Chapter 3 The Body Remembers You

# Chapter 3: The Body Remembers You

A week after discovering the contract, I found myself standing in the kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by baking ingredients, with no clear memory of how I'd gotten there. Sleep had been elusive lately, my dreams filled with fragmented images that dissolved upon waking. Rather than toss and turn, I'd wandered downstairs, drawn by some inexplicable urge.

My hands moved of their own accord, measuring flour, cutting butter into small cubes, adding precise amounts of sugar and cinnamon. The movements felt natural, practiced—like a dance my body remembered even if my mind did not.

"Couldn't sleep?"

I jumped at Scott's voice, nearly dropping the bowl of sliced apples. He stood in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing only pajama bottoms. The sight of his bare chest made something flutter in my stomach—an involuntary reaction I wasn't prepared for.

"I... I don't know why I'm doing this," I admitted, looking down at the pastry dough taking shape beneath my fingers. "I just started and couldn't stop."

Scott approached slowly, as if afraid of startling me. "Apple pie," he said softly. "You used to make it whenever you couldn't sleep. Said the repetitive motions calmed your mind."

I stared at the ingredients spread across the counter. "How did I know the recipe? I don't remember learning it."

"Your grandmother taught you," he replied, leaning against the counter. "You told me once that you'd made it so many times, you could do it blindfolded."

My hands continued working, folding the dough with practiced precision. "Muscle memory," I murmured.

"The body remembers what the mind forgets," Scott agreed. His eyes held mine for a beat too long. "Your body remembers a lot of things, Celia."

There was something intimate in his tone that made heat rise to my cheeks. I broke eye contact, focusing intently on the dough.

"Tell me about her," I said. "The woman I was before."

Scott was quiet for a moment, watching my hands work. "You were... brilliant. Passionate about your research. You could talk for hours about quantum theory and make it sound like poetry." A smile touched his lips. "You hated mornings. Couldn't function without coffee. You'd read three books at once, keeping them in different rooms of the house."

I tried to picture this version of myself—this confident, intelligent woman who apparently jumped between quantum physics and baking pies with equal ease.

"And us?" I asked, unable to help myself. "What were we like... before the contract ended?"

Something shifted in his expression. "Complicated," he said finally. "We started as a business arrangement, but things changed over time."

"Changed how?"

He reached out, brushing flour from my cheek with his thumb. The casual intimacy of the gesture made my breath catch.

"That's a conversation for another time," he said quietly. "When you're ready."

I wanted to press him, to demand the full story, but something in his eyes stopped me. Pain, perhaps. Or regret.

Instead, I returned to the pie, laying the lattice top with careful precision. Scott watched in silence as I worked, the kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon and butter.

"It's your favorite," I said suddenly, the knowledge surfacing from nowhere.

Scott's eyebrows rose slightly. "Yes, it is."

"With vanilla ice cream," I continued, the details emerging as I spoke. "But only the brand with the blue label. You're particular about that."

A genuine smile spread across his face. "You remember."

"Not exactly," I admitted. "It just... came to me. Like my hands knowing the recipe."

"Your body remembers more than you think," he repeated, his voice low.

After the pie went into the oven, we sat at the kitchen island, a comfortable silence between us. There was something soothing about his presence in the dim light of the kitchen—something that felt right in a way I couldn't explain.

When the timer dinged, I removed a perfect golden-brown pie. The aroma filled the kitchen, rich and comforting. I cut a slice while it was still warm, added a scoop of ice cream (from the container with the blue label), and placed it before Scott.

His first bite was followed by a soft sound of appreciation that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"Just like I remember," he said, eyes closing briefly in pleasure.

I took a bite of my own slice, and the flavor triggered something—not a memory exactly, but a feeling. Comfort. Safety. Home.

"Thank you," Scott said quietly when he'd finished, "for making this."

I nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment. "I should get some sleep."

