Chapter 8 Blood-Soaked Wedding

# Chapter 8: Blood-Soaked Wedding

Night had fallen by the time I emerged from the secure room, my mind reeling from hours of reviewing mission files, surveillance footage, and personal videos. The truth—or what appeared to be the truth—was far more complex than any scenario I'd imagined. Neil and I were partners in every sense: professional operatives working together to infiltrate an assassination network, and apparently, a genuinely married couple.

I found Neil on the deck overlooking the ocean, a glass of scotch in hand as he stared out at the moonlight dancing across the water. He turned at the sound of my footsteps, his expression carefully neutral, giving me space to process what I'd discovered.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Overwhelmed," I admitted. "It's strange seeing evidence of a life I don't remember living."

Neil nodded. "The doctors said it might be like this—like watching a movie about someone else who happens to look like you."

"Did they say if I'll ever get it all back?"

"They couldn't be certain. The combination of the drug and trauma was unprecedented." He hesitated. "Does anything feel familiar? From the videos or files?"

I considered the question. "Not memories exactly, but... sensations. When I watched us in the training videos, I could feel how my body would move in those sequences. And this place—" I gestured to the safe house "—has a comfort to it I can't explain."

Something like hope flickered in Neil's eyes. "That's a start."

We stood in silence for a moment, the crash of waves below filling the space between us. I had a thousand questions but hardly knew where to begin.

"The collection of bullet casings," I finally said. "You told me they were mementos from each time I couldn't go through with killing you. That wasn't true."

"Not entirely," Neil conceded. "They were from our staged attempts, yes, but you did insist on keeping them—said they represented our 'unique courtship.'" A faint smile touched his lips. "You had a strange sense of humor about the whole thing."

"And the lipstick mark?"

"Your signature. Something you established early in your undercover persona to build mystique around 'Artemis' in the assassination community." He took a sip of his drink. "Though you did once tell me you started doing it because the first time was an accident—you'd been wearing that red Chanel lipstick when testing rounds at a firing range."

It was such a specific detail, so human and imperfect, that it lent credibility to his account in a way the official files couldn't.

"I'd like to stay here tonight," I decided. "Away from the apartment and all its... theater."

Neil nodded. "Of course. There are clothes and necessities in the master bedroom. I'll take the guest room."

"Thank you." I paused. "For giving me space."

He set down his glass. "Lois, I know you don't remember us—what we were to each other. I won't pressure you to feel something you don't. Whatever happens going forward has to be your choice."

The sincerity in his voice touched something in me—not a memory exactly, but a resonance, like a string being plucked and recognizing its harmonic pair.

I slept fitfully that night in the master bedroom that should have felt familiar but didn't. The closet contained clothes in my size, the bathroom held products I apparently preferred, and the nightstand drawer contained a worn paperback with dog-eared pages and notes in my handwriting. Evidence of a life I'd lived here, in peaceful moments between missions.

Morning brought clarity and decision. Over breakfast—which Neil prepared with practiced ease, somehow knowing exactly how I preferred my coffee—I broached the subject of our next steps.

"I want to continue the mission," I stated.

Neil paused, coffee cup halfway to his lips. "Are you sure? Your recovery—"

"Is progressing," I interjected. "My procedural memories are intact. I know how to operate, how to maintain cover. And from what I read yesterday, we were close to identifying the mole in your company."

"We had narrowed it down to three executives," Neil confirmed. "But without your complete memory—"

"I don't need my personal memories to finish this job," I insisted. "And the longer we wait, the more time they have to regroup, perhaps identify new targets."

Neil studied me with a mixture of admiration and concern. "The Lois I know would say exactly that."

"Then let's get back to work. Brief me on where we stand."

After breakfast, we returned to the secure room where Neil pulled up files on the three executives we'd identified as potential moles: Catherine Zhao, Chief Technology Officer; James Mercer, VP of Strategic Development; and Victor Alvarez, Head of International Operations.

"All three had access to the technology that was compromised," Neil explained. "All three have unexplained financial irregularities, though well hidden. And each has connections to regions where the assassination network is known to operate."

"The plan was for me to stage another attempt on your life," I summarized from what I'd read, "with you feeding different 'security plans' to each suspect to see which one was leaked."

"Yes. We were about to implement when..." He gestured vaguely at my side, where the gunshot wound was still healing.

I studied the surveillance photos of our suspects, trying to trigger any recognition. Nothing came.

