The Royal Agreement

Chapter Sixteen

It was already lunchtime and I’m currently sitting on the balcony chair located here in my room. I was looking out my window towards the body of water at the back of the palace. I haven’t seen my mom and dad and I haven’t looked for them because they’re nowhere to be found.

After some moments there were a series of knocks on the door and I called for them in. Three lovely ladies dressed in server uniforms rushed themselves in and curtsied to me. I was taken aback. I sat awkwardly and just waited for them to speak.

“Good morning, my lady!” Oh, her English is good. The redhead lovely server curtsied lower than the two. “My name is Caisa.”

“Ah, yes, my lady. I am Freja.” The beautiful, freckled brunette with amber eyes muttered. She is quite shy.

The cute plump brunette server was startled. “I-I… ah… I’m Vigga, my lady!”

“Hello!” I smiled softly. They all have good English and I’m relieved but one thing is bugging me. “How may I help you, ladies?”

“We were sent here to be your personal servers, my lady,” said Caisa.

“What?” My brows furrowed and one shot up. “I do not require such…” I’m not even royalty—yet!

“The Queen and the Queen Mother insisted. We directly came from their care and we will assure you the utmost comfort living here in the palace.”

“I really am not in such need…”

The ladies smiled apologetically. I sighed and returned to my gazing session outside the window. I was just tired, but I suddenly forgot that I still had to talk to my parents. The ladies already busied themselves in my room and when Caisa came into view, I called for her.

“Have you seen my parents? Have any of you seen them perhaps?” I asked.

She looked like she knew the answer. “The last we knew of them as they were in the parlor with the Queen and Queen Mother, my lady.”

Alright, then off we go there. I stood up and marched my way out of my room. However, just a few steps away, I felt a presence behind me. I looked and saw the three girls following me. My brows met and stopped in my tracks.

“Why are you following me?”

“We are your servers, my lady,” Vigga said as a matter of fact.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. This royalty thing-a-ma-jig is getting on my nerves. I was defeated and went on going to the parlor.

We were sitting by the window, the soft light from outside casting a warm glow over the room. Victor leaned in, his eyes searching mine with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. I could sense the unspoken question hanging in the air, the one I’d seen on his face for weeks now.

Finally, he asked, his voice quiet but insistent, “Why didn’t anyone just tell you everything? About your past, about who you are? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

I sighed, resting my chin in my hands, trying to find the right way to explain something I barely understood myself. “You’d think it’d be that simple,” I started, feeling the weight of his question settle over me. “But it’s not. It’s actually more complicated than just telling me the facts and expecting everything to come rushing back.”

I glanced at him, and I could see he was still confused, so I continued. “Okay, imagine this: the brain—my brain—is like a filing cabinet. A very messy one at the moment, with folders scattered everywhere. My memories, everything I used to know, they’re in there somewhere, but it’s all jumbled up. Retrograde amnesia, the kind I have, is like someone came in and knocked over the cabinet. The files are still there, but they’re out of order, and some are buried so deep, I can’t access them.”

He nodded slowly, following along, but I could tell he still wasn’t convinced. “But what if someone just gave you the information again?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Like… told you about your life. Wouldn’t that help?”

I bit my lip. “That’s where it gets tricky,” I said, trying to gather my thoughts. “If someone tells me about my memories, they wouldn’t really be my memories, you know? They’d be stories. Stories from someone else’s perspective, not mine. And if I start accepting them as my memories, it could actually mess things up even more.”

I paused for a moment, seeing if he was still with me. His eyes were locked on mine, waiting. He literally stopped eating to hear me out. Was that such a curious case?

“You see, memory isn’t just about the facts—it’s about the emotions, the context, the way your brain connects everything. So if someone says, ‘Oh, Ciella, you loved playing the piano,’ and I start believing that without actually remembering it myself, it’s not a true memory. It’s a borrowed one. My brain might even start filling in gaps with things that never happened, or making up emotions that aren’t real.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So… it could create fake memories?”

I nodded. “My doctors called it confabulation. My brain could start piecing together things it thinks make sense, but it’s really just inventing memories to fill the blanks. And the more people tell me about my past, the harder it gets for me to figure out what’s real and what isn’t. My memories are supposed to come back naturally, on their own, not because someone told me about them.”

Victor leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. “But… isn’t it frustrating? Not knowing anything? Wouldn’t you want someone to help you?”

I swallowed hard, feeling that familiar frustration creeping up. “Of course it’s frustrating,” I admitted, my voice softening. “It’s terrifying. There’s this huge chunk of my life that’s missing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. But the thing is… if I’m ever going to remember, it has to come from me.”

I stared down my lap and swallowed that frustration in my stomach. It was unsettling. I know this explanation is hard to understand but I wanted to tell him because he deserves to know the situation. He’s going to be my husband after all.

I continued, stabbing the butter in front of me. “From my brain reconnecting those pathways on its own. And forcing memories into my mind, even if they’re true, could mess up that process. I could end up with a mix of real memories and ones that never happened. That’s why doctors tell people not to bombard someone with amnesia with details about their past. It’s like walking a tightrope—you don’t want to push too hard or too fast.”

He was quiet for a moment, staring down at his hands before finally meeting my gaze again. “So… we just have to wait?”

I gave him a small, tired smile. “Yeah. We wait. And maybe—hopefully—things will start to come back on their own. But for now, I just have to take it one day at a time. That’s the best we can do.”

Victor nodded, the frustration still lingering in his eyes, but I could see the understanding starting to take root. “One day at a time,” he repeated as if testing the words.

“Exactly,” I said, my voice steady, even though deep down, the uncertainty of it all still weighed on me.

One day at a time, I told myself. One day at a time.