Remember Me, Kill Me

The first thing Linda felt was silk. Then, pain. Her eyelids fluttered open. Chandeliers glittered above her, reflecting sunlight from a high, barred window. Everything gleamed—gilt moldings, antique furniture, glass vases with white orchids. The bed beneath her was massive and soft, the sheets smooth and expensive. She sat up, clutching her temples. "Miss Kingsley." A man in a white coat stepped forward, clipboard in hand. “Do you know your name?" Her mouth moved, but no words came. Her heart pounded. “I… I don't…" “It's alright." His voice was low, clinical. “You've suffered head trauma. We believe it's post-traumatic amnesia. You're safe here." Safe? Before she could ask more, the door clicked open. Footsteps. Polished shoes on marble. And then—him. The man who would haunt her every breath from this moment on. He filled the doorway like a storm cloud—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. His dark suit hugged his frame like armor, and his sharp features betrayed no softness. Cold blue eyes scanned her, calculating. She flinched as those eyes locked onto hers. He didn't blink. “You're awake," he said flatly. “Who are you?" she whispered. The corner of his mouth curled, but it wasn't a smile. “Alex DeLuca. This is my house. And you… are staying here." “I don't—why?" “For your own safety," he said. “Until your memory returns." “My memory? I don't even know—" She looked down at herself. A thin hospital gown. Her arms were bare. No rings, no jewelry—except a single locket around her neck. She clutched it instinctively. “You should rest." He turned to the doctor. “She's to remain under surveillance at all times. Two guards outside her room. No one else enters." “Yes, sir." “Wait—" Linda stood abruptly, swaying. “Why am I here? What happened to me?" Alex didn't answer. He walked to the window, back to her. “You'll understand soon enough." “I want to leave." “You can't." “I don't even know you—!" “But I know you." His voice dropped an octave. The finality in it froze her. “Is this a hospital?" she asked, searching the ornate room for monitors or equipment. He turned, smirk fading. “This is a prison with chandeliers, Miss Kingsley. You'd do well to remember that." The door slammed behind him. — Hours later, a housekeeper brought her a change of clothes—cashmere sweater, silk pants, underthings folded with military precision. Linda dressed quietly, still shaken. The locket at her throat pulsed with questions. She tried to open it, but the clasp wouldn't budge. Through the window, she saw nothing but cliffs and sea. No road. No neighbors. Just isolation. When a second knock came, she jumped. Marco, a stone-faced man in a gray vest, entered without a word and led her through the halls. Cameras watched from every corner. Laser sensors blinked red in the marble-floored corridors. She was shown into a dining room that belonged in a museum. Alex sat at the head of a long table, wine in one hand, phone in the other. When she entered, he put the phone down and gestured silently to the seat opposite. She sat stiffly. Silverware clinked. He watched her. Watched her eat. Like a warden studying a prisoner. “I don't remember anything," she said after a few minutes. “I know." “Can you… tell me who I was?" Alex raised his glass. “Does it matter?" “Yes," she said quickly. “If I'm to stay here, I deserve to know who I am." He leaned back in his chair, eyes like frost. “You were… complicated." “That's not an answer." He didn't blink. “You'll understand soon." “That's the second time you've said that." “It's the only answer that matters for now." She stared at him. “Why do you hate me?" His jaw tightened. He stood abruptly and walked around the table. She tensed as he approached, looming. “Eat," he said softly, bending close. “Regain your strength." She smelled his cologne—woodsmoke, leather, something darker underneath. Then he left. — That night, thunder rattled the windows. Rain carved streaks across the glass. Linda lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Something about the mansion felt familiar. The locket still refused to open, but she turned it over in her hands anyway, over and over. Had she really known this man? Was he her captor? Or something else? The image of his eyes lingered. Cold. Angry. But beneath the surface… something shattered. Why did she feel sorry for him? She sat up, grabbed the notebook beside the bed, and began sketching the layout of the mansion from memory. Cameras. Gates. Blind spots. A plan would come. But for now, she was a bird in a cage, and her warden had unfinished business with the past. She clutched the locket tightly and whispered her name, hoping it would tether her to something real. “Linda. My name is Linda…"