Owned by the Devil

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Arabella

The first thing I felt was pain. A sharp, drilling ache behind my eyes, like someone was cracking my skull open with a chisel. My limbs were heavy, weighed down by invisible chains, and my mouth tasted like metal and cotton.

The second thing I felt was confusion.

I blinked against the brightness pouring through tall, arched windows draped in gauzy white curtains. The light was too soft to be morning, too golden to be real. It bathed the room in a surreal glow, making everything shimmer.

Where... was I?

I sat up slowly, wincing as the pounding in my head flared like a siren. The sheets were cool against my skin—expensive, I noted distantly. Everything about the room screamed wealth and old-money elegance. Ornate wallpaper in ivory and gold. A chandelier dripping with crystals. A marble fireplace quietly crackling, its warmth chasing the chill from the high ceilings.

Everything looks too surreal to be true, like a page from a historical fairytale. But somehow, it felt like a prison dressed in perfect elegance. I have no idea how I got here, yet I could tell that this wasn’t my room. And this wasn’t my life.

Panic rose in my chest.

My limbs refused to move at first. They felt like aged, heavy logs of wood. God knows how long I've been like this. With a vehement effort, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, preparing to stand despite the dizziness and disorientation threatening to topple me. But before I could plant my feet on the thick Persian rug, a deep voice cut through the silence.

“You’re awake.”

I froze. Slowly, I turned to my right.

A man, hauntingly familiar, sat across from me in a leather wingback chair near the fireplace, elbows resting on his knees, his dark gaze fixed entirely, unblinkingly, on me.

He had been watching me.

The fire lit up the sharp angles of his face. He was devastatingly handsome, in the kind of way that felt more dangerous than beautiful. Dark-grey hair swept back from his forehead, a jawline carved like stone, and cold grey eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. He wore a black button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong forearms and a tattoo peeking from beneath one cuff. His expression was unreadable—something between relief, calculation and disappointment.

I swallowed hard.

“Where… where am I?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he stood and crossed the space between us with a grace that unnerved me. He stopped beside the bed, keeping a small but deliberate distance. “You’ve been unconscious for three days,” he said finally. “There was an accident. You took quite a hit.”

My pulse quickened. “An… accident?”

“Yes.” His voice was low, steady. “You tripped. Fell down a flight of stairs. You’ve been in a coma since.”

I shook my head slowly, pain flickering across my temples with the movement. “I… I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything.”

His jaw tensed, just slightly. “You don’t remember the fall?”

“No,” I whispered. “I don’t even… know my name.”

A beat of silence.

Something in his gaze changed then—darker, sharper. Not surprise. Something more dangerous. Expectation.

“You don’t remember… anything?”

I searched his face for familiarity, for anything that could anchor me in this terrifying haze, but there was nothing. Just a haunting emptiness where memories should be.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t… I don't think I know who I am.”

He exhaled slowly, as though releasing a breath he’d been holding far too long. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, so close I could feel the heat from his body. His eyes softened.

“You’re Arabella,” he said gently. “Arabella Fairchild.”

Arabella. The name rolled through my mind like a stranger’s echo.

“We were engaged to be married,” he continued, brushing a stray curl from my cheek. “You were going to be my wife.”

A shiver rippled through me, but not from the cold.

“Your parents died years ago. You have no siblings,” he added, his voice tightening. “It’s just you now. And me.”

I stared at him, lips parted, heart thudding in my chest. “And… you are?”

A shadow passed through his eyes. Then he offered me a slow, almost sad smile.

“Dominic Luca Moretti.”

I blinked.

No. The name meant nothing to me. No flash of memory. No flicker of emotion. No spark of emotion. Just a hollow void and the weight of a truth I couldn’t prove or reject. And that was the point.

“I don’t… remember you,” I said quietly.

“I know.” His voice lowered, rich with something I couldn’t quite name. “But I remember you. Every part of you.”

His fingers brushed mine—warm, firm, possessive.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “And I’ll take care of you. Until your memories come back.”

There was no reason not to believe him.

But deep down, something felt... off.

His eyes lingered on me too long. His words were too smooth. And something in my chest—something buried too deep to name—screamed against this story.

Still, what choice did I have?

I was a blank slate. A woman with no past, no memory, no power. And he was the only person in this world who claimed to know me.

The only person who hadn’t left.

So I nodded slowly, eyes stinging.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead, his lips cool against my fevered skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Rest now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

And as he rose and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him with a soft click, I realized something chilling.

For all his reassurances… I wasn’t free. I was his.

And I didn’t even remember why.