"We should head back to the city," I decided. "Resume our cover."

Neil raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"The perfect amnesiac wife?" I smiled wryly. "I've been playing that role all week."

By early afternoon, we were back in the penthouse apartment that had been my luxurious prison. Now, knowing it was a deliberate stage set—a controlled environment designed to protect me while I recovered—I viewed it with less suspicion but no more attachment.

"We should modify our approach," Neil said as we settled in the living room. "Given your condition, a direct confrontation is too risky."

"Agreed. But we can still use the situation." My mind was already formulating a strategy. "My amnesia provides the perfect cover for gathering information more openly. I can approach each suspect, claiming to be piecing together my lost memories about Neil's work."

Neil considered this. "It could work. But we'd need to be careful about how we position it."

We spent the evening refining the plan, with Neil filling in details about each suspect that hadn't been in the files. As we worked side by side, I found myself settling into a comfortable rhythm with him—a partnership that felt practiced, natural.

"It's getting late," Neil finally said, noticing me stifle a yawn. "We should rest. I'll sleep in the guest room."

"No," I said, surprising both of us. "Stay. We're partners. And if anyone is watching, a husband sleeping separately from his recently injured wife might seem suspicious."

If Neil was affected by my decision, he hid it well, simply nodding. In bed, we maintained a respectful distance, but I was acutely aware of his presence—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body.

Just before sleep claimed me, a thought surfaced: I still didn't remember loving this man, but I was beginning to understand how I might have.

The next morning, Neil left for the office earlier than usual to arrange meetings with our three suspects under the guise of my "recovery progress." I was to join him for lunch with Catherine Zhao, followed by afternoon appointments with the others.

I dressed carefully in an outfit that projected both vulnerability and determination—a soft blouse in pale blue paired with structured trousers and low heels. Professional but not intimidating. The perfect look for an amnesiac wife trying to rebuild her life.

As I applied my makeup, my gaze fell on the tube of Chanel lipstick—shade 99 Pirate. My signature. I applied it with precision, then pressed my lips to a tissue, leaving a perfect imprint. Some habits, it seemed, transcended memory.

The car Neil sent arrived precisely on time. The drive to Hamilton Industries gave me time to center myself, to step fully into the role I needed to play. By the time the elevator opened onto the executive floor, I was ready.

Neil greeted me with the perfect balance of professional respect and personal concern, kissing my cheek lightly. "How are you feeling today?" he asked, loud enough for his assistant to hear.

"Better," I replied. "Eager to fill in some blanks."

Catherine Zhao was waiting in Neil's private conference room—a striking woman in her forties with impeccable style and a sharp intelligence evident in her eyes. She rose when we entered, her smile seeming genuinely warm.

"Lois! It's wonderful to see you up and about. We were all so concerned when Neil told us about your accident."

I offered the smile of someone trying to place a face. "Catherine, right? I'm sorry, I'm still..."

"Of course," she said smoothly. "Neil explained about your memory issues. How terrible for you both."

Lunch proceeded pleasantly, with Catherine sharing anecdotes about previous interactions we'd supposedly had at company functions. I watched her carefully, noting how her eyes never quite matched her smile when she looked at Neil, how she subtly steered the conversation toward the company's upcoming security protocol launch.

"I wish I could remember more about Neil's work," I said, projecting frustration. "He tries to explain, but there are so many gaps."

"It must be frightening," Catherine sympathized, "not knowing important parts of your own life."

"The doctors say handling familiar objects sometimes helps," I improvised. "I was wondering if I might see Neil's current projects? Perhaps that would trigger something."

Catherine and Neil exchanged glances. "I'm not sure that's—" she began.

"Actually," Neil interrupted, "I think that's an excellent idea. Catherine, why don't you show Lois the Phoenix protocol demonstration while I handle that call with Tokyo?"

A flicker of something—reluctance? concern?—crossed Catherine's face before she smiled. "Of course. Follow me, Lois."

As we walked through the secure development area, Catherine explained the Phoenix protocol—a revolutionary security system that could identify covert digital intrusions in real-time, potentially exposing the entire network of corporate espionage that had been targeting tech companies.

"Neil has been obsessed with this project," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "Especially since the breach last year."

"Was that before or after I started consulting for Hamilton Industries?" I asked innocently.

Catherine paused. "Consulting? I thought you left your job when you married Neil."

