Chapter 7
1914 Words
It had been three days since Giselle’s accident, and Ryan Carrington had spent every one of those days investigating what had happened. His assistant’s reports had offered little insight—no CCTV footage, no witnesses. Nothing. It was as if someone had tampered with the evidence. Ryan’s instincts whispered one thing—foul play. And if there was foul play, Astrid and Stefan weren’t far behind.
He received a call that morning from his assistant confirming what he’d feared: Stefan had been the one to take Giselle home from the hospital, and the doctor had diagnosed her with memory loss. Amnesia? The word rang in his ears.
A flicker of suspicion crossed his face as he dropped his phone on the table. Giselle had always been sharp, calculated—even cunning. Memory loss? That didn’t sound like her at all. He needed to see her himself.
********
The doorbell rang.
Irene’s heart slammed against her chest. She froze where she stood, staring at the front door like it might attack her. Her palms were sweaty, her breathing uneven. Stefan wouldn’t ring the doorbell, would he?
She opened it slowly.
Her heart sank.
It was him—the man who had mistaken her for Giselle at the bar. The heir to Carrington Enterprises. Her supposed fiancé.
Ryan Carrington.
He looked even taller and more intimidating than she remembered. His perfectly tailored navy suit hugged his broad shoulders, his silver cufflinks catching the light as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Irene stepped back instinctively, trying to calm the storm inside her chest.
“Do you recognise me?” Ryan asked, his voice sharp, cool. His eyes bore into hers like he could see every secret she was hiding.
She nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
“Good,” he said, striding toward the couch like he owned the place. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, surveying the house like it was a puzzle he was close to solving.
Irene stood rooted by the door.
“I heard you have amnesia,” he said, glancing around the house like he was looking for something… anything out of place. “Or is that your new excuse to get out of this marriage? To run back to your lover?”
Irene blinked. “W-What are you talking about?”
She looked at him, genuinely confused. This wasn’t part of what Stefan had prepared her for. Ryan studied her reaction closely. It wasn’t the Giselle he remembered—haughty, smug, full of subtle jabs and games. No, this woman was… soft. Frightened.
Maybe she had indeed lost her memory.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, his tone softening just slightly.
She nodded—then quickly shook her head. “No. I want to rest,” she said quietly, unable to meet his eyes. “Please… leave.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. He moved toward the door slowly, pausing just before he reached it. Then, he turned his head and looked at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
“I hope this amnesia of yours won’t interfere with our wedding,” he said smoothly. “You agreed to it before. My grandfather will be contacting your family soon.”
“Until then,” he added, coldly. “Giselle.”
Irene didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat was dry, her heart pounding. When the door finally shut behind him, she stumbled back and sank into the couch, her hands shaking.
When he left, she clutched her chest, breathing hard.
Giselle... Would she ever get used to that name?
The next day, Stefan arrived and turned on the TV. Irene sat at the edge of said the couch, too tired to argue.
A breaking news segment played. A woman named Irene Garfield, reportedly the daughter of a failed businessman, was found dead after a car accident—her body identified by her family.
The report said she was suspected of murdering a local loan shark before dying in the crash.
Irene stared at the screen, her mouth slightly open.
“I’m dead,” she whispered.
Stefan smirked beside her. “No. Irene is dead. You’re Giselle now.”
She turned to look at him, hollow. “And what’s the end of this story supposed to look like?”
Stefan leaned closer. “A happy ending, of course.”
Irene didn’t answer.
Stefan muted the television with a click, the static silence replaced by the hum of tension between them. Irene remained still on the edge of the couch, her fists curled tightly in her lap, knuckles white. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her like a hunter would a cornered animal.
“You should prepare for the family dinner,” he said coldly. “I don’t want you slipping up. You’re Giselle now. Speak when spoken to. Smile when needed. Am I clear?”
Irene didn’t answer right away. Her throat was dry, her thoughts tangled. Then, with a deep breath, she said quietly, “He was here.”
Stefan tilted his head. “Who?”
“Ryan,” she murmured, not looking at him. “He came here. Sat right in this room.”
Stefan’s smirk was slow, dangerous. “So? Did he figure you out?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, hesitating. “But he looked at me like he was trying to see through me.”
“That’s why you need to get better at pretending,” he said smoothly.
Irene turned toward him, her voice trembling but determined. “What happens when we’re married? What do you want me to do?”
Stefan leaned back in his chair, a slow, calculating smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t answer immediately, just stared ahead like he was watching his plans unfold in real-time. “Make Ryan trust you,” he said finally. “That’s the first step. He doesn’t trust easily. You have to get under his skin, make him feel like he needs you.”
