The Marriage I Don’t Remember

Chapter 3

A room with gold wallpaper. A man’s voice, low and urgent. A hand reaching for mine.

I gasp awake, heart slamming, the image already dissolving.

The penthouse ceiling stares back at me. Gray light filtering through the windows. Silence so thick it presses on my chest.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the fragments. Gold wallpaper. A voice—his voice? Or someone else’s? A hand. Warm. Fingers interlacing with mine.

What happened next?

I dig my nails into my palms, forcing my brain to hold the scene. There was music. Distant, like from another room. And the smell of something sweet—perfume, or flowers, or the champagne they gave me.

Come on. Come on. What happened after the hand?

Nothing. Just the black hole, swallowing everything.

I open my eyes. 6:15am on my phone screen.

Thirty‑four hours left. Maybe thirty‑three.

I’ve wasted the night chasing ghosts.

Morning comes pale and gray through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows. I find a note on the kitchen counter, propped against a fresh pot of coffee. The handwriting is all sharp angles—his.

“Gym. Back by noon. Stay in your room until I return.”

I stare at the note. Stay in your room. Like I’m a child. Or a prisoner.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and walk straight into the library instead.

If he wanted me locked in a box, he should have put a lock on the door.

The library is bigger than my entire apartment. Shelves rise to the ceiling, filled with leather‑bound books that look like they’ve never been opened. A rolling ladder stands against one wall. A reading nook with a velvet chaise. And in the corner, a small writing desk with a single drawer.

My investigator’s instinct prickles.

I set my coffee down and try the drawer. Locked.

Of course.

I scan the room. No key in sight. But I know a few ways around a lock.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a bobby pin—one of the few things I still carry from my mother’s old kit. She taught me this trick when I was twelve, half‑joking. A good investigator never relies on luck, Zara. Learn the locks.

I bend the pin, slide it into the keyhole, and feel for the pins inside. It takes three tries, my tongue pressed to the corner of my mouth, sweat gathering at my temple.

Then—click.

The drawer slides open.

Inside: a stack of envelopes, a faded photograph, and a velvet box.

I pick up the photograph.

It’s a woman. Blonde, beautiful, with the same gray eyes as Dimitri. She’s smiling at the camera, her arm around a young boy with dark hair and a serious expression.

His mother.

I turn it over. On the back, in elegant handwriting:

Forgive me.

My pulse quickens. Forgive me for what? Who wrote this—her? Or someone else?

Before I can reach for the envelopes, a voice comes from the doorway.

“That drawer is locked for a reason.”

I spin around.

Dimitri stands in the entrance, still in his gym clothes. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. His eyes are fixed on the photograph in my hand, and his expression is ice.

“I told you to stay in your room.”

I lift my chin. “Your note said stay in my room. But yesterday you said don’t leave the penthouse. Which is it?”

He steps into the room, and suddenly the space feels smaller.

“Both,” he says. “You’re not a guest here, Zara. You’re my wife. And in this house, my word is law.”

“Your word keeps changing.”

He stops a foot away. Close enough that I smell the salt of his skin, the lingering trace of his cologne.

“What did you find?” His voice is low, controlled.

I hold up the photograph. “Who is she?”

“You know who she is.”

“Your mother.” I turn it over. “Who wrote ‘forgive me’ on the back?”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he takes the photograph from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. The touch is brief, but it sends a current through me I don’t want to name.

“That’s her handwriting,” he says. “She left it behind when she disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“The night my father was murdered.” He walks to the desk and places the photograph back in the drawer. “Eighteen months ago. She walked out of the house and never came back. I thought she was dead.”

I stare at him. “You said you were hunting your father’s killer.”

“I was. Until three weeks ago, when I found evidence that she’s alive.” He closes the drawer and locks it with a key he pulls from his pocket. “And that she may have been the one holding the gun.”

The words hang in the air.

His mother killed his father.

“You didn’t mention that yesterday,” I say carefully. “When I told you I believed someone inside your company killed him.”

“Because I didn’t know it eighteen months ago.” He turns to face me. “I’ve been investigating my father’s murder since the night it happened. I hired the best investigators money can buy. They found nothing—until three weeks ago, when a lead surfaced that connected the shooter to a woman matching her description.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this when I walked into your office with evidence of a conspiracy inside your company?”

“I didn’t know you.” His jaw tightens. “For all I knew, you were part of it. A forensic accountant with a grudge, showing up with a folder of documents right when a new lead appears? That’s not a coincidence. That’s a setup.”

I step back, processing.

He’s not wrong. From his perspective, my timing looks suspicious.

“I’m not part of anything,” I say. “I’ve been working this case alone for six years.”

“So you keep saying.” His gaze drops to the drawer, then back to me. “You picked a lock. With a bobby pin. That’s not the skill set of an ordinary forensic accountant.”

“My mother taught me.”

“Your mother, the forensic accountant, taught you to break into locked drawers?” His eyes narrow. “Why would a forensic accountant need that skill?”

I meet his gaze. “Because she knew, long before the arrest, that someone inside Leandro Holdings was hiding something. She taught me how to find the truth when people try to bury it. The lock‑picking was just a backup.”

He studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing the answer, looking for the lie.

“What else did you see in that drawer?” he asks.

