CASS
The morning sun streams through the kitchen windows as I pick at the breakfast Damien insisted I eat. Toast. Eggs. Coffee. None of it tastes like anything.
My mind is still reeling from everything I learned yesterday. The marriage. The threats. The photo of two teenagers in love that I don't remember being.
You need to eat, Damien says from across the counter. He's already dressed in a sharp suit, looking every bit the powerful CEO. But there's concern in his eyes when he looks at me.
I'm trying. I force down a bite of toast. It's just... a lot.
It's about to be more. He picks up a tablet. I'm going to show you the security footage from three nights ago. The full version. Everything that happened when you came here.
My stomach knots. Do I want to see this?
You need to see it. You need to know what you said, what you knew, why you were so terrified. He sits beside me. Ready?
I nod, even though I'm not.
Damien pulls up the video and sets the tablet between us. The timestamp reads 2:13 AM, Saturday.
The elevator doors open.
And I watch myself stumble inside.
My heart breaks.
The woman in the video looks destroyed. Her dress is torn at the shoulder. Her makeup is smeared down her face like she's been crying for hours. Her hair is falling out of what was probably an elegant updo. But it's her eyes that kill me—they're full of pure, raw terror.
She's clutching a small USB drive in one hand like it's the most precious thing in the world.
The elevator starts moving up. Video-me looks directly at the camera for a second, then quickly away. She's shaking. Crying. Her lips are moving—talking to herself.
Can you read lips? I ask Damien quietly.
Yes. His voice is tight. You're saying 'Please be there. Please help me. Please, please, please.'
The elevator reaches the penthouse floor. The doors open.
Damien steps in.
Video-me nearly collapses with relief. She grabs his jacket with her free hand, pulling him close.
They're going to kill me. I can read the words clearly now on video-me's lips. Marcus and my father. They know I found out. They know what I took. You have to help me. Please. You're the only one I can trust.
Video-Damien looks shocked. He starts to say something, but video-me cuts him off.
Do you still have it? she asks desperately. The marriage license office? The one that's open 24 hours? The one you told me about when we were teenagers? When we used to joke about running away together?
I watch Damien's face in the video. Recognition flashes across it. A memory.
Yes, he says slowly. But Cass, why
Marry me. The words come out desperate, frantic. Right now. Tonight. It's the only way to protect me. As your wife, I have legal protection. They can't force me to testify. They can't access me without going through you first. And if I have evidence against them, they can't just make me disappear.
Evidence of what?
Video-me holds up the USB drive with shaking hands. Everything. Financial records. Emails. Communications. Proof of embezzlement, fraud, money laundering through fake real estate deals. And proof that
She stops, tears streaming down her face.
Proof that what? Video-Damien asks.
Proof that my father killed your parents.
The tablet nearly slips from my hands. I grab it, staring at the screen.
On the video, Damien has gone completely still. Dangerously still.
What did you say? His voice is barely a whisper.
The fire. The one that killed your parents eleven years ago. Video-me's voice breaks. It wasn't an accident. My father paid someone to start it because they wouldn't sell him the properties he wanted for a development deal. I have proof. Emails between him and the arsonist. Money transfers to offshore accounts. Everything.
Video-Damien's face transforms into something cold. Deadly.
You have proof, he says quietly. You have actual proof that Richard Whitmore murdered my parents.
Yes. And he knows I found it. Marcus found me going through my father's private files tonight. He called my father. They're coming for me right now. Video-me's voice rises with panic. If you don't help me, I'm dead. Or worse—they'll lock me up in a psychiatric hospital and drug me until I don't remember any of this. Please, Damien. Please.
The elevator doors start to close.
Video-me grabs them, stopping them. She looks directly into Damien's eyes with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
I know we haven't spoken in eleven years. I know I hurt you when I stopped trying to reach you. I know you hate my family—you have every right to. But I'm begging you. Marry me. Protect me. Help me bring them down for what they did to your parents. To us.
Why should I trust you? Video-Damien asks. Why should I believe this isn't some trap your father set up?
Video-me reaches into her purse with trembling fingers and pulls out a photo. The same photo Damien showed me yesterday—the two teenagers on the dock.