An inconsistency in our cover story—one I hadn't been briefed on. I recovered quickly. "Sorry, I meant the authentication work I did for the company art collection. My memory is still so spotty."

She accepted the explanation, but I noted how her posture had subtly shifted—more alert, more guarded.

My meetings with the other two executives followed a similar pattern. James Mercer was effusively sympathetic about my condition while skillfully avoiding any substantive discussion of Neil's current projects. Victor Alvarez was more forthcoming about the Phoenix protocol but seemed genuinely shocked when I mentioned the previous security breach, claiming it had been contained before any significant damage occurred—a direct contradiction to what Catherine had told me.

By late afternoon, I had gathered enough inconsistencies and reactions to warrant deeper investigation of all three. I was discussing my observations with Neil in his office when the building's security system suddenly activated—red warning lights flashing silently along the corridors.

Neil's phone buzzed with an alert. His expression darkened as he read the message. "Someone's breached the secure server room. Three floors down."

"The Phoenix protocol?" I asked.

He nodded grimly. "We need to leave. Now."

"No," I countered, a surge of protective instinct rising that surprised me with its intensity. "If someone's making a move on the protocol, this is our chance to catch them."

Neil hesitated, clearly torn between the mission and my safety. "Lois, you're not fully recovered."

"I'm recovered enough." I reached into my purse and extracted a small handgun I'd retrieved from the safe house that morning—a precaution that now seemed prescient.

The surprise on Neil's face gave way to something like pride. "You always were prepared."

"Some habits don't require memory," I replied. "What's the fastest way to the server room?"

"Service elevator. But security will have locked down the entire floor."

"Then we'll need to override it."

Moving with coordinated efficiency that spoke to our history working together, we made our way to a security terminal where Neil used his executive codes to access the building's systems. The surveillance feed showed armed security personnel converging on the server room, but the actual breach point was unmonitored—a blind spot in coverage.

"That's professionally done," I noted. "They knew exactly where the cameras were positioned."

"Inside job," Neil agreed grimly. "Let's move."

We took the service stairs down three flights, emerging into a dimly lit corridor. Emergency lighting cast ominous shadows as we moved silently toward the server room. As we approached, the sound of gunfire erupted—silenced weapons, but unmistakable to trained ears.

Neil pushed me behind him instinctively, but I moved to his side, weapon ready. We exchanged a glance—partners, equals in the field regardless of my missing memories.

The server room door burst open, and a figure in tactical gear emerged, carrying a hard drive. The face was obscured by a mask, but the build was unmistakably masculine. When he spotted us, he raised his weapon without hesitation.

What happened next unfolded with the surreal clarity of combat. Neil and I moved in perfect synchronization—he going low, I going high, our weapons trained on the intruder. The man fired first, his shot going wide as alarms finally began to wail throughout the building.

I squeezed the trigger twice, controlled shots aimed at the attacker's shoulder and leg—disabling without killing. He staggered but remained upright, pivoting to fire again. This time, his aim was true.

Neil shoved me aside, taking the bullet meant for me. It caught him in the abdomen, the impact throwing him against the wall. Blood immediately darkened his white shirt.

Rage surged through me—pure, protective fury that obliterated thought. I fired again, catching the attacker in the knee. He collapsed with a muffled cry, the hard drive skittering across the floor. Before he could recover, I was on him, wrenching off his mask.

Victor Alvarez stared up at me, his eyes wide with shock and pain. "You're supposed to be dead," he hissed.

"Sorry to disappoint." I knocked him unconscious with a precise strike, then rushed to Neil's side.

He was conscious but pale, his breathing labored as he pressed a hand to his wound. Blood seeped between his fingers at an alarming rate.

"Stay with me," I commanded, applying pressure to the wound. "Security's coming. You'll be fine."

Neil's eyes found mine, pain evident but clear. "Under my desk," he gasped. "Hidden safe. The bullet casings..."

"Don't talk," I urged as footsteps thundered down the corridor. "Save your strength."

He gripped my wrist with surprising strength. "Important. Each one... you spared me. Every time." His voice was fading. "Not just for the mission. You couldn't... even before we admitted..."

Security personnel flooded the area, followed by a medical response team. As they took over, administering emergency care and preparing Neil for transport, I remained by his side, my hand clasped in his blood-slicked one.