My pulse jumps. The envelopes. I saw at least three, maybe more, with handwriting on them.

“Only the photograph,” I say. “I reached for the envelopes, but you stopped me.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes hardens. He doesn’t believe me. I can tell.

But he doesn’t push.

“There’s nothing in there that concerns you,” he says. “Not yet.”

He pockets the key and walks toward the door. Then he stops.

“Your mother,” he says without turning. “She taught you well. But in this house, secrets stay locked. Next time, I won’t ask.”

He leaves.

I stand there, heart still hammering, and wonder what was in those envelopes he didn’t want me to see.

I spend the rest of the morning in my room, going through my research. The corkboard takes up half the wall. I pin the new information—Dimitri’s mother, the lead from three weeks ago—and connect it with red string to the old transactions.

Who inside Leandro Holdings had access to both my mother’s case and Dimitri’s father?

I’m so focused I don’t hear the knock on my door.

“Zara.”

I look up. Dimitri stands in the doorway, showered and changed, a garment bag in his hand.

“The gala is in six hours,” he says. “We need to go over the story.”

He sets the garment bag on the bed and unzips it. Inside is a gown—deep emerald silk, simple but elegant. The fabric pools like liquid, catching the light with a faint shimmer of gold threaded through the weave. It smells faintly of cedar, like his cologne.

I frown. “The unknown number said to wear the navy dress.”

Dimitri’s expression flickers. “What unknown number?”

I hesitate. Then I show him my phone—but the messages are gone. The screen is blank.

“They deleted themselves,” I say. “Yesterday. Right after they warned me not to trust you.”

His jaw tightens. He takes my phone, scrolls through it, finds nothing. Hands it back.

“The navy dress was a placeholder,” he says. “My assistant prepared it before I changed the plan. Whoever texted you was working with old information.”

“Or they don’t have full access to your plans.”

“Which means they’re not inside this penthouse.” He looks around, scanning the corners of the ceiling. “But they’re close.”

He pulls a small device from his pocket—a signal scanner, I realize. He sweeps the room. No beeps.

“No bugs,” he says. “But we still don’t know who they are.”

“Or why they sent me to you, then told me to run.”

He meets my eyes. “Maybe they wanted to see how we’d react. Or maybe they’re playing both sides.”

I look at the emerald gown. “So tonight, we give them a show.”

“Exactly.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring box. Opens it.

Inside is a diamond so large it catches the light and throws it across the walls.

“This was my grandmother’s,” he says. “You’ll wear it tonight. And you won’t take it off.”

I look at the ring. Then at him.

“This is a lot of effort for a business arrangement.”

“Appearances matter, Zara. If we’re going to catch whoever did this, we have to convince them we’re a real couple. That means rings, dresses, public appearances.” He takes the ring from the box. “It means trust.”

He holds it out. Waiting.

I hesitate. Then I extend my left hand.

His fingers close around mine, turning my palm upward. His hands are warm, the skin rough in a way I didn’t expect—calluses from the gym, from doing something with his hands that isn’t signing contracts. He slides the ring onto my finger, slow, deliberate, and I feel every millimeter of it passing over my knuckle.

My breath catches. I don’t mean it to.

The diamond settles against my skin, heavy and cold. But beneath it, where the band touches, heat blooms. I can feel his thumb pressing lightly against my palm, holding my hand steady, and neither of us moves.

The silence between us stretches. I can hear my own heartbeat.

He doesn’t let go.

His eyes drop to the ring, then to my face. For a moment—just a moment—something cracks in that controlled expression. Something raw. His thumb moves, just a fraction, tracing the edge of my palm.

Then it’s gone.

He releases my hand, steps back, and the spell breaks.

“One year,” I say quietly, my voice steadier than I feel. “And we find the truth.”

“One year,” he agrees. But his eyes linger on my hand, on the ring, and the look he gives me is anything but business.

He steps back. “The car will be here at seven. My assistant will help you with hair and makeup. And Zara?”

I look up.

“Tonight, you’re not a forensic accountant. You’re not an investigator. You’re my wife. Every smile, every glance, every word—it has to be real. Can you do that?”

I think of my father in the hospital. Thirty‑three hours left, maybe thirty‑two. My mother’s face on the corkboard. Six years of chasing shadows.

“I can do it,” I say.

He nods once and leaves.

I stand there, the ring heavy on my finger, the gown shimmering on the bed.

My phone buzzes.

I look down.

The unknown number.

“Tonight, they’ll try to separate you. Don’t let him out of your sight. And Zara? The woman in the photograph? She’ll be there.”

My blood turns to ice.

His mother. At the gala.

I type back: How do you know that?

Three dots. Then:

“Because I’m the one who invited her.”

The messages disappear.

I stare at the screen, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Someone inside this conspiracy—someone who has been watching me, guiding me—just invited Dimitri’s mother to the same event where we were drugged three months ago.

Why?

I look at the gown. The ring. The door where Dimitri stood a moment ago.

Trust no one. Especially him.

But right now, the only person standing between me and whoever is playing this game is the man who just put his grandmother’s ring on my finger.

I pick up the gown and lay it on the bed.

Thirty‑two hours left.

Tonight, I walk into the lion’s den. And I don’t know if I’ll walk out.