The mansion is too quiet. Even the silence has money.
It hums in the imported marble, in the smell of polished wood, in the ghost of footsteps that echo when no one is there. I follow Julian down a sweeping staircase that looks like it belongs in a museum, my bare feet brushing against velvet carpet that feels too soft to be real.
I don't speak. I'm still trying to absorb the story he gave me — or rather, the lie.
According to him, we met at an art gallery two months ago. Fell in love fast. He proposed after three weeks. We eloped privately. Small wedding. No family, no friends. Just "us."
None of that fits into my memory. None of that sounds like me. Or him.
I remember being Ava Monroe — 22, waitress, saving to finish community college. I remember sticky tables, student loans, and ramen noodles.
But not this.
Not this man who looks like a luxury magazine ad. Not this house with cameras in the corners and staff who stare too long when they think I'm not looking.
Julian leads me into a dining room where a table is set for two. White linen. Crystal glasses. Eggs Benedict and champagne.
He pulls out a chair. "Sit."
I do.
"Any flashes?" he asks gently. "Memories?"
I look at the champagne glass, then at him. "I don't drink. I get migraines."
"You used to," he replies smoothly. "But you stopped last month. Doctor's orders."
How convenient.
"How long have you known me?"
"Sixty-two days."
My stomach knots. "And in sixty-two days, you fell in love and married me?"
He meets my gaze. "When you know, you know."
No one knows anything in sixty-two days.
I push the plate away. "I want to see my phone."
Julian's expression doesn't change. "You said you wanted a digital detox for the honeymoon. You left it with the staff."
"Then get it back."
He studies me for a moment. Then leans forward. "Ava. I understand you're scared. But you're not a prisoner. You're my wife."
"I don't remember marrying you."
"That doesn't mean it didn't happen."
His voice is calm. So calm it terrifies me.
There's a long pause before he adds, "Maybe seeing the wedding video will help."
He stands. Walks to the built-in screen on the wall and presses a button.
A projection flickers to life.
There I am — walking through a garden in a white dress, laughing, crying, saying vows.
I look happy. In love. Alive.
But as I watch, I realize something's wrong.
My mouth moves. I speak. But the audio is muted.
My voice is gone.
"See?" Julian says softly. "You were radiant."
I stare at my screen self. My smile. My joy.
I've never seen that girl before in my life.
But she's wearing my face.