DAHLIA WESTBROOKE
TEN MINUTES INTO THE doctor's arrival, and him administering an injection that made me temporarily docile, while being held down by the crazy, mountain of a man who claimed to be my husband, I heard words like 'traumatic brain injury' and 'memory loss' being thrown around.
I was stuck between being baffled and angry, because I clearly knew who I was. I knew I wasn't supposed to be here, and I knew that man had them all tricked. I didn't know how, but I was ready to fight tooth and nail to end this entire fiasco, even if it meant being painted in a bad light by the media. That was my father's greatest nightmare, and for someone who liked to keep a tight leash on the affairs of my life, you'd think he'd be here by now.
Wrong.
He was still nowhere to be found, and it left an eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The doctor and the psycho exchanged goodbyes, and the former exited the room, leaving just me and the scarred man in the room.
He turned on his heels the moment the door clicked shut, taking long strides toward me until he was at the foot of my bed, staring me down with piercing eyes I couldn't quite decipher the color of, this far away from him.
I swallowed thickly as I allowed myself do a deep perusal of his looks.
A striking, long scar ran down the side of his face, nicking the outer corner of his thick brow and continuing down his temple until it disappeared at his jaw.
He'd discarded the jacket he was wearing earlier, leaving him in just a white dress shirt and black, tailored pants. His sleeves were rolled up, and the top two buttons under, showing a sliver of the tattoos inked into his skin.
Only one word came to my head when my gaze flicked back to his face.
Scary.
He scared me deeply, and I was stuck in a room with him. How did this even happen? We very obviously didn't run in the same circles, and before this 'traumatic brain injury', I'd never laid eyes on him.
There was no chance of me meeting someone like him, and then forgetting about the encounter just like that.
That seemed like an almost impossible feat—memory loss, or not.
A man like him was simply unforgettable.
His height, the fierce look in his eyes, and just simply the air surrounding him screamed intimidating, almost like he was meant to be permanently seared into your brain, leaving a long lasting impression years after the encounter.
"I don't bite," his deep voice rumbled, ending the silence in the room.
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" I shot him a pointed look, conveying how unconvinced I was with a simple raise of my brows.
"Right." It was barely noticeable, but his eyes hardened, a wry smile tipping the corners of his lips. "I wouldn't be inclined to trust someone with an ugly scar either."
"I didn't say that. My distrust has nothing to do with your scar." Although, it did put me on edge a bit.
"No? What then?"
"You're a man." That was explanation enough.
He chuckled. "Touché. My words mean nothing to you, so how about I show you with my actions?How about that, wife?"
Perhaps I'd read one too many transmigration novels, and it was coming back to haunt me in real time. That, or I'd transmigrated into an alternate universe of my own, and this was the fucked up reality I had to deal with.
There was no other plausible explanation for why this man—and the other nurses he was in cahoots with—just called me his wife.
"What's going on in that busy brain of yours?" He cocked his head to the side in silent scrutiny, dull twinkles of amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Looking for a way to escape? It was like that too the last time we met, and things turned out to be rather unfortunate."
"Who are you?"
Hell, where was my manager when I needed her? She usually hovered around me like a helicopter, even in uncomfortable situations, but the one time her meddling presence was needed, she was MIA.
"I just told you. I'm your husband and your legal guardian. Is there a reason you were so adamant about meeting me?"
"I meant my father," I quickly corrected him, hoping to clear up his misconceptions. "I don't know who you're mistaking me for, but I swear it to you, I'm not her."
"Dahlia Westbrooke. Pianist prodigy. Lover of cheesy movies, and a hopeless romantic." He rounded the bed, taking a big step forward, and significantly shrinking the gap between us. "Trust me, wife, I don't have the wrong person."
"Don't call me that!" I snapped, my irritation at an all time high. "And you can find all of that information with a simple google search. I'm pretty well known."
"Cocky much?"
"What do you want from me?" I jutted my chin forward, faking confidence despite my quivering insides. "Are you a fan turned an obsessed stalker? If so, you really should leave while you can. I don't want to have to involve the police," I threatened as a last ditch attempt to scare him off.
He broke into a fit of mocking laughter. "You do that. Let's see what the cops have to say. Besides, if I were really a fan-turned-obsessed-stalker, threatening to involve the police is the worst thing you could possibly do. It could make me go off the rails. You want to deescalate the situation, feed into my delusions until you find an escape, and then you involve the cops. Assuming I was an obsessed fan, of course."
That damn mocking smile. I didn't have an affinity for violence, but right in this moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch that smug look off his face.
"Thanks for the tip, stalker," I spat acidly, glowering at him with as much venom as I could muster.
