The car that picks us up from the hospital is black and sleek and probably costs more than most people earn in several lifetimes. I know this because Lucas tells me when I ask, his voice perfectly neutral as he lists the specifications.
I sit in the back seat and watch the city blur past the tinted windows. Tall buildings of glass and steel. Tiny people hurrying along sidewalks with coffee cups clutched in their hands. Somewhere out there is a version of me who belongs in this city, who built an empire here, who probably never once looked out a car window and wondered who she was.
Lucas sits across from me with his tablet in hand and his back perfectly straight. The car has seats that face each other like a mobile boardroom. His ears have faded from the burgundy of the hospital to a manageable pink, though they twitch every time I shift in my seat.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Your penthouse in Chen Tower. It occupies the top three floors and offers panoramic views of the city skyline, the river, and—on clear days—the mountains."
"Three floors."
"Yes."
"I live in three floors."
"Yes."
"And I can't remember what any of them look like."
His fingers pause over his tablet for just a heartbeat. "The penthouse has been maintained in your absence by your housekeeper, Mrs. Nguyen. She has been with you for eight years. Everything is prepared for your arrival."
"Mrs. Nguyen," I repeat. "Another person I don't remember who apparently knows everything about me."
"Mrs. Nguyen is very loyal and very discreet. She does not discuss your private matters with anyone. It is why she has remained in your employ despite your tendency to fire people who disappoint you."
I file that away. A housekeeper who keeps secrets. An assistant who counts the exact days of his employment. A life full of people I don't know but who know me very well.
"What about family?" I ask. My voice comes out quieter than I intend. "Do I have family?"
His jaw tightens—almost imperceptibly.
"Your parents are both deceased. Your mother passed when you were seventeen after a prolonged illness. Your father died five years ago from complications following a cardiac event."
"Oh."
I wait for the grief to hit. I wait for some echo of loss to surface from the blank void. Nothing comes. Just emptiness where my mother and father used to be. The worst kind of emptiness—the kind where you know you should feel something but can't find the door to let it in.
"You have a grandmother," Lucas continues. His voice softens. "Eleanor Chen. She lives in the countryside and visits occasionally. She prefers to stay at a nearby hotel because she says the smart home system judges her." A pause. "You also have an aunt. Elaine Chen, your mother's younger sister. She lives abroad."
"A grandmother and an aunt."
"Yes."
"Do they know about the amnesia?"
"I informed them both. Your grandmother was concerned and asked if you still remembered her dumpling recipe. When I said I did not know, she replied that if you couldn't remember the dumplings, there was no point in remembering anything else."
I laugh before I can stop myself. The sound comes out rough and surprised and a little bit broken. Lucas's ears go pink.
"Your grandmother is a very practical woman," he adds.
"I think I like her already."
"She is difficult not to like. Though she has a tendency to forget names. Yours included. During her last visit, she called you Violet for three days, and you did not correct her."
I stare at him. "She forgot my name and I just... let her."
"I asked you about it at the time. You said that it made her happy, and that love was letting people be wrong about you if it made them smile."
The words hang in the air between us. The old Vivian—the cold and efficient billionaire who fired people for suggesting beef tartare—let her grandmother call her by the wrong name for three days because it made her happy. Somewhere underneath all those walls, she was capable of tenderness.
"The old Vivian said that," I say slowly. "That love was letting people be wrong about you if it made them smile."
"She did."
"And you remembered. Word for word."
His ears go from pink to crimson. He stares at his tablet as if it contains the secrets of the universe.
"I have an excellent memory," he says. "It is one of the reasons you hired me."
"That's not why you remembered."
He doesn't answer. His ears are glowing now, and I'm beginning to understand that he remembers everything about me. Every small kindness. Every rare moment of softness. He has been watching me for six years and waiting for me to become someone who can be reached.
The car begins to slow. I look out the window at a tower that scrapes the sky like it belongs there. All glass and steel and sharp angles, reflecting the afternoon light in a thousand directions.
"Chen Tower," Lucas says. His voice is steady again. "Your home."
I look up at the building, at the top three floors where a version of me is waiting. A woman who owns three floors and a private island and a vintage Porsche she never drives. She built an empire and wore only black and gray and fired people for suggesting she try something new. Somewhere underneath all that, she let her grandmother call her Violet because it made her smile.
"What if I don't like her?" I ask quietly. "The woman I was. What if I meet her and I don't like her at all?"
Lucas is quiet for a long moment. When he finally looks at me—really looks at me instead of that point above my shoulder—his eyes are dark and serious and completely unguarded.
"Then don't become her again," he says.
Simple words. Quietly spoken. But they land somewhere deep in my chest where the amnesia hasn't reached. Somewhere that still remembers how to feel.
The car door opens. Lucas steps out first and offers his hand to help me. I take it. His fingers are warm and steady and wrapped around mine for just a moment longer than necessary. His ears are still pink, and the afternoon light catches the edges of them.
"Welcome home, Ms. Chen," he says.
"Vivian."
A pause.
"Welcome home, Vivian."
I look up at the tower one more time. At the life waiting for me behind all that glass and steel. At the woman I used to be and the woman I might become.
Home. What a strange word for a place I don't remember.
But standing here with Lucas's hand still warm in mine and his ears still pink and the city glittering around us, I think maybe I can learn to remember it. Or if not remember, at least build something new in its place.
I don't know yet that my penthouse has a smart home system that only obeys Lucas. I don't know that I'll spend my first night getting lost in my own hallways. I don't know that I'll find a pair of unicorn pajamas hidden in my closet—a gift from a best friend I can't remember.
I don't know any of that yet.
All I know is that I've forgotten everything, and the man with the tell-tale ears is still holding my hand.
And somehow, impossibly, that's enough.