The Marriage I Don’t Remember

Chapter 2

My father doesn’t recognize me today.

I sit beside his hospital bed, holding his hand, and he looks at me with the confused smile of a man who thinks I’m a nurse.

“You have kind eyes,” he says. “Like my Zara.”

“Dad.” My throat closes. “It’s me. It’s Zara.”

He blinks. Squints. The recognition flickers for a moment—his fingers tighten around mine—and then it’s gone.

“Zara’s a good girl,” he murmurs, drifting. “She’s going to save her mother.”

I stay until his eyes close. Until the machines beep their steady rhythm. Then I kiss his forehead, walk out of the room, and let the tears fall in the hallway.

Forty‑six hours left. Maybe forty‑five now.

The taxi ride to my apartment is a blur. I sit in the back seat, the folder clutched against my chest, my phone buzzing with a call from Leandro Holdings Legal.

I answer. A woman’s voice, efficient, distant.

“Ms. Lancia, your father’s treatment requires final authorization. The funds are ready, but the hospital needs confirmation of residence per the contract. Once you’re at the address, the transfer completes.”

“I’m on my way now.”

“Then the first dose can be administered within two hours.”

I hang up. My hands are shaking. Two hours. Forty‑five hours left. Maybe forty‑four.

I stare out the window at the city sliding by. The lights blur.

Married. I’m married to Dimitri Leandro.

I pull up the photo of the marriage certificate on my phone. My signature. His signature. A judge’s stamp. I don’t remember signing anything. I don’t remember a ceremony. I don’t remember a ring.

What else don’t I remember?

My apartment is a studio in a building that should have been condemned years ago. I pack in minutes—laptop, chargers, the photo of my mother from my nightstand. Then I stand in front of the corkboard covered in six years of evidence.

I can’t leave this here.

I pull it off the wall, roll it up, and shove it into my duffel bag with the rest of my research. The bag is heavy, awkward. I don’t care.

The taxi drops me at an address that has no name on the building—just a number, etched into black granite. The doorman is built like a soldier. He doesn’t ask my name. He just looks at me, then at the camera above his head, and opens the door.

The lobby is silent. Too clean. The air smells like orchids and money.

The elevator requires a fingerprint. I don’t have one.

I’m about to call Dimitri when my phone buzzes.

“Elevator. Look up.”

I look. A camera lens glints in the corner.

The doors slide open.

I step inside, gripping my duffel, and the panel lights up with a single button. The car rises so fast my ears pop. When the doors open again, I’m standing in a penthouse that makes my studio feel like a closet.

Marble floors. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooking the city. A kitchen that belongs in a magazine. Art on the walls that probably costs more than my father’s treatment.

And the silence. It’s heavy, expectant, like the room is holding its breath.

Then I see him.

He’s standing by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the city lights. No jacket. Just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. In his hand, a glass of whiskey catches the light.

He doesn’t turn.

“You’re early.”

His voice is low, calm. Like he’s been waiting for me all evening.

I check my phone. 7:42pm. “Traffic was light.”

He turns then, and the breath catches in my throat.

In the office, he was a CEO. Controlled, polished, behind a desk. Here, in his own space, he’s something else. The shadows carve out the lines of his face, the width of his shoulders. His eyes—gray, cold—find mine, and I feel them like a physical touch.

“You brought luggage.” His gaze drops to the duffel, to the rolled corkboard sticking out of the top.

“Research.”

His eyebrow lifts. “You brought your conspiracy board to my penthouse.”

“You said you wanted me to help you find who framed my mother and killed your father.” I set the bag down harder than I mean to. “This is six years of work. I’m not leaving it in an empty apartment where anyone can steal it.”

He walks toward me, slow, and I force myself to hold my ground. He stops inches away. Close enough that I smell cedar and smoke. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“Your room is down the hall,” he says. “Second door on the left. My room is at the end. You don’t enter it without permission.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“This is business.” His voice drops. “I don’t know what happened between us three months ago, and I don’t care to speculate. Nothing more.”

I should agree. I should be grateful.

Instead, something hot flares in my chest. “Good. Because I didn’t come here to play house.”

His eyes narrow. “You came here to blackmail me.”

“I came here to save my father.” My voice cracks on the last word. I hate myself for it. “Don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor. You need me. Without my evidence, your investigators are still chasing shadows.”

