Gilded Amnesia

Chapter Three

The tears didn’t last long. They were quickly burned away by a hot, sharp anger. I wasn't just scared anymore. I was furious.

Locked in. He had actually locked me in.

I wiped my face roughly with the back of my hand, smearing the wetness across my cheeks. The self-pity was a luxury I couldn’t afford. If I was a prisoner, then I needed to start acting like one. I needed a plan. I needed to find a way out.

My eyes darted around the room, seeing it with new purpose. It wasn't a sanctuary; it was a crime scene. And I was the only detective on the case.

I started with the door. I pressed my ear against the cool, polished wood, listening. Nothing. Absolute silence. I examined the lock. It was a simple-looking keyhole, but when I looked closer, I saw a tiny, almost invisible green LED light glowing next to it. A keyhole for a physical key, but probably also wired to some kind of electronic security system. Of course it was. Liam Croft didn’t seem like a man who did anything simply.

Frustrated, I turned my attention to the rest of the room. I began a slow, methodical search, my heart hammering against my ribs with every step. I opened every drawer in the marble bedside table. Empty. I felt under the bed. Nothing but dust-free space. I ran my hands along the books on a low shelf—architectural volumes and books on economics. Nothing personal. No hidden journals, no forgotten photos.

It was like no one really lived here. It was a showroom. A staged set for a life that felt hollow.

My search led me back to the walk-in closet. This time, I didn’t look at the clothes with wonder, but with a critical eye. I pushed aside the rows of dresses, looking for a safe, a hidden panel, anything. My fingers brushed against something different. Behind a long, black evening gown, the wall felt… wrong. It wasn't drywall; it was cool and smooth to the touch, like metal.

There was a seam. A vertical line almost invisible against the white wall. A door. A hidden door.

My breath hitched. This was it. A secret.

I pushed on it. Nothing. I ran my fingers along the seam, looking for a latch, a button, a fingerprint scanner. There was nothing. Just smooth, unyielding metal. I shoved at it with my shoulder, putting all my weak weight into it. It didn’t even shudder.

Defeated, I slumped against the wall. Maybe it was just a access panel for electrical wiring. Maybe I was losing my mind, seeing conspiracies in everything.

A soft chime echoed through the room, making me jump. It was a melodic, two-tone sound. Then I heard it again. It was coming from outside the door. It wasn't the doorbell. It was different.

Curiosity overpowered fear. I crept back to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it again. I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping. Someone was typing. The sound was close.

I looked down at the floor and noticed a thin, almost invisible sliver of light coming from beneath the door. It was interrupted by two shadows. Someone was sitting right outside my door.

My mouth went dry. A guard? Was I being guarded?

Before I could process this, I heard a voice. A young man’s voice, muffled but clear enough to make out. He was talking to someone, his tone easy and familiar.

“…no, I know, but the specs for the Singapore launch are on the secure server. Mr. Croft wants the encryption level maxed out before the board meeting. Yeah, tell them to stop whining and just do it. He’ll know if they cut corners.”

He was on the phone. And he was talking about Liam’s business.

I held my breath, listening. This was a source of information. A real person, not the carefully controlled Dr. Evans or Elara.

A few minutes later, the typing stopped. I heard the creak of a chair and a sigh. Then, the sound of a game—the unmistakable, tinny music of a mobile puzzle game.

He was bored. He was a employee, stuck on babysitting duty. This was my chance.

I made a decision. It was reckless, maybe stupid, but it was all I had. I walked back to the bedside table, picked up the silver bell, and rang it. The sound was shockingly loud in the silent room.

The game music stopped instantly. I heard the chair scrape back. A moment of hesitation, then a knock.

“Mrs. Croft?” It was the same young man’s voice from the phone. “Is everything alright? Do you need something?”

I took a deep breath, trying to sound weak and confused, not furious and plotting. “Could… could I have some more water, please?” I called out, making my voice sound thin and shaky.

A key turned in the lock. The electronic LED by the door handle switched from green to red, then back to green. The door opened just enough for him to slip inside, carrying a fresh bottle of water from a mini-fridge I hadn't even noticed, tucked discreetly into a wall unit.

He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties. He had tousled brown hair, friendly green eyes behind stylish glasses, and was wearing dark jeans and a comfortable-looking hoodie with a company logo on it. He looked completely out of place in the cold luxury of the penthouse. He looked normal.

“Here you go,” he said, offering me the bottle with a hesitant smile. He didn’t come too far into the room, lingering near the door as if he knew he wasn't really supposed to be in here.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the bottle. My hands were trembling, and I let them. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just… I feel so disoriented.”