Because I never forgot you, she says, her voice breaking. Not really. My father had me in therapy for years after your parents died. 'To help me process the trauma of the fire,' he said. But really, it was to make me forget you. To forget us. Dr. Cross gave me medication that made everything fuzzy, made the memories slip away. But I kept this photo hidden. I kept it all these years because somewhere deep down, I knew I was forgetting something important. Someone important.
She holds up the USB drive.
I found these files two days ago. I saw what my father did. And suddenly everything came flooding back. The summers we spent together. The promises we made. The way you looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I remembered loving you. And I remembered that you were the only person who ever saw the real me—not Richard Whitmore's perfect daughter, but just... me.
Video-Damien is staring at her like he's seeing a ghost.
I loved you once, video-me whispers. And I think I never really stopped. I just forgot why my heart hurt every time I saw your face at those business events. Why I felt empty engaged to Marcus. Why nothing in my perfect life ever felt right. It was because I was missing you. Missing us. Missing the girl I used to be before my father destroyed her.
She steps closer.
So please, she says. Save me. One more time. Like you always used to when we were kids.
The elevator doors start closing again.
And video-me does something that makes my breath catch.
She kisses him.
Not gently. Not carefully. Desperately, passionately, like he's oxygen and she's drowning. Like he's the last solid thing in a world that's collapsing.
Video-Damien freezes for half a second.
Then he kisses her back just as desperately, one hand cupping her face, the other pulling her closer.
When they break apart, both are breathing hard. Both have tears on their faces.
The car's waiting, video-me whispers. We can be married in an hour. Please, Damien. Please say yes.
Video-Damien looks at her for a long moment. Then he takes her hand—the one holding the USB drive—and closes his fingers over hers.
Yes, he says.
The elevator doors close.
The video ends.
I sit there, staring at the blank screen, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it.
That was me. That broken, terrified woman who kissed a man she claimed to love was me.
And I don't remember any of it.
There's more, Damien says quietly. He opens another video file.
This one shows a small, dingy office. A bored-looking clerk sitting behind a desk. Damien and me standing in front of him.
Video-me looks calmer now. Still shaking, still scared, but focused. Determined. Like she's made a decision and she's seeing it through.
The clerk slides papers across the desk. Sign here. And here. Witnesses sign here.
Video-me signs without hesitation. Her hand is steady.
Damien signs next.
A man in a suit I don't recognize signs as witness. Then another woman.
The clerk stamps the documents with a loud thunk. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Thornwood. You're legally married.
Video-me picks up the marriage certificate and stares at it like it's a shield. Like it's the only thing standing between her and death.
Then she looks at Damien. Thank you.
Don't thank me yet, he says. We still have to keep you alive long enough for this to matter.
We will. Video-me sounds so certain. So sure of him. Because now they can't touch me without going through you first. And you're the one person they can't destroy. You're too powerful, too protected, too smart. You're my insurance policy.
Is that all I am? Video-Damien asks quietly.
Video-me's expression softens. No. You're the person I should have married eleven years ago. And maybe... maybe this is the universe giving us a second chance.
The video ends.
I can't breathe. Can't think.
That's it? I ask. That's all the footage?
From the wedding, yes. Damien closes the video player. You came back here after. You were exhausted. I showed you to the guest room. You fell asleep almost immediately, still clutching that USB drive. I checked on you a few hours later, and you wouldn't wake up.
Someone drugged me while I was here. In your home.
Yes. And I'm going to find out who. His voice is hard. But first, you need to see what's on that drive. You need to know what you risked everything to steal.
He picks up his laptop and types in a password. A folder opens—hundreds of files organized by date and category.
This, Damien says, is what you brought me. Years of evidence. Proof of every crime your father has committed.
He opens a file labeled FINANCIAL_RECORDS_2015-2025.
Spreadsheets fill the screen. Numbers, transactions, account names I recognize from Whitmore Properties.
Your father has been embezzling from his own company for over a decade, Damien explains. Small amounts at first, then larger and larger sums. He's hidden millions in offshore accounts. He's used company money to pay for personal expenses, to bribe officials, to fund illegal deals.
