Chapter 5 Confrontation in the Night

# Chapter 5: Confrontation in the Night

Three days after our amusement park outing, I finalized my plan. The pieces of myself I'd been gathering—the muscle memory with weapons, the hidden equipment, the dreams that felt more like memories—painted a picture I could no longer ignore. Whether I was an assassin, a spy, or something else entirely, I was certainly not the demure art consultant wife Neil portrayed me to be.

And tonight, I would force his hand.

I waited until our evening routine was complete: dinner on the terrace, Neil's habitual glass of scotch, his gentle kiss on my forehead before he retreated to his study for an hour of work. Like clockwork, he emerged at eleven, joining me in bed where I pretended to be absorbed in a novel.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked, nodding toward the book.

I smiled, placing it on the nightstand. "Just trying to tire my mind. I haven't been sleeping well."

"The doctor could prescribe something stronger," Neil suggested, sliding under the covers beside me.

"No more pills," I said firmly. "I'd rather work through it naturally."

Neil nodded, reaching to turn off his lamp. "Good night, then."

I waited, monitoring his breathing as it gradually deepened and slowed. After an hour, when I was certain he was truly asleep, I slipped from the bed and moved silently to the door. This would be my first test.

I'd observed Neil carefully these past days. Despite his outward appearance of relaxed confidence, he exhibited subtle signs of hypervigilance—the way his eyes scanned rooms upon entering, how he always positioned himself with sight lines to all exits, his habit of checking his phone precisely every twenty minutes. These weren't behaviors of a normal businessman. They were the habits of someone trained to detect threats.

Someone like me.

In the darkened living room, I began my performance. Moving with exaggerated clumsiness, I stumbled into a side table, sending a vase wobbling. I caught it before it fell, but ensured the noise was sufficient to alert someone with trained senses.

Then I wandered toward the kitchen, mumbling incoherently, playing the part of a sleepwalker.

Behind me, I heard the bedroom door open. Neil's footsteps were nearly silent—another telling detail. Normal people didn't move that quietly.

I reached the kitchen, fumbling with the knife block as if in a trance. My fingers closed around the handle of the chef's knife just as Neil appeared in the doorway.

"Lois?" His voice was gentle, but I caught the alertness in his stance.

I turned slowly, knife dangling from my fingers, eyes unfocused as if I weren't truly awake. "Have to finish... the mission," I mumbled.

Neil approached cautiously. "You're dreaming, Lois. Put down the knife."

I took a stumbling step toward him, raising the knife slightly. "Target... eliminate..."

What happened next confirmed every suspicion I'd harbored. Neil moved with breathtaking speed and precision, his hand catching my wrist in a perfect restraint hold while his other arm wrapped around my torso, immobilizing me completely. The knife clattered to the floor as he twisted my arm—not enough to cause pain, but with exactly the right pressure to force my fingers open.

This was no self-defense move learned in some corporate workshop. This was professional combat training.

"Lois, wake up," he commanded, his voice firm but controlled.

I allowed my body to jerk as if startled awake, then manufactured confusion and distress. "Neil? What's happening? Why are you—" I looked down at his grip on me. "You're hurting me!"

He released me immediately, though I noted he positioned himself between me and the fallen knife. "You were sleepwalking. With a knife."

I pressed a hand to my mouth. "Oh god. I'm so sorry. I—I don't remember getting out of bed."

Neil's eyes assessed me with clinical precision, searching for deception. I made sure he found none.

"It's alright," he said finally. "Let's get you back to bed."

As he guided me through the darkened apartment, his hand on my lower back, I felt a subtle shift in our dynamic. I'd shown him a glimpse of what might be hiding beneath my amnesia—a trained killer—and he hadn't seemed surprised. If anything, he'd seemed prepared.

In bed, Neil held me closer than usual, one arm draped over me in what might have appeared to be a protective embrace. But I recognized the tactical advantage it gave him—any movement I made would wake him instantly.

I lay awake long after his breathing deepened, planning my next move. The sleepwalking incident had confirmed Neil possessed combat training, but I needed more. I needed to push him further.

The following night, I escalated my test. After Neil fell asleep, I once again slipped from the bed, this time moving directly to his side of the mattress. I stood there silently, watching him, knowing that a trained operative would sense the presence even in sleep.

Within moments, his breathing changed. Without opening his eyes, he spoke: "Can't sleep again?"

"I had another dream," I whispered.

He patted the space beside him. "Come back to bed. Tell me about it."

Instead of complying, I remained standing. "I dreamed about a mission. About a target."

Neil's eyes opened then, instantly alert. No drowsy transition from sleep—another telling sign.

"What kind of mission?" he asked carefully.

"I don't know. But in the dream, I knew exactly what to do. How to move. How to... hurt someone." I paused. "Is that who I was, Neil? Did I hurt people?"

He sat up slowly. "They're just dreams, Lois. Your mind trying to process the trauma."

"Are they?" I moved to the window, where moonlight streamed in through the partially opened blinds. "Sometimes I feel like my body remembers things my mind doesn't. Like it's trained for... something."

Neil joined me at the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass. "What does it feel like? This training?"

A test within my test. I turned to face him. "Like I know exactly how much pressure it takes to break a man's trachea. Like I could disable someone three different ways with just my thumbs." I stepped closer to him. "Like I could kill someone and feel nothing at all."

His expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight tension in his shoulders—readiness, not fear.

"That's not who you are," he said softly.

"Then who am I, Neil? Because I don't think I'm the woman in those perfect photos. I don't think I'm an art consultant who gave up her career for love."

The moonlight cast half his face in shadow as he studied me. "What do you think you are?"

I met his gaze directly. "I think I'm dangerous. And I think you know that."

