CASS
You're lying.
The words come out stronger than I feel. My back is pressed against the wall, my heart racing, but I force myself to meet this stranger's eyes. Damien Thornwood. Even his name sounds dangerous.
He doesn't look angry at my accusation. He looks... tired. Like he expected this.
I wish I were, he says quietly. Sit down, Cass. Please.
Don't tell me what to do! I snap. I don't know you. I don't know why I'm here. And I sure as hell didn't marry you!
Actually, you did. He moves to a desk in the corner and picks up a folder. Three days ago. Saturday, at 3:47 in the morning, to be exact.
That's insane. People don't get married at four in the morning.
Desperate people do. He holds out the folder. Look for yourself.
I don't want to take it. Taking it means acknowledging this nightmare might be real. But I need to know. I need proof that he's lying so I can call the police and get out of here.
I snatch the folder from his hand and flip it open.
The first thing I see is a marriage certificate.
Official seal. Legal stamps. Two signatures at the bottom.
One is his: Damien Thornwood, written in bold, confident strokes.
The other is mine.
I know my own handwriting. I've seen my signature a thousand times on business documents, contracts, birthday cards. This is my signature. Same loops, same slant, same little flourish at the end.
No, I whisper. This is fake. You forged this.
Keep looking.
My hands shake as I turn to the next page. Photos. Several of them, printed on glossy paper.
The first shows me standing next to Damien in front of a bored-looking clerk. I'm wearing a simple white dress—not a wedding gown, just a dress. My hair is messy. My eyes are red like I've been crying.
But I'm smiling.
And I'm holding Damien's hand.
The next photo shows us signing papers. The one after that shows the clerk handing us the marriage certificate. In every single photo, that's me. My face. My body. My smile.
Doing something I have absolutely no memory of.
I drop the folder. Photos scatter across the floor.
This isn't real, I say, but my voice cracks. You photoshopped these. You—
There are also witnesses. Damien's voice is calm, factual. Like he's presenting evidence in a boardroom, not destroying my entire world. The clerk who married us. My lawyer who served as witness. The building security guard who saw you arrive. All of them will testify that you came here of your own free will and married me willingly.
No. I back away from him. No, this is wrong. I'm engaged to Marcus. Marcus Grayson. We're getting married next month. My father planned everything. The venue, the flowers, the—
Your engagement to Marcus ended three days ago when you married me.
Stop saying that! I'm shouting now, and I don't care. I would never marry you! I don't even know who you are!
Something flashes in his eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. It's gone before I can identify it.
You know exactly who I am, Cass. Or you did, before someone made you forget. He takes a step closer. I'm Damien Thornwood. CEO of Thornwood Industries. Your family's biggest competitor. The man your father has been trying to destroy for the past decade.
My stomach drops. Thornwood Industries?
I know that name. My father mentions it constantly—always with hatred in his voice. The Thornwoods and the Whitmores have been business enemies for years. Something about a property deal gone wrong, accusations of theft, legal battles that never seem to end.
You're the enemy, I breathe.
To your father, yes. His jaw tightens. But apparently not to you. Not three days ago, when you showed up at my door begging for help.
I would never do that!
Then explain this. He pulls his phone from his pocket, taps the screen a few times, and holds it up.
It's a video. Security footage from an elevator.
The timestamp reads 2:13 AM, three days ago.
I watch myself stumble into the elevator. My dress is torn at the shoulder. My makeup is smeared like I've been crying for hours. I'm clutching something—a small USB drive—like my life depends on it.
I'm looking over my shoulder, terrified.
Then the elevator doors close, and the video shows me inside. I'm shaking. Crying. Talking to someone off-camera—Damien, I realize.
The video has no sound, but I can read my own lips.
Please, video-me is saying. Please help me. They're going to kill me. You're the only one I can trust.
I watch myself grab Damien's jacket, pull him close.
And kiss him.
Not a gentle kiss. A desperate, passionate kiss that makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
The video ends.
