Eliana barely slept.
Sharing a bed with Damon—her supposed husband—had stirred a strange cocktail of unease, curiosity, and something else she couldn't name. He hadn't touched her, not even once. He'd kept to his side of the bed like there was an invisible line between them, yet she still felt his presence pressing against the edges of her mind all night. It was as if her skin knew he was near, even in sleep. Every time he shifted or sighed, her body tensed, alert to the proximity of a man she couldn't remember, but who insisted he was hers.
The silence in the room had been thick, loaded with everything unspoken. She'd heard the subtle click of his phone screen lighting up in the dark, the faint rustle of his breath as he turned away from her. He hadn't said goodnight. Neither had she.
Now, as dawn broke and the mansion bathed in soft golden light, Eliana lay still, eyes wide open, staring at the ornate ceiling. Her heart was calm, but her mind raced. Her dreams had been confusing—snippets of faces she didn't recognize and emotions that didn't seem to belong to her. She couldn't decide what disturbed her more: the dreams or the man beside her who felt like a stranger and a memory all at once.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Damon stirred beside her. He hadn't snored—of course he hadn't. The man probably didn't allow himself that kind of vulnerability. His movements were smooth and calculated, even half-asleep. He reached for the remote on the nightstand and pressed a button. The curtains slowly drew open, flooding the room with filtered morning light.
"Come in," he called out, his voice slightly hoarse.
The door opened and a uniformed maid entered with a gentle nod. "Good morning, sir. Breakfast will be served shortly. Also, Dr. Ivan has arrived for the routine check."
Eliana sat up immediately, pulling the sheets slightly higher even though she was decently dressed in a silk nightgown. Her eyes flicked to Damon, who now sat upright, running a hand through his tousled hair.
Dr. Ivan. The name rang familiar. Yes—he was the doctor who had spoken to her at the hospital, the one with a calm presence and clinical precision. Somehow, the familiarity eased a small part of her.
"We'll be down shortly," Damon said.
The maid left as quietly as she came.
Eliana glanced at Damon. He was already rising from the bed, his back turned to her as he stretched, the muscles in his shoulders flexing with the movement. The awkwardness of the moment settled heavily in the space between them.
"I didn't mean to make things uncomfortable last night," he said without turning around.
"I didn't say you did," Eliana replied softly, her fingers gripping the sheets.
A pause.
"I know this isn't easy for you," he continued. "I just want you to feel safe."
Her gaze dropped to her lap. Safe. What an odd word to hear from someone she didn't trust, even if she couldn't explain why.
---
Downstairs, the dining room was quiet but elegant. A fresh bouquet of lilies sat at the center of the table, their scent light and pleasant. Damon sat at the head of the table, sipping dark coffee as Eliana joined him.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood," Dr. Ivan greeted with a smile as he stepped into the room. He was dressed in a charcoal suit today instead of his usual white coat, but his kind eyes and efficient manner were the same.
"Good morning, Doctor," she replied, offering a faint smile.
"Mind if I conduct a quick check-up here? Damon mentioned you'd be more comfortable in your own home, rather than a clinic."
"That's fine," she said.
Dr. Ivan pulled out his tools—stethoscope, portable monitor, a tablet for records—and began the check.
Her vitals were stable. Her reflexes normal. Pupils responsive. Heartbeat steady. Still, he studied her face longer than necessary.
"You look rested," he said. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"
"No. Just... strange dreams," she admitted.
Dr. Ivan nodded. "That's expected. The mind often processes trauma through fragmented memories and metaphors. Don't ignore them, but don't obsess either."
She glanced at Damon. He sat silently, his eyes on her, unreadable.
"You're healing well. Keep eating, stay hydrated, and rest when needed. If anything feels off—emotionally or physically—call me directly."
He handed her a small card with his direct number.
After he left, the room fell into a quiet lull again.
"I didn't know he made house calls," she said, breaking the silence.
"He doesn't. Not usually." Damon sipped his coffee, then added, "But for you, I made an exception."
Eliana looked down at her plate. The food was untouched.
"Why are you doing all this?" she asked.
His fork paused mid-air. "Because I'm your husband."
She let out a bitter laugh, surprising even herself. "You keep saying that like it means something."
"It does mean something," he replied quietly. "Even if you don't remember."
---
After breakfast, Damon retreated to his office for work, and Eliana was left to roam the halls of the mansion once more.
But today, she didn't want to just exist in this place. She wanted to explore it—understand it. Maybe understanding this house could help her understand the life she was told belonged to her.
She wandered into a sunroom at the far end of the east wing. Glass walls revealed an immaculate garden outside—rows of lavender, roses, and clipped hedges. A greenhouse stood in the distance. The air smelled faintly of citrus.
A soft breeze fluttered through the open window, and she sat on a cushioned bench, closing her eyes. Her fingers absently traced the hem of her sleeve as her thoughts drifted.
What kind of woman was I?
She imagined herself walking through the garden with Damon. Laughing. Maybe even in love.
It was hard to reconcile the cold, distant man she now lived with to someone she might have once chosen. She didn't hate him—but she didn't trust him either.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Figured you might end up here," Damon's voice said behind her.
She didn't open her eyes. "It's peaceful."
He walked past her and leaned against the window frame, arms crossed.
"You used to come here when you needed to think," he said. "Or escape."
She looked at him then. "Escape from what?"
Damon's eyes met hers, unreadable as always. "Yourself, maybe. Or... me."
Her breath caught.
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" she asked.
"No," he admitted. "Just honest."