Chapter 1 Awakening in a Strange Mansion

# Chapter 1: Awakening in a Strange Mansion

I woke to the soft hum of machines and the scent of expensive cologne. My head throbbed with each heartbeat, a dull ache that seemed to echo through my entire body. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—intricate crown molding framing what appeared to be hand-painted clouds. This wasn't a hospital. Where was I?

As I tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through my ribs, forcing a gasp from my lips. The movement caused something to tug at my wrist—a medical bracelet. I squinted at the small text: "Celia Parker. Memory Disorder Post-Traumatic."

Memory disorder? I frantically searched my mind, trying to recall... anything. My name was Celia. I knew that much. But everything else felt like trying to grab smoke—the harder I tried, the more it dissipated.

"You're awake." The voice came from a dark corner of the room, deep and smooth.

I jerked my head toward the sound, triggering another wave of pain. A man emerged from the shadows, his tall frame wrapped in what I could tell was a bespoke suit. His face was all sharp angles and perfect symmetry—the kind of handsome that seemed almost unreal. Dark hair swept back from a strong forehead, and eyes that watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"Who are you?" My voice sounded foreign, raspy from disuse. "Where am I?"

He moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. The mattress barely dipped under his weight. "I'm Scott. Scott Blackwood." He paused, studying my reaction. "I'm your husband."

The word hit me like a physical blow. Husband? I stared at him, searching his face for any hint of familiarity, any spark of recognition. Nothing.

"That's impossible," I whispered. "I don't... I don't remember you."

Something flashed across his face—pain? Disappointment? It was gone before I could identify it, replaced by a carefully controlled expression.

"The doctors warned this might happen," he said, his voice steady. "You were in a car accident three weeks ago. Severe concussion, three broken ribs, and trauma-induced amnesia."

I looked down at my hands, noticing for the first time the bruises that were fading to yellow around my knuckles. "Three weeks?"

"You've been drifting in and out of consciousness. This is the first time you've been fully lucid."

I glanced around the room—it was massive, easily the size of a small apartment. Everything screamed wealth: the silk sheets beneath me, the marble fireplace against one wall, artwork that looked like it belonged in a museum.

"And this is...?"

"Our home," Scott replied. "I thought you'd recover better here than in a hospital."

I pushed the covers back, ignoring the pain. "I need to see."

Scott reached out, then seemed to think better of it, letting his hand fall. "You shouldn't be up yet."

I ignored him, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The cool hardwood against my bare feet sent a shock through me—something familiar in the sea of unknown. I stood, swaying slightly, and Scott rose with me, not touching but close enough to catch me if I fell.

The room was even more impressive standing up—a master suite that could have been featured in an architectural magazine. I moved slowly toward what I assumed was a bathroom, but a different door caught my eye. It was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of clothing.

I pushed it open and froze.

It wasn't just a closet. It was a showroom—larger than the bedroom itself, with rack after rack of designer clothes. But what made my blood run cold was the wall to my right. Hundreds of photographs, meticulously arranged by date, showing me in different outfits. Me, smiling on a beach. Me, in a cocktail dress beside a Christmas tree. Me, in pajamas reading a book.

Five years' worth of my life, documented day by day, worn outfit by outfit. And I remembered none of it.

"What is this?" I whispered, backing away. My legs hit something—a vanity—and I gripped it for support.

"You like to document your outfits," Scott said from the doorway. "Fashion is a passion of yours."

The woman in those photos looked like me, but happier, more confident. She wore clothes I couldn't imagine choosing, posed in places I had no memory of visiting.

"This isn't right," I said, moving toward the door. "I need to leave."

Scott didn't try to stop me as I pushed past him, but the layout of the house was a maze. Each corridor led to another, each room more opulent than the last. I finally found what looked like a main staircase and descended into a grand foyer, my bare feet silent on the marble floor.

The front door loomed before me—massive and heavy-looking. Freedom. But what then? Where would I go? Who would I call? I didn't even know where "here" was.

As I reached for the handle, strong arms encircled me from behind. Not restraining, but present. Warm.

"Celia," Scott's voice was soft against my ear. "You have nowhere to go."

I stiffened in his embrace, but didn't pull away. "I can't stay with a stranger."

"I'm not a stranger to you," he said. "Just to your conscious mind."

Before I could respond, he took my left hand in his, and I noticed for the first time that my ring finger was bare. Yet there was a pale band of skin, slightly indented—the unmistakable mark of a long-worn ring.

"You lost your wedding ring in the accident," Scott explained. "I've been waiting for you to wake up before replacing it."

From his pocket, he produced a small velvet box. Opening it one-handed, he revealed a stunning diamond ring that caught the light from the chandelier above, sending prisms dancing across the walls.

"Today," he said, sliding it onto my finger with practiced ease, "do you like this one? Yesterday you selected a sapphire, but you've always favored diamonds."

The ring fit perfectly, settling into the groove on my finger as if it belonged there. I stared at it, at the evidence that what he was saying might be true.

"How long?" My voice barely audible. "How long have we been married?"

His arms tightened slightly around me. "Five years next month."

Five years. The same timespan as the photos. A lifetime I couldn't remember.

"I want to see documents," I said suddenly. "Marriage certificate, photos of the wedding, something."

Scott released me slowly, coming around to face me. His expression was unreadable. "Of course. Whatever you need." He gestured toward a corridor. "My study is this way."

I followed him through the house, trying to absorb details that might trigger a memory. Nothing felt familiar. The study was masculine—dark wood, leather-bound books, a massive desk that dominated the space.

Scott unlocked a drawer and removed a leather portfolio. Inside was our marriage certificate, my signature next to his. Photos of a small ceremony—me in a simple white dress, him in a dark suit. Us cutting a cake. Dancing under strings of lights.

"It was just us and a few close friends," Scott explained. "You didn't want anything lavish."

I touched one of the photos, tracing the outline of my smiling face. "I look happy."

"You were," he said simply. "We were."

The evidence was undeniable. This was my life. This man was my husband. And I couldn't remember a single moment of our time together.

I looked up at Scott, really studying him for the first time. The worry lines around his eyes. The way he watched me, as if I might disappear if he blinked. The wedding band on his left hand, worn and familiar.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I don't know how to be the woman you married."

Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to be. We can start again." He hesitated, then added, "The doctors say your memories might return with time, or they might not. Either way, I'm here."

I nodded, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming me. The adrenaline that had carried me this far drained away, leaving me swaying on my feet.

Scott noticed immediately, moving to my side. "You should rest."

This time, I didn't resist when he led me back to the bedroom. As he helped me into bed, I caught his scent again—that expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him. It triggered nothing, no flash of memory, no sense of familiarity.

Yet as I drifted toward sleep, I found myself clinging to one comforting thought: the ring on my finger felt right. As if it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.