The marriage he doesn't remember

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE — A Sister's Warning

By the third day, Elena had learned the shape of the house — which floorboards creaked, which hallways stayed dim even at noon, which rooms Damian steered her away from without ever quite admitting he was doing it. She'd also learned that Camille watched her the way people watch a storm they aren't sure has passed.

It was raining when Marissa arrived — Elena's sister, younger by two years, with the same warm brown eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw that Elena recognized instantly, viscerally, in a way none of the rest of this house had offered her. Marissa crossed the foyer in three strides and pulled Elena into a hug tight enough to steal her breath.

"You scared the hell out of me," Marissa said into her shoulder. "Four days, Elena. Nobody would even tell me if you were going to wake up."

"I'm okay, Riss."

Marissa pulled back, studying her sister's face. She was dressed simply — jeans, an oversized cardigan, dark hair in a messy knot, ink staining one hand, a stark contrast to the polished elegance of everyone else in this house.

"You don't remember me," Marissa said quietly. Not a question.

"I don't remember anything before the hospital."

Something shifted in Marissa's expression — relief and worry tangled together. She glanced toward the stairs and lowered her voice.

"Good," she said. "Maybe that's good."

"Good? Riss, what does that mean?"

Marissa hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek the way she'd done since childhood whenever deciding how much truth someone could handle. Her fingers gripped Elena's hand, cold despite the warmth of the house.

"I tried to talk you out of it," she said finally. "The wedding. You said it was complicated, that you'd explain everything once it was finalized. Then the accident happened, and I never got the explanation."

"Explain what?"

"I don't know the details. You never told me. But you called me the night before the wedding. You sounded scared. You said if anything happened to you, I should look at your laptop. You said the password was still Dad's birthday."

The words landed like ice water down Elena's spine. "Scared of what?"

Before Marissa could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Marissa." Damian's voice was polite, an edge beneath it, thin as wire. "I didn't realize you'd arrived."

Marissa's expression shuttered instantly. "I wanted to see my sister."

"Of course. You're welcome to stay for dinner."

"I can't," Marissa said, too quickly.

She hugged Elena once more, and this time, pulling away, pressed something small and folded into her palm beneath cover of the embrace.

"Call me," she whispered. "Alone. Soon."

Then she was gone into the rain, and Elena stood in the foyer with her heart hammering and a secret pressed hot against her palm. She didn't open it until she was alone in the bathroom that evening, water running to cover the sound.

Seven words, scrawled in Marissa's familiar hand:

Don't trust anyone until we talk. Please.

Elena read it three times, her reflection pale in the mirror. Outside, she could hear the low murmur of Damian's voice down the hall, speaking to someone on the phone, his tone pitched too quiet to make out.

She folded the paper small and tucked it into the waistband of her clothes, where no drawer, no maid, no careful search would find it.

That night, sleep wouldn't come. Elena lay awake beside Damian, listening to his breathing, wondering how much was real sleep and how much was performance. She thought about the note. She thought about the laptop her sister had mentioned. She thought about the locked door at the end of the downstairs hallway.

She waited until his breathing deepened into something unmistakably real, then slipped out from under his arm, bare feet silent against the cold hardwood. The house at night felt larger, colder. She made her way down toward that heavier door with the antique brass lock.

A floorboard creaked behind her. Elena went rigid.

"Can't sleep?"

Camille's voice, low and amused, cut through the dark. She stood at the end of the hallway in a silk robe, a glass of something amber-colored in hand, watching with an expression that gave away nothing.

"That door stays locked for a reason," Camille said. "Not everything in this house is meant to be remembered."

The words hung between them, deliberate.

"Is that a warning?" Elena asked quietly.

Camille's smile was thin, gone as quickly as it appeared. "It's just the truth. Sleep well, Elena."

She disappeared down the hallway, leaving Elena alone in the dark, one hand still pressed flat against a locked door that seemed, suddenly, to be holding its breath right along with her.

Whatever waited behind that door — whatever Section 4 had been protecting, whatever reason had sent her running to marry a man in six days flat — she was done waiting for someone else to tell her.

She was going to remember. One way or another.