Six days ago, she said yes to a stranger. Tonight, she can't remember why. Elena Voss opened her eyes to white light and the steady, rhythmic beep of a machine she didn't recognize. Her throat was dry. Her head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, like her thoughts had been packed away somewhere she couldn't reach. The first thing she noticed was the ring. Gold, simple, unfamiliar — heavy on her finger in a way that made her stomach twist before her mind caught up to why. The second thing she noticed was him. A man stood at the foot of the bed, tall and still, watching her with an expression she couldn't read — somewhere between relief and dread. He was beautiful in the way storms were beautiful, something you admired from a safe distance and feared up close. Dark hair, sharp jaw, a stillness to him that felt rehearsed, like a man who had trained himself not to flinch. "Elena." Her name in his mouth sounded practiced, like he'd said it a thousand times before. Like he was afraid this would be the last time she'd let him. "Who are you?" she whispered. Something in his face broke — quiet, controlled, gone in an instant. "I'm your husband," he said. "Damian Cross." She looked down at the ring again, and then at him, and felt the first crack of a truth she wasn't ready for. She would spend the next six months believing the man in front of her was the danger. She had no idea the real threat was already inside the house — and had been waiting far longer than six days. So who, exactly, was Elena Voss before she lost her memory... and why does everyone around her seem terrified of the answer?