For a long moment, we stood frozen in that tableau—two predators recognizing each other in the wild. Then Neil closed the distance between us, his hand rising to cup my cheek with surprising tenderness.

"You're my wife," he said. "Whatever else you were before doesn't matter now."

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't the chaste kiss of the past week. This was deep, passionate, almost desperate—as if he were trying to convince both of us of something. My body responded before my mind could intervene, arms wrapping around his neck, pressing against him with equal fervor.

In that moment of distraction, I made my move. My right hand slid down to my pocket, extracting the handcuffs I'd found hidden in my office and had been carrying for two days, waiting for the right moment.

With practiced precision, I snapped one bracelet around Neil's left wrist and the other to the heavy iron radiator pipe beside the window.

Neil broke the kiss, looking down at his restrained wrist with an expression that cycled rapidly from surprise to admiration to wariness. He tugged experimentally at the cuffs—professional-grade, not novelty items.

"Where did you get these?" he asked calmly. Too calmly for a normal husband who'd just been handcuffed by his amnesiac wife.

"They were in my things," I replied. "Along with lock picks, false passports, and a knife that perfectly matches the scar on your side."

A flicker of something—recognition? resignation?—crossed his face. "Lois—"

"Who am I?" I demanded. "No more stories. No more lies about amusement parks that didn't exist or photographs that needed 'reprinting.' Tell me the truth."

Neil's free hand reached toward me, but I stepped back, maintaining distance. His arm dropped.

"You're right," he admitted finally. "I haven't told you everything."

"Then start now."

He sighed, leaning against the window frame. "It's complicated."

"I have all night." I gestured toward the handcuffs. "And so do you, apparently."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You were never just an art consultant. That was your cover."

"For what?"

"For your real work. You're... a contractor. With specialized skills."

"An assassin," I supplied flatly.

Neil's expression remained carefully neutral. "You prefer 'security specialist.'"

A fragment of memory stirred—someone whispering in my ear, voice urgent. "The third mission must succeed."

"What was the third mission?" I asked suddenly.

Neil went utterly still. "What?"

"Someone told me 'the third mission must succeed.' What was it?"

His eyes searched mine. "You remember that?"

"Just fragments. Pieces." I moved closer, studying his reaction. "Was the third mission to kill you?"

Instead of answering, Neil glanced pointedly at the handcuffs. "If you want the full story, you'll need to release me. Some things shouldn't be discussed while I'm restrained."

"I don't think so." I crossed my arms. "I'm starting to remember things, Neil. I remember how to use weapons. I remember combat techniques. I remember a knife wound exactly like the one you have." I paused. "Did I try to kill you before?"

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, Neil sighed.

"Yes," he admitted. "Twice."

The confirmation should have shocked me, but instead, it felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. "And the third mission? Was that a week ago?"

His expression darkened. "Lois, please. Uncuff me. This isn't a conversation we should have like this."

"Why not? Afraid I'll remember enough to finish the job?"

"No," he said quietly. "Afraid you'll remember enough to break your own heart."

Something in his tone gave me pause. There was genuine emotion there—pain, perhaps even love. It didn't fit the narrative of assassin and target.

Before I could respond, a memory struck with such force that I gasped—Neil's face above mine, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek, his eyes wild with concern as he pressed something against my side. "Stay with me," he was pleading. "Lois, stay with me!"

I staggered back, disoriented by the vivid flash. Neil immediately tensed, straining against the handcuffs.

"Lois? What is it? What did you remember?"

"You were... helping me." I pressed my fingers to my temples. "I was injured. You were trying to save me."

Neil's expression softened. "Yes. I was."

"But if I was sent to kill you... why would you save me?"

He hesitated, then spoke softly. "Because despite everything, I love you. And somewhere beneath those fractured memories, I believe you love me too."

I shook my head, struggling to reconcile these contradicting narratives. "None of this makes sense."

"It will," he promised. "But I need you to trust me a little longer. The full truth would be dangerous for you right now, while your memories are still fragmented."

"Dangerous how?"

"There are people watching us," he said carefully. "People who think you failed your mission because of the amnesia. If they knew you were remembering..."

Another piece clicked into place. "The security guards in the lobby. They're not just for protection, are they? They're making sure I don't leave."

Neil didn't deny it. "Please, Lois. Uncuff me. I promise I'll tell you more when it's safe."

I studied him in the moonlight—this man who claimed to be my husband, who admitted I'd tried to kill him, who somehow still looked at me with genuine affection despite knowing what I was capable of.

"One last question," I said. "The bullet casings in your collection room. With my lipstick mark. What are they?"

A sad smile touched his lips. "Mementos. From each time you couldn't go through with it."

I stared at him, processing this revelation. If he was telling the truth, I'd failed to kill him multiple times—not because I'd missed, but because I'd chosen not to fire. Or because I'd deliberately missed.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket and withdrew the small key to the handcuffs. As I approached Neil, I remained vigilant for any sign of aggression, any indication that this vulnerability was an act.

Instead, he remained perfectly still as I unlocked the cuff around his wrist. The moment he was free, he rubbed the reddened skin but made no move toward me.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," I warned. "This doesn't mean I trust you. It just means I want the full story, and I don't think I'll get it while you're restrained."

Neil nodded, understanding the terms of this fragile truce. "Would you like some tea? This might be a long conversation."

I agreed, and we moved to the kitchen in silence. As Neil prepared the tea with practiced movements, I watched him from the doorway, wondering which version of my fragmented reality was true—was he my target or my protector? My captor or my savior?

And most disturbing of all: was I a victim of his deception, or was I exactly what my muscle memory suggested—a killer who had somehow fallen in love with her mark?

As dawn broke over the city skyline, I was no closer to absolute truth, but one thing had become crystal clear: the game Neil and I were playing was far more complex—and deadly—than I had initially believed.