Ivy’s words linger in the air like a ghost.
“You…I know you.”
I stand frozen, my breath caught in my throat, staring at her as she clutches the bandages over her side. The way she looks at me—like she’s searching for something buried deep in her memory—sends a strange chill down my spine.
Because I don’t know her.
At least, I don’t think I do.
Damian’s sharp gaze flickers between us, his expression unreadable, but I can feel the tension in the room shift. This isn’t just about the assassination attempt anymore.
Something else is going on.
Ivy’s lips tremble. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”
I force myself to speak, my voice steady despite the unease creeping into my bones. “No. Should I?”
She blinks, and for a moment, I swear I see something like hurt flicker across her face. But it’s gone just as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold smile.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You were always the one who forgot first.”
My fingers twitch at my sides. What the hell does that mean?
Damian steps forward, his voice firm. “Ivy, now isn’t the time for this.”
She glances at him, her eyes darkening. “No, Damian. Now is exactly the time.” She looks back at me. “I think she deserves to know the truth.”
My heartbeat quickens. The truth?
Ivy studies my face, as if trying to piece something together. Then, finally, she speaks.
“We met years ago. A long time before this.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s impossible.”
She gives a slow, sad smile. “Is it?”
Something about the way she says it unnerves me.
She tilts her head slightly, watching me. “You were different back then. Younger. Strong-willed, but… lost. Like you didn’t belong anywhere.”
A strange sense of déjà vu washes over me.
Like a memory just out of reach.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. “That doesn’t prove anything. You could be lying.”
Ivy chuckles softly, her smile never reaching her eyes. “Oh, Selene. You always hated when someone knew more than you.”
The way she says my name feels too familiar.
And it’s starting to get under my skin.
I glance at Damian, looking for any kind of explanation, but his expression is unreadable.
Ivy steps forward slightly, lowering her voice. “You don’t remember me yet. But you will.”
My jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”
She smirks. “I want you to start remembering.”
A long silence stretches between us.
Then, without another word, Ivy turns toward the door, pressing a hand to her bandaged side as she moves. Damian follows her without hesitation, but before stepping out, he pauses.
He looks back at me, his voice low and dangerous.
“If you try to escape, you will die.”
I lift my chin defiantly. “You don’t scare me.”
His lips twitch—almost like he’s amused. “Then you’re still as reckless as ever.”
His voice is softer now, laced with something I can’t quite decipher. But I don’t get the chance to respond before the door clicks shut behind them.
The second they leave, I let out a slow, shaky breath.
What the hell just happened?
***
The city lights cast a glow through the massive windows, illuminating the penthouse in silver and gold. Everything is silent now.
Too silent.
I press my palms against my temples, my mind racing with questions.
How does Ivy know me? Why don’t I remember her? And why is she marrying Damian?
None of this makes sense.
I glance at the door. I know Damian wasn’t bluffing—his men are outside, ready to kill me if I try to run.
But that doesn’t mean I have to sit here and do nothing.
I quietly slip off the bed and pad barefoot across the cool marble floor. I need answers.
The penthouse is massive, elegant, suffocating. I pass the sitting area, the expensive furniture untouched, as if no one actually lives here.
Then, I spot it.
A door—slightly open. Damian’s office. I hesitate for half a second before stepping inside.
The room is exactly how I remember it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dark mahogany furniture, the faint scent of leather and cologne lingering in the air.
Everything is perfectly in place.
But something feels… off.
My eyes scan the desk. A stack of papers. A locked drawer. A decanter of whiskey with two half-empty glasses beside it.
And then—
A folder.
Sitting neatly in the center of the desk, like it’s waiting for me.
I inch closer, my fingers trembling slightly as I reach for it.
When I open it, my breath catches in my throat.
Because staring back at me, in bold, black ink, is my name.
Selene Knight.
I flip the page. My stomach twists.
A contract.