Chapter 3
1179 Words
Aria
I pushed myself up slowly, pain immediately pulling through my ribs.
A quiet hiss escaped my lips.
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that the antiseptic smell was gone, replaced with something warmer; sandalwood, fresh linen and a faint trace of coffee lingering somewhere nearby.
The faint hum of the air conditioner lingered overhead. Somewhere outside the room, footsteps clicked softly against polished floors. A clock ticked steadily in the distance.
But compared to the chaos in my head, the room felt unbearably still.
My eyes drifted slowly across the unfamiliar ceiling above me. Cream-colored, elegant, expensive.
The sheets beneath my fingers felt soft against my skin, cool and smooth like they had never been touched before.
I frowned faintly.
This wasn’t a hospital.
A bedroom.
No. Not just a bedroom.
A massive one.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one side of the room, muted morning light slipping through sheer curtains. Dark furniture, marble fireplace, black roses arranged neatly near the window like decoration instead of something alive.
Nothing about this place felt personal. It felt staged.
Like a showroom pretending to be a home.
My body still hurts but not enough to stop me from noticing the strange emptiness sitting inside my chest.
I remembered waking up in the hospital.
The accident, rain, headlights.
And him.
Lucien Vaughn.
My supposed husband.
The word husband still felt strange in my head.
A soft knock sounded before the bedroom door opened.
“Mrs. Vaughn?”
A middle-aged woman stepped inside carrying a tray. The smell reached me instantly, buttered toast and tea.
“You’re awake,” she said gently, relief flashing across her face. “Thank God.”
I stared at her blankly.
Something in her expression faltered slightly.
“I’ll inform Mr. Vaughn immediately.”
Before I could respond, she turned and left quickly.
Mr. Vaughn.
Again that name.
My fingers tightened slightly against the sheets.
I looked down at myself. Fresh clothes. Clean bandages wrapped carefully around my arm.
Someone had changed me while I was unconscious.
The thought should’ve embarrassed me. Instead, I felt nothing.
A few minutes later, footsteps echoed outside the room.
Then the door opened.
Lucien walked in.
And for one brief second, I understood why I had probably loved him once.
Tall, sharp black suit, cold gray eyes.
Everything about him was too composed even now. His gaze settled on me immediately.
“You’re awake.”
Same calm voice, same unreadable face.
Not relief or warmth he was just observing, scanning his eyes through me.
Like he was checking whether something valuable had been damaged permanently.
I watched him quietly.
The faint scent of his cologne drifted toward me, clean, expensive and cold somehow.
“You were discharged this morning,” he continued. “The doctors said recovering here would be better.”
I said nothing.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly at my silence.
Before the accident, would I have smiled at him? Waited for him? Needed his attention?
The thought felt distant now. Like remembering another woman’s life instead of mine.
He stepped closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
My voice sounded flat even to me.
Lucien studied me for a moment longer.
Then his phone rang.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face before he answered immediately.
“Yes.”
His voice dropped lower as he turned slightly away from me.
“I said I’ll handle it.”
A pause.
Then:
“She…”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten faintly.
Cold, calculated, not concerned.
I looked down at my hands slowly.
He continued speaking, his voice reduced to muffled tones I no longer cared to fully understand.
For some weird reason I heard everything he said vividly despite his tone.
The words settled strangely in my chest while something in me quietly shut down.
Before I could think too deeply about it, he ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
When he turned toward me again, his expression had already smoothed out.
Like the conversation never happened.
“You should rest,” he said.
There it was again.
That distance.
I looked at him carefully now.
The man standing in front of me was apparently my husband. But nothing about him felt like home.
Not his voice. Not his eyes. Not the way he stood so far from me like touching me required effort.
And suddenly—
A flash.
Warm candlelight.
A dining table covered in roses, me waiting alone.
My chest tightened sharply.
Another flash followed quickly after.
Me fixing my hair nervously in a mirror. Checking the time. Smiling at the sound of footsteps.
Waiting for him the feeling hit harder than the memory itself.
Love.
Desperate love.
The kind that begged, waited, stayed.
A strange discomfort crawled through me instantly.
Was that really me?
Begging to be chosen by a man who discussed her like a business arrangement?
Lucien moved toward the nightstand, pouring a glass of water calmly like none of this mattered.
I watched him quietly.
Then I asked softly,
“Were we happy?”
His hand paused slightly against the glass.
For the first time since meeting him, silence stretched too long.
Finally, he handed me the water.
“You need time to recover,” he said smoothly.
Not an answer.
I took the glass slowly but didn’t drink.
“You avoided the question.”
Lucien’s gaze settled on me again sharper this time.
Something tense flickered briefly between us.
Then he said calmly, “Why does it matter?”
I stared at him because that was not how someone answered when they loved their wife.
The realization came clearly not painful or dramatic.
I looked away from him toward the windows.
The sunlight spilling across the floor looked beautiful.
Free.
“You know,” I said softly, “it’s strange.”
Lucien remained silent behind me.
“I woke up without memories.” My fingers traced lightly against the glass of water. “But somehow my body still feels tired around you.”
The room became still.
I felt his heavy unreadable gaze on me fully now.
Slowly, I looked back at him.
For the first time since waking up, I noticed it properly.
The control, the way he measured every word, every reaction like he was waiting for me to become someone specific again.
But I didn’t think that woman existed anymore.
“I think,” I said quietly, “she loved you very much.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
She not I.
I saw the exact moment he noticed it too.
And suddenly, something shifted in the room.
Small but undeniable.
Lucien stepped closer this time. “Aria—”
“I want a divorce.”
The w
ords came out calm and easy.
Like they had been waiting for me long before I lost my memory.
Silence crashed heavily between us.
Lucien finally looked at me fully.
And for the first time since waking up…
his expression changed.
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