The Art of Deception

Fragments

It was the dead of night when I opened the door.

The house was still, the only sound coming from the soft click of my shoes on the marble floor. I moved quietly through the dim hallways, up the stairs, and paused at the door to her room.

The door was slightly ajar.

There she was—Celia.

Asleep under the covers, her face calm but guarded even in rest, like her subconscious was still fighting a battle her mind couldn’t place. I lingered for a moment longer than I should have, watching her breathe, before silently retreating to my room.

But sleep never came.

The past was too loud.

***

The scent of eggs and sautéed vegetables pulled me from my haze just after sunrise.

I followed the aroma to the kitchen and paused at the entrance.

Celia stood barefoot, hair tied up in a loose bun, a spatula in one hand as she flipped a pancake with ease. The morning sun framed her like a memory I didn’t deserve.

“What are you doing?” I asked, voice still hoarse from the night.

She turned, startled. “Making breakfast.”

A soft chuckle escaped me. “You haven’t changed.”

She looked at me curiously, but said nothing. When she was done, she carried the plates to the dining room.

The moment her hand touched the table to set the tray down, her body jerked.

A flash.

Her eyes widened as she staggered slightly, reaching for the edge of the table to steady herself.

I moved fast, catching her by the arm. “Are you okay?”

“I saw something… a flash,” she murmured. “I was here… but not like this. I was putting something down—something metal, not a plate…”

“It’s normal,” I said quickly, steadying her. “The doctor mentioned your memory would return in fragments.”

She looked at me sharply. “How do you know what the doctor said?”

I froze—just a second too long.

“I… I was on a business trip during your hospital stay,” I said, picking up my teacup. “I kept in touch with the doctor. That’s how I was able to send the gifts. I thought it might trigger something.”

Her eyes searched my face, lingering longer than I liked.

But then she nodded, almost to herself. “That makes sense.”

I leaned back. “We live here together, Celia. So it’s natural you’d get flashes of this place. You used to make breakfast every morning.”

She didn’t respond. But the wheels in her mind were turning again.

***

After breakfast, we sat in the living room, watching an old comedy she claimed felt familiar. I let her choose. I didn’t care for the movie—I cared for how she leaned into it, trying to piece herself back together.

Halfway through, the door opened.

A tall man with a scar along his jaw walked in first, followed by a woman in her late fifties, her hair tied in a tight bun and a kind, practiced smile on her face.

“Celia,” I said, rising. “This is Marcus, your personal bodyguard. And that’s Ms. Elsie—your housekeeper and part-time nanny.”

Celia blinked, her hand gripping the throw pillow on her lap.

Her eyes locked on Marcus.

And I saw it—the recognition.

The sketch.

He was one of them.

But she said nothing. Not yet.

Her silence was loud.

Too loud.

----

Celia’s POV

Night had settled over the estate like a heavy cloak, but my mind refused to rest. The more time I spent in this house, the more questions festered inside me. Nothing added up. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was performing a well-rehearsed script… and I was the only one who didn’t know her lines.

Too many questions. No real answers.

I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and padded down the hallway. I needed to speak to Adrian. Maybe if I understood his part in all this, I could begin to untangle the rest. Maybe I could convince myself I was just overthinking—just healing slowly, and nothing more.

His room door was slightly ajar. Empty.

I glanced around and noticed the terrace door was open. I stepped out onto the rooftop balcony quietly.

There he was.

Shirtless.

The city lights framed his silhouette, and I paused. I had never really looked at him—this man who claimed to be my boyfriend, my fiancé, my partner. He was undeniably attractive. Broad shoulders, lean back, quiet power. But something about him always felt... hidden.

As I took another step forward, I heard him speak.

“She’s fine here. I can keep close eyes on her.”

I froze.

His phone. He was on a call.

My stomach twisted, but before I could pull back, my knee knocked into a low table. A ceramic vase toppled, shattering on the stone floor with a loud *crack*.

He spun around.

His expression wasn’t guilt.

It was *surprise*.

“Celia? What are you doing here?” His voice was calm, almost too calm.

“I… I needed to see you. I couldn’t sleep. I’m bored,” I said softly, stepping out of the shadows.

He ended the call and motioned for me to sit beside him on the terrace bench. The air was cool, but my skin was warm with unease.

“Why didn’t you come sooner after my accident?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. “Why did you just send gifts? I could’ve used someone familiar.”

He looked out over the edge before answering. “I was overseas closing a deal. I didn’t know how bad it was until later… And by the time I tried to return, you were already awake. I thought the gifts would jog your memory gently.”

I nodded, pretending that made perfect sense.

“My next question… Why hasn’t anyone from work tried to reach me? Not one call, one visit. It’s like they forgot I existed.”

He looked at me then, brow furrowed with concern. “You’re not… suspecting me, are you?”

The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard.

I hesitated. “I’m sorry. I know it’s wrong of me to doubt you… It’s just… everything feels off. And I feel like I’m the only one who notices.”

He exhaled slowly. “You’ve been through a lot. I get it. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I wanted to believe him.

I needed to believe someone.

But deep inside, something whispered: Keep your eyes open.