His expression softened with genuine sympathy. “Hey, no problem at all. It’s my job. I’m Noah, by the way. Mr. Croft’s… well, everything. Tech support, personal assistant, professional coffee-fetcher.” He grinned, and it was so open and normal that it almost disarmed me.

“It’s nice to meet you, Noah,” I said, and I meant it. He was the first person who felt real. “I… I don’t remember much. Everything is so strange.”

“I can’t even imagine,” he said, shaking his head. “Must be terrifying. But everyone’s just really glad you’re okay. Mr. Croft has been a wreck. Totally obsessed with your recovery. Wouldn’t let anyone else near this floor for weeks.”

There it was again. The narrative of the devoted husband. But this time, it came from a different source. It sounded more believable coming from Noah.

“He has?” I asked, letting a little vulnerability into my voice.

“Oh, yeah,” Noah said, nodding emphatically. “Basically lived in this room. Ran his entire empire from his laptop right out in the hall. Drove the board crazy.” He glanced toward the door as if he’d said too much. “But he’d kill me if he knew I was bothering you with all that. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“It’s not a bother,” I said quickly. “It’s nice to talk to someone. It’s so quiet in here.” I took a sip of water, watching him over the bottle. “How long have you worked for… for my husband?”

“About two years,” Noah said, leaning slightly against the doorframe. He seemed happy to chat. “Best job I’ve ever had. The man’s a genius. A seriously intense, work-till-you-drop genius, but a genius. He’s built something incredible.”

I tried to picture it. The man I’d met, the one with the icy eyes and the commanding presence, hunched over a laptop outside my door. A wreck. It was a hard image to reconcile.

“And… what about me?” I asked, the question hanging in the air between us. “What was I like? Before?”

Noah’s easy smile faltered just a little. He shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. “Oh, you know. You were… you.” He waved a hand vaguely. “You were always really focused on your… projects. You and Mr. Croft, you’re kind of alike that way. Very private. Very… driven.”

Driven. It was the same kind of vague, non-answer Elara had given me. Private. Strong. What did that even mean?

Before I could ask another question, we both heard it. The low, powerful hum of the private elevator arriving down the hall. The sound of doors sliding open.

Noah’s face went pale. He straightened up instantly, all traces of casual friendliness gone, replaced by professional alertness. “That’ll be him. I should… I should get back to my post.”

He practically fled the room, pulling the door shut behind him. I heard the key turn in the lock again, the soft click sounding final.

I stood frozen in the middle of the room, the water bottle cold in my hand. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples. I had learned something, but not enough. I had made contact. And now, he was back.

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside. Firm, measured, and getting closer. They stopped outside my door. There was a pause. I could feel him on the other side of the wood, a presence as solid and imposing as the walls around me.

I heard the low murmur of voices. Liam’s, a deep rumble I couldn’t make out. Noah’s, higher, responding quickly, nervously.

Then, silence.

The key turned again. The door opened.

Liam stood there, still in his black sweater, his hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes scanned the room instantly, taking in every detail—me standing in the center, the water bottle in my hand, the slight disorder of the bedcovers from my search. His gaze was like a physical sweep, missing nothing.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, but he didn’t lock it. He just stood there, looking at me.

“Noah said you were asking questions,” he said. His voice was neutral, flat.

The air left my lungs. Noah had told him. Of course he had. Noah worked for him, not for me. My one ally wasn’t an ally at all.

I didn’t say anything. I just looked back at him, my chin held high, trying to hide the tremor of fear and disappointment.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was the smile of a man who was always three steps ahead.

“Good,” he said.

The single word hung in the air, confusing me completely.

He took a step forward. “Asking questions means your mind is working. It’s fighting.” He took another step, and then another, until he was standing right in front of me. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. I could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something dark and spicy.

“So ask me a question, Amelia,” he said, his voice a low challenge. “Right now. Ask me anything you want to know.”

He was giving me permission. He was inviting it. The one thing I thought he wanted to avoid.

I stared up into his Arctic-blue eyes, my mind racing, screaming with a thousand questions. *Who am I? Why are you keeping me locked up? Did you have something to do with my accident?*

But the question that came out was the simplest, and the most complicated, of all.

“What…” I began, my voice barely a whisper. “What is my favorite color?”

He looked down at me, and for the first time, the ice in his eyes seemed to melt, replaced by something that looked astonishingly like grief.

“You don’t have one,” he said softly, his gaze intense, capturing mine. “You said assigning a favorite to something as vast as color was limiting. A pointless choice.”

He knew. He knew something so small, so intimate.

And in that moment, the beautiful, perfect lie felt terrifyingly real.