I stare at the blank screen, my mind refusing to process what I just saw.
That's not me, I whisper. That can't be me.
It is. Damien pockets his phone. You came to me terrified. You told me your family was involved in something dangerous. You had evidence on that USB drive—evidence that would destroy them. And you said the only way to protect yourself was to marry me immediately.
Why would I say that?
Because as my wife, you have legal protections. I can't be forced to testify against you. You can't be forced to testify against me. And most importantly, your father can't access you without going through me first.
None of this makes sense. Why would I need protection from my own family? My father loves me. He's strict and sometimes cold, but he would never hurt me.
Would he?
I need my phone, I say. I need to call my father. He'll explain everything.
Damien's expression hardens. Your phone is charging in the kitchen. But I wouldn't recommend calling him.
Why not?
Because he's the one who's been telling everyone you're mentally unstable. Damien walks to the desk, picks up a tablet, and hands it to me. See for yourself.
The screen shows a news article from yesterday. The headline makes my blood run cold:
WHITMORE HEIRESS MISSING: FAMILY FEARS MENTAL BREAKDOWN
There's a photo of my father at a press conference, looking devastated. The article quotes him saying I've been struggling with stress and anxiety and that I disappeared before my wedding to Marcus. He's asking anyone with information to contact the family immediately.
I scroll down. Another article. This one quotes Marcus calling me unstable and unpredictable. He says he's worried about my safety.
Another article mentions Dr. Julian Cross—my father's personal psychiatrist—providing statements about my deteriorating mental health.
They're all saying the same thing: I'm crazy. I'm dangerous. I need help.
This is a lie, I say. I'm not mentally ill. I'm fine. I'm—
I know. Damien's voice is surprisingly gentle. But they're building a story. If you walk out of here and go back to them, they'll have you committed to a psychiatric hospital within hours. They already have the paperwork ready.
You're trying to scare me.
I'm trying to save you. He moves closer, and for the first time, I see something other than cold control in his eyes. Something that looks almost like desperation. You came to me because you knew they would do this. You knew they'd paint you as crazy to discredit anything you might say. The marriage was your insurance policy.
I want to call him a liar. I want to run out of here and prove him wrong.
But the injection mark on my arm says someone drugged me. The missing days say someone made me forget. And those news articles say my own family is telling the world I'm insane.
What if he's telling the truth?
I need to think, I say. I need... I need air.
You can go anywhere in the penthouse. But you can't leave. Not yet.
You're keeping me prisoner?
I'm keeping you alive. His eyes lock onto mine. Whatever you knew three days ago, someone wants to make sure you never remember it. Someone who has access to drugs that cause amnesia. Someone who's willing to have you declared mentally incompetent and locked away. Someone who'll do whatever it takes to keep you silent.
You don't know that.
Don't I? He tilts his head, studying me with those intense eyes. Tell me something, Cass. Do you really not remember any of this? Not the marriage, not coming here, not begging me to save you?
I open my mouth to say no.
But something stops me.
A flash. Just for a second. A memory that doesn't quite fit.
Dark eyes looking at me with concern. A voice saying, I'll protect you. I promise.
My voice answering, I know. I've always known.
The memory vanishes as quickly as it came.
Damien sees something change in my face. He takes a step closer, his expression shifting into something dangerous.
Or, he says softly, each word deliberate, are you pretending?
My heart stops.
What?
Are you pretending not to remember? His eyes narrow. Because if you are—if this is some game your family put you up to—I need to know right now.
I'm not—
Because the woman who came to me three days ago knew exactly what she was doing. She was scared, yes. Desperate, yes. But she was also smart and calculating and very, very determined to survive. He's close enough now that I can see gold flecks in his dark eyes. So I'll ask you one more time, Mrs. Thornwood.
The name sends a shiver down my spine.
Do you really not remember begging me to save you? His voice drops to a whisper. Or are you pretending?