He opens another file. This is proof of money laundering through fake real estate transactions. Properties that don't exist. Sales that never happened. All of it creating a paper trail to hide where the money's really going.
Another file. This shows Marcus's involvement. He's been helping your father hide the money. Using his own company, Grayson Hospitality, to create shell corporations and fake businesses.
I feel sick.
And this, Damien says quietly, opening a file labeled THORNWOOD_FIRE_2014, is what you came to me for.
An email fills the screen.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Problem
The Thornwoods won't sell. I've offered them three times market value for the Fifth Avenue properties, and they keep refusing. We need those properties for the development deal to work. Handle this. Make it look like an accident. I want those buildings by next quarter.
The response, sent two hours later:
Consider it done. $500k, half up front, half on completion. Usual account.
The date is September 15, 2014.
Two weeks before the fire that killed Damien's parents.
Damien opens another file. Bank transfer records showing exactly $250,000 moved from one of Richard Whitmore's offshore accounts to an account belonging to James Chen on September 16, 2014.
Another transfer of $250,000 on October 3, 2014.
The day after the fire.
My parents died on October 2nd, Damien says. His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the pain underneath. The fire department ruled it an accident. Faulty wiring, they said. But I never believed it. I've spent eleven years investigating, trying to prove it was arson. And here it is. Proof. In your father's own words.
I stare at the screen, at the evidence of murder written in cold, clinical emails.
I'm so sorry, I whisper.
It's not your fault.
He's my father. He— My voice breaks. He killed your parents for real estate. For money. For a business deal.
Yes.
And when I found out, when I took this evidence, he decided to do the same to me. Kill me or make me disappear.
Yes.
I stand up, my legs shaking. I walk to the window, looking out at Manhattan spread below us.
Everything I thought I knew about my life is a lie.
My father isn't a successful businessman—he's a thief and a murderer.
My fiancé isn't charming and perfect—he's a criminal helping hide stolen money.
My sweet little sister is probably involved too, based on those rehearsed texts.
And me? I'm not the obedient daughter I thought I was. I'm the woman who discovered the truth and risked everything to expose it.
The woman who ran to the one person she knew she could trust—even though she'd forgotten why.
If this is true, I say quietly, still staring out at the city, if everything in these files is real...
It is.
Then my entire life has been a lie. The words taste like poison. Everything I believed about my family. Everything I thought I knew about who I was supposed to be. All of it. Lies.
I turn to look at Damien. He's standing now too, watching me with those intense dark eyes.
Welcome to reality, Mrs. Thornwood, he says quietly.
The words hang in the air between us.
Mrs. Thornwood.
Not Cassandra Whitmore, perfect daughter, obedient fiancée, corporate princess.
Mrs. Thornwood. Wife of the man my family destroyed. The man I loved and forgot. The man I ran to when I had nowhere else to go.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I pick it up.
A text from an unknown number: You made your choice. Now live with the consequences.
The message deletes itself as I watch.
I show Damien.
His expression turns deadly.
They know you're staying, he says. They know you chose me over them. And they're going to come for you.
Let them. My voice is stronger than I feel. I'm done running. I'm done forgetting. I'm done being their victim.
I look down at the ring on my finger—the ring I don't remember putting on but that somehow feels right.
You said we'd figure this out together, I say to Damien.
We will.
Then show me the rest. All of it. Every file. Every crime. Every lie. I meet his eyes. I want to remember who I was three days ago. The woman brave enough to steal this evidence. The woman smart enough to run. The woman who loved you once and apparently never stopped.
She's still in there, Damien says. You're still in there. The memory loss didn't change who you are.
Maybe not. I look back at the laptop full of evidence. But it's time I figured out who that is.
Damien nods. Then let's get started.
He sits back down at the laptop.
And together, we begin going through every file, every piece of evidence, every crime my father committed.
By the time the sun sets, I'll know the full truth.
And by tomorrow, we'll start planning how to destroy them.
But right now, in this moment, I'm just a woman learning that sometimes the worst betrayals come from the people who are supposed to love you most.
And sometimes the only person you can trust is the one you forgot you loved.