Chapter 2 Sweet Prisoner
# Chapter 2: Sweet Prisoner
The morning light filtering through the curtains woke me before Neil did. For a fleeting moment, I forgot my situation—then reality crashed back. Still in this pristine bedroom. Still married to a stranger. Still missing my memories.
I heard movement in the hall and quickly closed my eyes, feigning sleep as the door opened. Footsteps approached the bed, paused, then retreated. Only when I heard the door close did I allow myself to breathe again.
Rising cautiously, I explored the bedroom properly. The closet revealed an extensive wardrobe—designer clothes in my size, tags still attached to many. Everything looked new, unworn. In the bathroom, the toiletries were high-end but barely used. It was as if this life had been assembled recently, not lived in for the two years Neil claimed.
After showering, I selected a simple outfit—jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than a month's rent somewhere. As I dressed, I noticed the bandage on my side, just below my ribs. When had Neil mentioned this injury? Had he mentioned it at all?
"Good morning." Neil's voice startled me as I entered the kitchen. He stood at the stove, making what smelled like French toast. "How did you sleep?"
"Fine," I lied, accepting the coffee he offered. The mug felt heavy in my hands. "This apartment... it's beautiful."
"Our home," he corrected gently, sliding a plate before me. "The doctor will be here at eleven. He's been monitoring your recovery since the accident."
I nodded, studying Neil as he moved around the kitchen. His actions were efficient, practiced. Not the movements of someone who employed the staff a place like this would normally have.
"Where's everyone else?" I asked casually.
Neil glanced up. "Everyone?"
"Staff. For an apartment this size..."
"Ah." He smiled. "Just the housekeeper, Mrs. Chen. She comes three times a week. And security, of course, but they stay in the lobby."
Security. The word triggered something—a flash of awareness, gone before I could grasp it.
After breakfast, Neil showed me around the apartment: a library filled with first editions, a home gym with state-of-the-art equipment, a music room with instruments I doubted anyone played. Everything perfect, pristine, and strangely impersonal despite the photos displayed throughout.
"Your office?" I asked, noticing a closed door.
"My study," he corrected. "Private, I'm afraid. Confidential work materials."
I nodded as if this made perfect sense, but filed the information away. What kind of husband keeps his wife out of his office?
The doctor arrived precisely at eleven—an older man with silver hair and piercing eyes that seemed to see more than I wanted to reveal.
"Mrs. Hamilton," he greeted me formally. "I'm Dr. Wexler. How are you feeling today?"
"Confused," I admitted. "I don't remember anything before yesterday."
He nodded, unsurprised. "The brain is complex. Memory loss following trauma can be unpredictable. May I examine you?"
Neil hovered nearby as the doctor checked my vital signs and pupil responses.
"I need to change your bandage," Dr. Wexler announced. "And check the stitches."
"I can do that," Neil interjected quickly. "I've been changing them daily."
The doctor hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. Continue with the antibiotics. The medication I prescribed for pain—"
"I haven't needed it," I interrupted, watching Neil's reaction. A flicker of something—concern? Annoyance?—crossed his face.
After the doctor left, Neil insisted on changing my bandage immediately. I reluctantly agreed, lifting my sweater to expose the wound on my side.
His fingers worked with unexpected expertise, removing the old dressing with practiced motions. The wound beneath was a clean surgical incision, about three inches long, held together with neat stitches.
"What happened here?" I asked directly.
Neil's eyes met mine briefly. "You fell through a glass table at the reception. A fragment cut you pretty deeply."
His hands never faltered as he cleaned the wound and applied fresh bandaging, movements too precise for an amateur. The way he handled the gauze, the perfect pressure of his touch—it was professional. Clinical.
"You're good at this," I observed.
"I took a first aid course after my father had a heart attack," he explained smoothly. Too smoothly. "All done."
Throughout the day, Neil remained attentive, answering my questions about our life together with stories that sounded rehearsed. He showed me albums of our travels, told me about our courtship, but something felt off in every anecdote—details that didn't quite connect, references that contradicted earlier statements.
When evening came, Neil announced he needed to handle some work emails.
"I'll be in my study for an hour or so," he said, kissing my temple. "Make yourself comfortable."
The moment he disappeared behind that closed door, I began a more thorough investigation of the apartment. I checked for exits—three: main door, service entrance, fire escape. All requiring keys or codes I didn't have. The windows were sealed shut, forty floors above the street. A beautiful cage.
In the library, I found books on memory disorders, medical texts on amnesia, all recently purchased judging by their pristine spines. Had Neil been researching my condition—or preparing for it?
When I heard movement from the study, I quietly retreated to our bedroom. An hour later, Neil joined me, slipping into bed with a whispered goodnight. I feigned sleep until his breathing grew deep and regular.
Three hours later, I eased from the bed, moving silently across the carpeted floor. The study door was my target—and the secrets it surely held.
The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through distant windows. I reached the study door, tested the handle. Locked, as expected. But locks could be picked, and somehow I knew I possessed this skill, though I couldn't remember learning it.
I returned to the bathroom, retrieving a hairpin from a drawer. Back at the study door, my fingers worked with muscle memory, manipulating the pin until I felt the tumblers give way.
The study was dark except for the blue glow of a computer screen in sleep mode. I moved carefully, scanning the room—desk, filing cabinets, bookshelves. Against one wall stood a sleek safe, flat and modern, with no visible keyhole or combination dial. Instead, a small panel glowed beside it—a biometric scanner.
Iris recognition. The realization came from nowhere.
I approached it cautiously, wondering if Neil's sleeping eye would unlock it. As I leaned closer to examine the mechanism, my foot caught on something—a trip wire. A soft beeping started, escalating rapidly.
Panic surged through me. I fled the study, barely making it back to the bedroom and under the covers before I heard Neil moving through the apartment. I controlled my breathing, feigning sleep as he entered the room. After a long moment, he retreated.
I remained motionless, heart pounding. Something was very wrong here. The safe, the alarm system—these weren't normal precautions. What was Neil protecting? Or who was he protecting it from?
The next morning, I acted as if nothing had happened, joining Neil for breakfast and accepting his suggestion of a walk in the private rooftop garden. As we strolled among manicured plants, I deliberately took a wrong turn, heading toward a service door.
"Not that way," Neil said quickly, catching my arm with gentle firmness.
"I just wanted to see where it leads."
"Staff areas," he explained. "Let's go this way instead."
As we turned, a middle-aged Asian woman emerged from the service door, carrying cleaning supplies. Mrs. Chen, I presumed. Her eyes widened when she saw me, shock evident on her face.
"Mrs. Hamilton!" she exclaimed. "You're—you're still alive!"
Neil tensed beside me. Mrs. Chen immediately paled, realizing her mistake.
"Still recovering," she amended hastily. "I meant you're up and about! The accident was so terrible, we worried..."
"Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Chen," Neil interrupted smoothly. "My wife is doing much better, as you can see."
I smiled at the housekeeper, noting the fear in her eyes. "Yes, much better. Though my memory is still quite foggy."
"Of course, of course," she murmured, hurrying past us.
I waited until we were alone again before asking, "Was my accident really so severe that she thought I might die?"
Neil's smile didn't reach his eyes. "People exaggerate. You were never in any danger."
But the housekeeper's slip confirmed what I already suspected. Whatever had happened to me wasn't a simple fall. And Neil—my supposed loving husband—was lying about it.
That night, as I lay beside him in our bed, I no longer felt like a confused amnesiac. I felt like a prisoner. A prisoner who needed to discover what had happened to her before the "accident"—and whether the handsome man sleeping beside her was her protector or her jailer.