In the blink of any eye, he closed the remaining gap between us, snatching my jaw in his rough grip. "Enough running and pretending, Dahlia. Why don't we save each other's time, yes?"
I let out a shaky breath. "I have no clue what you're on about."
"None at all?" He stared deep into my eyes, like he could somehow see into my soul if he looked long enough.
I swallowed thickly, temporarily getting sucked into his stormy eyes. They were mismatched, I noticed. One a blue so deep it reminded me of the sea during sunset. The other was a blue so pale, it almost resembled steel, surrounded by a dark ring the same stormy blue as his other eye. It was nothing like I'd ever seen. It was... intriguing. "No," I whispered the soft answer, shaking my head with the little allowance his grip on my jaw allowed.
The storm in his eyes deepened, sending erratic chills down my spine until goosebumps peppered my entire skin. "So, you don't remember me?"
A slight shake of my head in answer was all it took to pull a deep chuckle out of him. "You really don't remember me." His thumb brushed my cheek gently, a stark contrast to how roughly he'd gripped me earlier. "I'm hurt, Dahlia. After everything we shared, I expected more from you."
"Where is my father?" I asked for the umpteenth time, ignoring the gentle way he caressed my skin, like I was a treasure he couldn't afford to ruin, like he was scared he'd bruise me if he applied just the littlest pressure.
Focus, Dahlia!
"Ah, him." Those intriguing eyes of his lightened, and they were back to being neutral and muted, none of the raging storm from earlier present in their depths. "That seems to be the million-dollar question, doesn't it?"
I curled my hands into fists on my lap, digging crescent moons into my palms. My patience was stretched thin, and his elusive response wasn't helping matters. "Yes, and don't you dare lie to me. Is he aware that we're...married?"
Did he give me out to you like some cattle after my other engagement fell through?
That was something he could do. Stalker here clearly didn't look like he was strapped for cash, if his wristwatch and the whiff of his expensive cologne was anything to go by.
That was the top quality of a man looking to be George Brown's son-in-law—his financial background.
Or it could simply be Bethany messing with me?
Money was a strong motivator for my father, but would that really make him accept a man so visibly rough around the edges? He loved Grayson because he was polished and preppy, and this man here was the direct opposite of that.
Perhaps Bethany was aware of that, and she was playing this sick joke to further spike our father's growing disapproval of me.
I searched the face of the man I was supposedly married to. Was he in on this with her?
"Did Bethany put you up to this?" I asked again.
"I have no clue who that is," he answered, his tone filled with mild apathy.
"She's my half-sister."
"Still doesn't ring a bell." He stopped stroking. "As for daddy dearest, he's no more."
"What?"
"Put simply, George is dead. Has been for roughly nine months now." He delivered the cruel news casually like we were discussing the weather, not a literal human life ending out of the blue, that I almost didn't believe I'd heard him correctly.
Perhaps, my ears were playing a trick on me this time. Or maybe he was joking. He had to be. Father couldn't just be...gone.
But deep down, even as I denied the truth, I knew this psychopath was telling the truth. He didn't look like the type to crack jokes, and right now, he didn't look like he was joking.
My father really was dead. And I somehow couldn't process a singular emotion.
"Would his death be more tolerable if he were an animal?" Psycho Stalker spoke, interrupting the jumbled thoughts in my head.
My eyes semi-widened. "How did–"
"You just spoke out loud." Another mocking smile mixed with amusement, like he was looking down at a lesser being. "Unfortunately, humans can't read minds."
"What do you want from me?"
"What does a man want from his wife, hm?" His thumb traced my chapped bottom lip, his muted eyes tracing the contours of my face.
My skin burned everywhere his gaze touched, and worst of all, I couldn't get him off me if I tried. The disparity in our sizes was so glaring, it'd be a total waste of time to even try.
"I am not your wife."
His humorless smile taunted me. "Our marriage certificate says otherwise."
"I don't remember getting married to you, or ever getting involved with you."
His fingers dragged down to my jawline, brushing over the skin with feather-like touches. "That's alright. I'll remember for both of us."
"I don't want to be with you." Tears filled my eyes against my will. "Where's my family?"
We normally didn't get along due to circumstances surrounding George's infidelity, but they really wouldn't sit back and let this mentally unstable man have access to me, would they? They had to at least have a hint of human decency, right?
Even as I battled with those questions internally, I knew the answer to them already. My mere presence in this hospital was answer enough. They didn't care. And with George now gone, I truly had no one.
"I'm right here, Dahlia. I am your family now. It doesn't matter that you don't remember now. I'll remember for the both of us." His thumb caught a stray tear as it slid down my face. "And it's okay if you don't want to be with me now. You'll learn to. Isn't that what we have eternity for?"