In the chaos that followed—the ambulance ride, the hospital corridors, the frantic activity of trauma surgeons—I existed in a state of suspended animation. The mission details were handled by our agency contacts, who materialized with disturbing efficiency once I placed the necessary calls. Victor Alvarez was taken into custody. The Phoenix protocol was secured.

None of it mattered compared to Neil's condition.

Hours passed in the surgical waiting room. I paced, sat, stared blankly at walls, my clothes still stained with Neil's blood. When the surgeon finally appeared, his expression gave nothing away.

"Mrs. Hamilton? Your husband is stable. The bullet missed major organs, but he lost a significant amount of blood. He's in recovery now."

Relief washed over me with physical force. "When can I see him?"

"Shortly. He's still under anesthesia."

While waiting, I made a decision. I needed to see what Neil had been so desperate to tell me about—the bullet casings he'd mentioned with his fading strength.

I called for a car and returned briefly to Hamilton Industries, where security had been tripled in the wake of the breach. Using Neil's executive codes, I accessed his office and located the hidden safe beneath his desk—more sophisticated than the one in his study at home, requiring both retinal scan and voice authentication. Somehow, I knew the override sequence, my fingers moving without conscious direction.

Inside the safe was a small wooden box, hand-carved and polished. I opened it carefully to find the bullet casings I'd seen in Neil's collection room—each dated and mounted, but here, they were accompanied by something I hadn't seen before: tiny scrolls of paper inserted into each casing.

I unrolled the first one, dated eighteen months ago. In my handwriting:

"I can't do it. God help me, I'm compromised. Target Hamilton has eyes that see too much."

The second, from a year ago:

"Mission aborted again. Handler suspicious. Claiming mechanical failure with weapon. The truth: I dream about him now."

And the most recent, dated just before my injury:

"Third mission tomorrow. Will warn Neil. Whatever happens after, know that these past months have been real. The only real thing in a life of pretense."

I sank into Neil's chair, the evidence of our relationship—far more complex than mere professional partnership—spread before me. We hadn't started as allies working together. I had truly been sent to kill him, had failed because of growing feelings, and only later had we formed an alliance to take down the organization that had contracted the hit.

The truth was more complicated, more authentic, and ultimately more profound than the sanitized version Neil had shared at the safe house. He had been protecting me—not just from external threats but from a truth he feared might be too painful in my fragile mental state.

I had been an assassin sent to kill him. I had spared him, not once but multiple times, fighting against my training and orders because of feelings I couldn't suppress. And eventually, those feelings had led to a genuine partnership, both professional and personal.

I carefully replaced the notes in their casings and returned to the hospital, the box secure in my possession. When I arrived, Neil had been moved to a private room, still unconscious but stable. I settled into the chair beside his bed, the wooden box in my lap, and waited.

Hours passed. Night fell. Monitors beeped steadily, marking Neil's stable vital signs. I dozed fitfully, waking at every change in the rhythm of his breathing.

Near dawn, his eyes finally opened, focusing slowly until they found me. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"You're still here," he whispered hoarsely.

"Where else would I be?" I moved closer, taking his hand in mine. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been shot." His attempt at humor was undermined by the wince that followed. "Alvarez?"

"In custody. The agency has him."

Neil nodded slightly, then his gaze fell to the wooden box on my lap. Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You found them."

"Yes." I opened the box, revealing the bullet casings with their secret messages. "Why didn't you tell me the whole truth? That I really was sent to kill you initially?"

He was silent for a moment, gathering strength. "The doctors weren't sure how your mind would handle the full truth all at once. And I... I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That you'd hate yourself when you remembered. That you wouldn't believe we could have built something real from such a beginning." His voice was weak but earnest. "I wanted to protect you from that pain until you were stronger."

I studied his face—pale from blood loss, lines of pain etched around his eyes, yet still looking at me with such naked concern for my wellbeing rather than his own.

"You took a bullet for me," I said quietly.

"I would take a hundred more." The simple conviction in his voice struck deeper than any declaration of love could have.

I reached out to brush hair from his forehead, the gesture feeling surprisingly natural. "Rest now. We can talk more when you're stronger."

He caught my hand, pressing it to his cheek. "Stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised.

As Neil drifted back to sleep, I sat beside him, still holding his hand, the box of bullet casings—our strange love letters—secure in my lap. I didn't remember falling in love with this man, not yet. But I was beginning to understand why I had.

And perhaps, I thought as dawn broke over the city skyline, that was enough to start with.