ERASED
1575 Words
Damien POV
I had built billion-dollar companies.
Negotiated deals that could bankrupt nations.
Outsmarted men who underestimated me.
Yet nothing in my life had prepared me for four words.
You have retrograde amnesia.
Six months.
The doctor kept saying six months as though it were just another number.
To everyone else, it was half a year.
To me…
It was a hole in my life.
I stared at my own hands.
Nothing looked different.
Nothing felt different.
Yet everyone in this room was looking at me as though I had become someone else.
“Damien.”
I looked up.
Reynolds was watching me with an expression I’d never seen on his face.
Concern.
Real concern.
He stepped closer to the bed.
“You’ll remember with time,” he said quietly, as though he was trying to convince himself as much as me. “The doctors are optimistic. Memory loss like this isn’t always permanent.”
I let out a humorless laugh.
“Optimistic?”
I rubbed my temple, hoping the pounding headache would somehow shake loose the missing pieces.
“I’ve lost six months of my life, Michael.”
My gaze settled on him.
“What happened during those six months?”
He hesitated.
Long enough for me to notice.
My instincts had built an empire, and right now they were telling me something was wrong.
“You’ll know everything when you’re strong enough,” he replied carefully.
I didn’t like that answer.
Not one bit.
My eyes narrowed.
“And that woman…”
The image of her tear-filled eyes flashed through my mind.
“…who is she?”
For the first time since I’d woken up, Reynolds seemed at a loss for words.
His jaw tightened.
“That’s… complicated.”
I frowned.
“Complicated?”
Before he could explain—
The door burst open.
A young woman rushed inside, clutching a paper bag so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
Her breathing was uneven, as though she’d been running.
The moment our eyes met, relief flooded her face.
“Damien…”
She hurried to my bedside, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.
“I was so scared.”
Without hesitation, she reached for my hand.
Her fingers were warm.
Gentle.
For the briefest second…
Something stirred inside me.
Not a memory.
Just… a feeling.
A strange ache settled in my chest, as though some forgotten part of me recognized her even when my mind refused to.
But I had never seen this woman before.
I slowly pulled my hand away.
“Who are you?”
Her smile froze.
The color drained from her face.
She stared at me as though I’d just shattered her entire world.
“Damien,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“I know you don’t remember me.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t bother wiping it away.
“I know your memories are gone…”
She took another cautious step toward me.
“…but I also know this.”
She placed a trembling hand over her heart.
“Something inside you knows me.”
Her eyes searched mine with heartbreaking hope.
“You can feel it, can’t you?”
“I know you can.”
“Maybe your mind has forgotten me…”
She forced a fragile smile.
“…but your heart hasn’t.”
Silence settled over the room.
I wanted to tell her she was mistaken.
I wanted to tell her she was confusing me with someone else.
But the words refused to come.
Instead…
I found myself staring into her eyes.
Why?
Why did they seem so familiar?
Why did hearing her voice make my chest tighten?
Why did it feel as though I was standing on the edge of remembering something… only for it to disappear the moment I reached for it?
A sharp pain exploded behind my eyes.
Fragments flashed through my mind.
A woman laughing.
A black masquerade mask.
Soft lips against mine.
Then…
Darkness.
The images vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
I sucked in a sharp breath and pressed my fingers against my temple.
“Damien!” she cried, instinctively reaching for me.
I stepped back before she could touch me.
“No.”
My voice came out colder than I intended.
“I don’t know who you are.”
The words left my mouth.
But they didn’t feel true.
Not completely.
Because every instinct I had spent a lifetime trusting was telling me one impossible thing.
This woman was a stranger…
…yet some forgotten part of me refused to believe it.
“I… I think you should leave,” I said quietly, unable to meet her eyes.
The hope on her face shattered.
And for reasons I couldn’t understand…
Watching her heart break felt strangely familiar—as though I had once sworn I would never be the man to make her cry.
“That’s enough,” the doctor said firmly, stepping between us. “Mr. DeLuca needs to rest. Any further emotional stress could worsen the headaches.”
The room fell silent.
Vivian lowered her gaze, taking a slow, shaky breath as though she were gathering the last fragments of her strength.
When she looked back at me, her eyes were still filled with tears, but there was something else now.
Determination.
“I won’t force you to remember me,” she said softly.
“Because love isn’t something that should ever be forced.”
She smiled, though it looked painfully fragile.
“But I know the man I married.”
“The Damien I know never gave up on the people he loved.”
She paused, her voice barely above a whisper.
“So I won’t give up on you either.”
Something tightened in my chest.
She took one final look at me, memorizing my face as though she feared I might disappear again.
Then she quietly placed the paper bag of medication on the bedside table.
“I’ll be waiting…”
Her voice cracked.
“…for the day you remember why you called me your wife.”
Without another word, she turned and walked away.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence settled over the room.
For reasons I couldn’t explain…
The silence felt unbearably loud.
I stared at the closed door longer than I should have.
A strange emptiness settled inside me.
Who was she?
And why did watching her leave feel like I’d just lost something I couldn’t remember having?
The doctor adjusted the chart in his hands before clearing his throat.
“You’ve had a very traumatic injury, Mr. DeLuca. Don’t try to force your memories back. If they’re going to return, they’ll do so gradually.”
I nodded absentmindedly.
My eyes never left the door.
After giving Reynolds a few instructions regarding my medication and recovery, the doctor excused himself.
The room fell quiet once again.
Neither Reynolds nor I spoke.
He seemed to be studying me.
I, on the other hand, was trying to understand why a complete stranger had managed to leave behind such an unsettling feeling.
A soft knock broke the silence.
A nurse stepped inside carrying a transparent evidence bag.
“Mr. DeLuca,” she said politely. “These are the personal belongings recovered after the shooting. We kept them safe while you were in surgery.”
She handed me the bag before leaving.
I emptied the contents onto the bed.
My watch.
Wallet.
Car keys.
A cracked phone.
A pair of cufflinks.
Everything appeared ordinary.
Until my fingers paused on the wallet.
Something felt… different.
I opened it.
My credit cards were exactly where I always kept them.
Business cards.
Cash.
Nothing unusual.
Then I noticed it.
A thin photograph tucked deep inside a hidden compartment I’d almost forgotten existed.
Curious, I slowly pulled it free.
The moment I saw it…
My breathing stopped.
It was me.
Standing beside the woman from moments ago.
She wasn’t looking at the camera.
She was looking at me.
Laughing.
Completely unaware that I was leaning in, pressing a kiss against her cheek.
The expression on my own face caught me off guard.
I had seen myself in magazine covers…
Annual reports…
Television interviews…
But never like this.
I looked…
Happy.
Not the polite smile I wore for the public.
Not the calculated confidence I showed in boardrooms.
This was different.
This man…
Looked completely in love.
“What is it?”
Reynolds’ voice snapped me back to reality.
I looked up.
He had started walking toward the bed.
Without thinking, I folded the photograph and slipped it back into my wallet before he could see it.
“Nothing,” I said evenly.
He stopped.
“You sure?”
I met his eyes without flinching.
“Just checking if everything was there.”
For a moment, he studied me as though he sensed I wasn’t telling him the whole truth.
Then he nodded.
“If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”
The door closed behind him.
I waited until his footsteps faded down the hallway.
Only then did I pull the photograph out again.
My thumb brushed over the woman’s smiling face.
A dull ache spread through my chest.
I didn’t know her.
I was certain of that.
…So why did the man in this photograph look as though losing her would destroy him?
I turned the picture over.
The back wasn’t blank.
Someone had written something.
My pulse quickened.
I lowered my eyes to read it…
- Writer