Irene’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. “You mean… emotionally?”
He turned to face her, his smile widening ever so slightly. “Emotionally. Physically. Whatever works.”
Irene stiffened. “Are you telling me to… sleep with him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Stefan chuckled, the sound low and dismissive. “What’s wrong with that? You’ll be married. It’s not like it’ll be forced. Besides…” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, “Men like Ryan can’t resist control. You give him a taste, make him think he has it, then you take it away. Use it.”
A cold shiver ran down Irene’s spine. She stared at him in disbelief, a sickening knot twisting in her stomach. “You’re insane,” she muttered.
“Maybe,” Stefan said coolly. “But within a year, Ryan will become CEO. If we don’t stop him before then, the Carrington empire will be out of reach. That cannot happen.”
Irene shook her head slowly, unsure if she was trembling from fear, rage, or both. “If I’m doing this—pretending to be someone else, deceiving a man who hasn’t even done anything to me—I want you to settle my debt. And you must promise not to touch my family.”
Stefan stood, adjusting his cufflinks with the same casual arrogance he always carried. “Follow my rules, and I’ll do right by you. Betray me…” He looked down at her, eyes narrowing, “And you’ll wish you drowned in that river.”
Irene’s throat closed around the lump of dread forming there. She nodded once, barely.
Stefan smirked again, turning toward the door. “Good girl.”
**********
The Carrington estate’s private dining room looked like something out of a royal palace. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. The scent of aged wine and roses lingered in the air. On one side sat the Carringtons—Ryan, his sharp-eyed grandfather at the head, and his cold, regal mother. On the other sat the Monroes—Giselle’s father and stepmother. And Irene, seated in the center of it all.
All eyes were on her.
She reached for her wine glass with trembling fingers and downed it in one gulp.
“Giselle,” her stepmother said gently. “Dinner hasn’t even been served.”
“I’m just… nervous,” Irene said with a fake smile.
“Is she alright now?” Ryan’s mother, Jenny, asked across the table.
“She’s doing better,” the senator replied. “The doctors said she may recover more memories with time.”
Jenny continued to talk until Ryan’s grandfather cleared his throat, silencing everyone.
“I suppose we’ll have to delay the wedding,” he said. “She might not even remember accepting the proposal.”
“No,” the senator interrupted. “Let’s proceed as planned. She’s lived alone most of her life. Getting married will be good for her. And Ryan will take care of her.”
Irene looked toward Ryan. He stared ahead, unreadable.
Stefan sat beside her, smirking like he’d won.
Astrid caught Irene’s gaze and followed it to Stefan, her fists clenching under the table.
“Then it’s settled,” the patriarch said, raising his glass.
*****
On the wedding day, Irene sat quietly as makeup artists and stylists surrounded her. The white wedding gown shimmered like moonlight. Her hair was pinned up elegantly, and sparkling accessories adorned her ears and wrist.
The makeup artist adjusted her veil. “Your mother must be so proud of you.”
Those words broke something inside her.
She thought back to the conversation with her mom when she was little. Her mother had described the perfect wedding—how her daughter would wear white, walk down the aisle with her head held high, and marry someone who loved her deeply.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
“Can I borrow your phone?” Irene asked.
“Can I borrow your phone?” she asked.
The artist handed it over, and Irene stepped aside. She called her mother’s number.
“Hello?” came Aunt Ruby’s voice.
Irene didn’t speak—but she could hear her mother’s sobs in the background.
“My daughter left me… It’s all my fault…”
Tears streamed down Irene’s face as she listened. Then Aunt Ruby asked, “Who is this?”
But Irene ended the call. She couldn’t take it.
She ran out, lifting the heavy wedding gown, ignoring the makeup artist’s shouts.
Outside, she opened a taxi door—but a firm hand pulled her back.
Stefan.
“If you want to leave, leave,” he said. “But remember the consequences.”
She froze.
Her mother… her sister…
Stefan watched as she crumbled. She let the door fall shut and walked back inside, tears streaming silently.
Later, she sat once again in front of the mirror, fixing her makeup.
“There’s no going back now, Giselle,” she whispered. “Get used to it.”
Her father came to walk her down the aisle.
The music swelled. The guests stood. She took Ryan’s hand at the altar.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant said.
She didn’t look up.
Ryan leaned in, brushing her cheek, then her lips. His kiss was slow—firm, warm, lingering longer than it needed to. When he pulled away, her eyes fluttered open.
There’s no going back now, Giselle.
- Writer
