Deception's Paradise

CHAPTER 2.1

MATTEO

Driven by a will he barely understood himself, Matteo grabbed his phone and left the apartment, ignoring the hollow echo of his solitary steps in the empty corridors. As he pushed through the building’s door, a black car was waiting at the curb. Without hesitation, he slipped inside, the muffled thud of the door sealing him in a cocoon of tension.

“Take me to the hospital,” he ordered the driver, his tone firm and commanding.

Inside the car, Matteo unlocked his phone and searched for the hospital’s number where Sophie was admitted. Each second that passed as the line rang felt like torture, a cruel test to his already frayed patience.

“Her physical condition is satisfactory,” reported a doctor on the other end, his voice firm and professional, yet detached, as if he were dealing with another statistic.

The coldness of the tone brought no comfort. Matteo pressed the phone tighter to his ear, his knuckles whitening.

“And the baby?” he asked, the words heavy on his tongue.

“The baby is fine as well. However—” The doctor paused, a hesitation Matteo loathed. “Her emotional state concerns me.”

“I’m on my way,” Matteo cut him off, ending the call abruptly.

The car glided to a stop in front of the hospital. Matteo stepped out before the driver could even reach the door. The sharp scent of disinfectant and the cold gleam of fluorescent lights enveloped him as he strode inside. He stormed down the hallways like a brewing storm, ignoring curious glances. Claiming to be Sophie’s fiancé was the key that unlocked doors and secured quick answers.

He turned to the doctor, frustration burning through his words.

“She wasn’t harmed, correct?”

The doctor hesitated, and Matteo narrowed his eyes.

“Speak!” he growled, his agitation bleeding through.

“The physical injuries are minor,” the doctor admitted, folding his arms. “But her mind… that’s a different story.”

For a moment, the doctor remained silent, watching Matteo with an inscrutable expression. Adjusting his glasses, he leaned forward slightly and set the clipboard on the metal table. The faint clack of plastic against steel reverberated in the quiet room, a sound that carried a weight far heavier than its volume.

The golden glow of a desk lamp cast soft shadows across the pale walls, creating a stark contrast between the sterility of the space and the raw, pulsing tension that filled it. The sharp scent of disinfectant mingled with the faint aroma of a forgotten cup of cold coffee nearby.

“Mrs. Callahan has endured severe trauma,” the doctor said at last, breaking the silence with a voice deliberate and grave. His dark eyes held an unsettling weight. “The extent of it remains unclear, as she cannot recall anything about what happened.”

Matteo felt the words like a blow to the gut. Heat surged through his chest, spreading like an untamed fire. He dropped his gaze to the floor, where the geometric tiles seemed to mock the chaos in his mind.

His shoulders stiffened. He didn’t just hear the words—he absorbed them, each syllable embedding itself like shards of glass in his consciousness.

“What?” The word escaped his lips barely as a breath. His voice, hoarse and hesitant, clashed with the pounding rhythm of his heart.

The doctor tilted his head slightly, a gesture blending empathy and gravity.

“Worse,” he continued, “she doesn’t remember anything that happened before this. All she knows is her name—and little more. Even the pregnancy came as a surprise.”

The words struck Matteo like a direct hit. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers tangling as though searching for answers among the strands. A low murmur of frustration slipped out in Italian, laced with fragments of English and French—a subconscious echo of his roots and inner turmoil.

Lifting his gaze, now glistening with disbelief and despair, he asked,

“She remembers nothing? Absolutely nothing?” The words fell heavy, each one wrenched from him like a reluctant confession.

The doctor exhaled, a weary sound born from too many repetitions of the same truth. He shook his head slowly.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, his tone firm yet softened by a trace of compassion. “She’s in an extremely vulnerable state. It is imperative that she not be disturbed. Mrs. Callahan still has four months of pregnancy ahead—and a long road to recovery.”

The words pierced Matteo like arrows, yet he reacted only with a clipped sound of impatience. The frustration within him tightened his jaw and clenched his fists at his sides.

“Of course, I would never upset her,” he shot back defensively, though the anguish in his eyes betrayed him. “It’s just hard to accept she remembers nothing. How is that even possible?”

The doctor crossed his arms, leaning back slightly in his chair—a posture cruelly calm against Matteo’s inner storm.

“Clearly, the experience was deeply traumatic,” he explained with clinical composure. “I suspect it’s the brain’s way of protecting her. A blackout—a defense mechanism—until she can better cope with what happened.”

Matteo’s eyes drifted to the window, where slats of sunlight filtered through the blinds in uneven stripes. Outside, life carried on, indifferent, while inside this room his reality lay shattered. He hesitated, words clogging his throat like stones.

“They…” His voice faltered, but he pressed on, barely above a whisper. “Did they hurt her?”

The doctor reclined, his expression softening almost to paternal gentleness. Tilting his head, he measured his words carefully.

“There are no signs of physical assault, if that’s what you’re asking. However, her mind bears wounds that will take time to understand,” he said, his voice gentler now, yet heavy with implication.

Matteo closed his eyes briefly, struggling to contain the storm within. When he opened them, his face was a mask of determination and fragility—a man about to face a raging sea without knowing how to swim.

“I can assure you, I’ve found no evidence of mistreatment of any kind,” the doctor reiterated. “Physically, we cannot determine everything she’s endured until she is ready to tell us. Patience is crucial. Pressuring her could have disastrous consequences.”

The final emphasis cracked through the air like distant thunder. Matteo let out a muted sound of frustration—barely audible, yet sharp as a blade, cutting through the charged silence.

He tilted his head, jaw taut, eyes narrowed as if wrestling with a tempest inside.

“I understand.” His voice was steady, yet steeped in something deeper—guilt, or perhaps a palpable dread.

Matteo locked eyes with the doctor, his posture rigid, his expression lined with painful resolve.

“I’ll make sure she gets the best care possible. Can I see her now?”

The doctor hesitated, a pause almost imperceptible, yet laden with countless considerations.

“Yes, but I must warn you to tread carefully when discussing the incident.” His voice took on a darker tone, as though each word were drawn from an unreachable shadow.

Matteo frowned, impatience flickering in his eyes.

“So you suggest I keep the truth from her?”

“Not the truth—just avoid heightening her anxiety,” the doctor replied cautiously. “You may share memories of her life before this—your routines, how you met, the small things. But I strongly advise, and this aligns with the hospital psychiatrist’s recommendation, not to rush into the incident or her amnesia.”

The doctor stepped back, tilting his head slightly, like a man calculating a complex chess move.

“In truth, we know very little. Speculation or sharing uncertain details would be reckless. She must remain calm. I cannot imagine what more Mrs. Callahan could endure in her current state.”

Matteo drew a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he gave a barely perceptible nod. Reluctant though he was, he recognized the cold logic in the doctor’s words. Yet the fire to uncover the truth surrounding Sophie roared inside him, an inferno that would not be quelled. He glanced at his wristwatch, time dragging on as though mocking his urgency.