetheart. Just come home. We'll make sure you get the treatment you need.
Dr. Cross, I whisper. Why is he involved?
He's your father's psychiatrist, right? Damien asks.
He's the family doctor. He treats everyone—physical stuff, stress, whatever we need. But even as I say it, something feels wrong. Why would my father mention him?
Damien takes my phone gently from my hands. He scrolls through something, then shows me the screen.
It's another news article. This one quotes Dr. Cross directly:
I've been treating Miss Whitmore for several months now. She's been experiencing increased paranoia, delusional thinking, and emotional instability. Her disappearance, while concerning, is not entirely unexpected given her current mental state.
No, I say. No, that's a lie. I've never been his patient. I'm not—I don't have—
I know, Damien says.
How do you know? I snap. You don't know me!
I know you came to my door three nights ago completely terrified but absolutely sane. I know you had a USB drive full of evidence. I know you told me exactly why you needed protection and how to get it. His eyes lock onto mine. And I know you were smart enough to realize your family would try to discredit you by claiming you're mentally ill.
My legs feel weak. I sink into a chair at the kitchen counter.
Tell me, I say. Tell me everything that happened. The whole timeline.
Damien pours two cups of coffee and sets one in front of me. Then he sits across from me and begins.
Saturday night. 2:13 AM. You arrived at my building in a taxi. You were carrying nothing except your purse and a USB drive. The doorman called up to ask if I was expecting you. I wasn't, but I told him to send you up anyway.
Why?
Because we... He pauses. Because I recognized your name. And I was curious.
There's something he's not telling me, but I let it go. For now.
You came up in the elevator, he continues. You were shaking, crying. You told me your father and Marcus were planning something terrible. That you'd discovered evidence of crimes—embezzlement, fraud, worse. You said they found out you knew, and they were going to either kill you or have you locked up in a psychiatric hospital.
My coffee sits untouched, going cold.
You begged me to marry you. You said it was the only protection that would work—that as my wife, you'd have legal rights they couldn't easily override. That they couldn't force you to testify or access you without going through me first.
And you just... agreed? I ask. Just like that?
His jaw tightens. I had my reasons.
What reasons?
That's not important right now. He won't meet my eyes. What's important is that we went to a 24-hour marriage office. I have connections—the clerk owed me a favor. We were married at 3:47 AM. Legal, binding, witnessed.
I look down at the ring on my finger. It suddenly feels heavy.
We came back here around 4:30, Damien continues. You were exhausted. I showed you to the guest room. You fell asleep almost immediately—still in your dress, still clutching that USB drive.
What was on it?
Financial records. Proof of embezzlement, money laundering, fraud. Evidence that would destroy your father's company and send him to prison. He pauses. And evidence of something worse. Something involving my family.
What?
Later. His voice is hard. Let me finish the timeline first.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
You fell asleep around 5 AM. I checked on you at noon, planning to discuss our next steps. You wouldn't wake up. At first I thought you were just exhausted. But by 3 PM, you still wouldn't wake. I called my personal doctor. He found the injection mark on your arm.
My hand instinctively goes to the small red dot.
He ran tests. You'd been injected with something called Rohyphenol-X. It's a designer drug, illegal, very expensive. It causes targeted amnesia—makes you forget specific periods of time.
Someone drugged me, I whisper. While I was asleep. Here. In your apartment.
Yes.
How? My voice rises. How did someone get in here? You said this place was secure!
It is secure. Damien's face is like stone. Which means whoever did this either had access codes or was already inside when you arrived.
The implication hits me like a punch to the gut.
You think someone followed me here.
I think someone was watching you very carefully. And when you ran to me, they followed. They waited until you were vulnerable, and they made sure you'd forget everything—why you came here, what you discovered, what you know.
I stand up so fast the chair scrapes against the floor. Then I'm in danger. Right now. They could come back.
They could try. Damien's voice is ice. But they'd have to get through me first.
You can't protect me from people I can't even remember!
No. He stands too, moving around the counter until he's close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes. But you can. If you remember. If you can access those missing days, those lost memories—you'll know who did this to you. You'll know why. And you'll know how to fight back.
How am I supposed to remember something someone drugged me to forget?
I don't know, he admits. But we'll figure it out. Together.
Why? The question bursts out of me. Why are you helping me? You don't know me. We're supposed to be enemies.
Something flickers in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or regret.
I have my reasons, he says again.
That's not an answer!
It's the only one you're getting right now.
I want to scream at him. Demand real answers. But my phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down.
A new text from Marcus: I know where you are. I'm coming to get you. This ends today.
My blood runs cold.
Damien sees my face and takes the phone. He reads the message, and his expression turns deadly.
He knows you're here, I whisper.
Let him come. Damien's voice is quiet, dangerous. Let them all come.
You don't understand. Marcus, he's
He's the man you were supposed to marry. The man who's calling you unstable and crazy. The man who benefits most from you being locked away and discredited. Damien steps closer. Tell me something, Cass. In all those loving messages from your fiancé, did he once actually ask if you were okay? Did he once believe you might have a good reason for running?
I scroll back through Marcus's texts. Every single one is about me being sick, unstable, needing help.
Not one asks what I'm afraid of.
Not one asks what made me run.
Someone drugged you to make you forget, Damien says quietly. Someone who had access to you, who knew where you were, who could get close enough to inject you while you slept.
He pauses, letting that sink in.
And whoever did it is still out there, Cass. Still watching. Still waiting.
His eyes lock onto mine.
Still hunting you