Edinburgh to NYC

"Who are you ?"

The fountain pen scratched against the heavy parchment in Edinburgh, sealing a theft twenty years in the making. But a pen stroke cannot stop the beating of a heart that refuses to quit.

Three days later, in the sterile, high-priced hospital of Metropolitan Private, the machines monitoring Emma Howard finally settled into a steady, rhythmic hum. The storm had passed, but it had washed away the shores of her mind.

The temporary cessation of her heart had starved her brain of oxygen just long enough to fracture her memories. When her eyes first fluttered open, the world was a blur of blinding white and unfamiliar faces. She remembered her name. She remembered the cold Scottish mist. But the roaring fire of the last few months—and the man who had ignited it—was gone, buried under a thick layer of mental ash.

---

A week later, Emma woke up to the smell of lavender and expensive wood polish.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital were gone, replaced by the soft, amber glow of a massive bedroom. She was lying in a canopy bed draped in silk sheetings. She looked down; her hospital gown had been replaced with a soft, cream-colored silk nightgown.

"Oh, thank goodness. You’re awake."

Emma turned her head sharply, a spike of pain shooting through her temples. A middle-aged woman in a crisp grey uniform was standing by the bedside, holding a silver tray with a porcelain teapot. Her face was etched with genuine relief.

"Where... where am I?" Emma’s voice was a dry, raspy whisper. She tried to sit up, but her muscles felt like lead. "Who are you?"

The woman set the tray down hastily and stepped closer, offering a warm, reassuring smile. "Slowly, miss. Don't force yourself. You’re safe. I am Ruth, the head maid here."

"Here?" Emma frowned, her brow furrowing as she scanned the opulent room. "Whose house is this? How did I get here?"

Before Ruth could answer, the heavy double doors of the master bedroom clicked open.

The air in the room instantly plummeted by twenty degrees.

Jayden walked in. He was wearing a tailored, charcoal-grey suit, but the shadows under his eyes were dark and hollow. His jaw was set in stone. The desperate, weeping man who had held her bleeding body in the rain was gone. In his place stood the ruthless, unfeeling billionaire the world feared.

He hadn't forgotten the cold weight of the gun she had pointed at his chest right before the attack. He hadn't forgotten the words she had hurled at him. If she wanted him to be a monster, he would play the part.

"Leave us, Ruth," Jayden commanded, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Ruth bowed her head quickly. "Yes, sir." She cast a brief, worried glance at Emma before hurrying out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

Emma watched the tall, imposing stranger approach the foot of her bed. He was breathtakingly handsome, yet entirely terrifying. There was an intense, burning anger hidden deep behind his icy stare, and it made her pulse race.

"Who are you?" Emma demanded, trying to sound brave, though her hands trembled beneath the silk sheets. "Did you kidnap me?"

Jayden stopped. His eyes narrowed, searching her face for any sign of a game. He looked for the spite, the defiance, the hatred she had shown him on that rainy night. But he found only genuine, wide-eyed confusion.

A cruel, bitter smile touched his lips. Memory loss. The doctors had warned him it was a possibility, but seeing it firsthand felt like a fresh twist of the knife. She had forgotten him. She had forgotten everything they were to each other.

"Kidnap you?" Jayden let out a low, humorless chuckle. He stepped closer, leaning against the heavy mahogany bedpost, looking down at her like a predator inspecting its caged prey. "You should be begging for a kidnapper, Emma. They usually want money. I want something far more expensive."

Emma pulled the blanket tighter around her chest, intimidated by his sheer presence. "I don't know who you are. Let me go. My family—"

"Your family is currently in Scotland," Jayden interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Your uncle Daniel, your cousin Elena—they did not even come to see you when you were in the hospital bed."

Emma gasped, the mention of her family sending a sickening jolt through her core. "What? That doesn't matter. Why are you telling me this?" She looked at him desperately. "And who are you to tell me anything?"

Jayden leaned down, bringing his face inches from hers. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the lingering trace of winter air.

"My name is Jayden Morgan," he whispered, each word dripping with cold calculation. "And right now, I am the only thing keeping you alive."

Emma’s breath hitched. She didn't remember him. But looking into his piercing eyes, a strange, phantom ache flared in her chest—a sudden warmth that didn't match the frost in his voice.

"If I'm such a burden to you," Emma whispered, tears of frustration pricking her eyes, "why am I here?"

Jayden stood up straight, buttoning his suit jacket with chilling deliberation. He turned his back to her, walking toward the large French windows overlooking the sprawling estate so she couldn't see the raw conflict in his eyes.

"Because you owe me," Jayden said, not looking back. "And I always collect my debts. You are going to stay in this mansion. You will heal, and you will do exactly as I say."

He paused, his hand resting on the brass door knob. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Don't flatter yourself into thinking this is romance, Emma," he said coldly.

The girl I cared about died the moment she pointed the gun at me, he thought, his chest tightening.

"Get some rest," he added aloud, his voice dropping to a harsh register. "We begin tomorrow."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Emma alone in the silence. She looked down at her bare hands, feeling an inexplicable emptiness on her ring finger, wondering who Jayden Morgan really was—and why her heart ached for a man who looked at her with nothing but ice.