The air between us tightens. For a moment, I think I’ve gone too far.

Then his lips curve. Not a smile—something sharper.

“Your father’s treatment has been authorized,” he says. “The funds transferred ten minutes ago.”

The words hit me like a wave. I sag against the counter behind me.

“I’ve already verified the first three transactions in your file,” he continues. “Someone inside my company has been stealing for years. The same method they used to frame your mother.”

“So you believe me now.”

“I believe you have good information.” He takes a sip of whiskey. “My investigators spent eighteen months with no starting point. You gave them one. That doesn’t make you an ally. It makes you a tool.”

I bristle. “I’m not anyone’s tool.”

“You signed a contract.” He sets the glass down. “You moved into my house. You’re wearing a ring tomorrow night. What would you call it?”

“Survival.”

He studies me for a long moment. Then he laughs—a low, quiet sound that does something strange to my chest.

“Survival,” he repeats. “Fine. Then let’s talk about tomorrow.”

He tells me about the gala while I stand there, arms crossed, trying to ignore how close he still is.

The Veritas Gala. The same event where we were drugged three months ago. The board expects him to attend with his wife.

“They know about us?”

“They know I married a woman three months ago. They don’t know the circumstances. And they won’t.”

I think about walking into that ballroom. The same people. The same champagne. The black hole in my memory.

“What if whoever did it tries again?”

He moves so fast I don’t have time to react. One moment he’s across the room, the next he’s in front of me, his hand braced against the counter beside my hip.

“They won’t,” he says. “Because you’ll be with me. And in public, you’re my wife. The woman I chose.”

My heart is hammering. “You didn’t choose me.”

“They don’t know that.”

His face is inches from mine. I can see the faint scar along his jaw, the way his pulse jumps at his throat.

“Out there,” he says, “we have a story. We met at the gala three months ago. It was sudden, passionate. We eloped that night. We’ve been keeping it private because of my position.”

“And if someone asks why we’ve been married three months and no one knew?”

“We say we wanted to protect our relationship from the press.” He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m a private man.”

I want to push him away. I want to step back. But I’m trapped between his arm and the counter, and my body isn’t listening to my brain.

“Fine,” I manage. “But I’m not pretending to be in love with you.”

His gaze drops to my lips. Just for a second.

“Wouldn’t dream of asking.”

He pushes off the counter and walks away, leaving me breathless.

I find my room. It’s bigger than my entire apartment. A bed I could get lost in. A closet the size of my studio.

And in the closet, clothes. Designer dresses, tailored pants, silk blouses. All in my size. All expensive enough to pay my rent for a year.

On the left side, hanging alone on a velvet hanger, is a navy dress.

My phone buzzes.

“Closet. Left side. Wear the navy dress. And Zara? He’s not the only one watching.”

My blood runs cold.

The same number that told me to come here. That told me to leave the cheap suit behind. Now it’s warning me against him.

I type: Who is this?

Three dots. Then:

“The person who’s going to help you find out what really happened that night. Trust no one. Especially him.”

The messages disappear. I scroll up—they’re gone.

Trust no one. Especially him.

But they sent me here. Why would they warn me against the man they delivered me to?

I look around the penthouse. The windows. The cameras in the elevator. The silence.

I scan the ceiling—no obvious cameras. But a man like Dimitri would have them hidden.

If someone outside knows I’m inside, which side of the closet the dress is on, they’re either watching this penthouse or they have access to it.

I decide: I won’t search for cameras now. If they exist, whoever’s watching will see me looking. Better to play dumb. For now.

I call the hospital.

“Frank Lancia. The treatment—has it started?”

A pause. “Let me check… Yes, Ms. Lancia. The payment confirmation came through about fifteen minutes ago. The first dose was administered ten minutes ago. He’s resting comfortably.”

I close my eyes. Thank God.

“Thank you.”

I hang up and stand there, the navy dress in my hand.

The treatment is happening. My father is alive. My mother’s case is moving.

Forty‑two hours left. Maybe forty‑one.

But I’ve just moved into a penthouse with a man who terrifies me, a mysterious third party is watching my every move, and somewhere in the dark of my memory, a night I can’t remember is waiting to surface.

I hang the dress back in the closet and sit on the edge of the bed.

What else happened that night that I don’t remember?

And why is someone who wanted me here now telling me to run?