He walked me to my room, keeping a respectful distance. At my door, he hesitated. "Goodnight, Celia."

"Goodnight, Scott."

As I prepared for bed, I found myself wondering about the woman I'd been before—the one who'd made apple pies in the middle of the night and discussed quantum physics over breakfast. The woman who'd married Scott Blackwood for convenience but had seemingly grown to care for him.

Or had she? We'd been headed for divorce, after all. What had happened between us?

The next morning, I decided to explore more of the house. Scott had left early for business meetings, leaving me to my own devices. I found myself drawn to a part of the east wing I hadn't properly investigated—a series of rooms that appeared to be private quarters.

The largest had clearly been mine—a workspace filled with astrophysics journals, complex equations scrawled on a whiteboard, and a powerful telescope positioned by the window. I spent hours there, flipping through my notes, trying to understand the work I'd been doing. The equations meant nothing to me now, though I could tell they were elegant, innovative.

Eventually, restless, I decided to shower and change. The master bathroom was marble and glass, with a shower large enough for four people. As the hot water cascaded over me, I found myself examining my body, looking for other signs of my former life.

That's when I noticed it—a thin, silvery line running across my lower abdomen. A scar, surgical by the look of it. I traced it with my fingertips, puzzled. It looked like...

I froze, water streaming down my face. A cesarean section scar.

Heart pounding, I quickly shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel. Had I had a child? Where was it now? Why hadn't Scott mentioned a baby?

I dressed hastily and stormed through the house, looking for Scott. He wasn't due back for hours, but I needed answers now. I found Jenkins instead, supervising the cleaning of the main salon.

"Jenkins," I called, my voice sharper than intended. "I need to speak with Mr. Blackwood immediately."

The butler turned, surprised by my tone. "I believe he's in meetings downtown, madam. Shall I call his office?"

"Yes, tell him it's urgent."

Jenkins nodded, disappearing to make the call. I paced the salon, my mind racing. A child. I might have a child somewhere, a child I couldn't remember. The thought was unbearable.

When Jenkins returned, his expression was apologetic. "Mr. Blackwood says he'll return immediately, madam. He should be here within the hour."

That hour was the longest of my life—or at least, the longest I could remember. When I finally heard Scott's car in the driveway, I was waiting in the foyer, arms crossed.

He entered quickly, concern etched on his features. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"Where is our child?" I demanded without preamble.

Scott's expression froze. "What?"

"I have a cesarean scar," I said, my voice trembling with emotion. "I've had a baby. Where is it? Why haven't you mentioned a child?"

Something like pain flickered across his face. "Celia..."

"Don't lie to me," I warned. "You promised. No more lies."

Scott ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as a sign of stress. "Wait here," he said quietly.

He disappeared upstairs, returning moments later holding something in his arms. Not a child—something smaller, furrier.

A cat. A beautiful ragdoll with blue eyes and cream-colored fur.

"This," Scott said gently, "is your 'baby.' Her name is Stella."

I stared at the cat, then back at Scott. "I don't understand."

Scott set the cat down, and she immediately came to rub against my legs, purring loudly. "Three years ago, you found her as a kitten, half-dead in our garden. You nursed her back to health. When she was strong enough, she needed to be spayed. You were... devastated. Said it felt like taking away her choice to be a mother."

I knelt down, stroking the soft fur. Stella pushed her head into my hand, purring even louder. "But the scar—"

"You had a fibroid removed last year," Scott explained quietly. "It was benign, but large. The surgeon had to use a cesarean-type incision."

Relief and embarrassment washed over me in equal measure. "So we don't have a child."

"No," Scott said, something unreadable in his expression. "We don't."

I picked up Stella, who immediately settled into my arms as if she belonged there. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"

"The doctors advised introducing elements of your life gradually. Too much at once could be overwhelming." He hesitated. "And she's been staying in my room since your return. I wasn't sure if you were ready for her yet."

As if understanding she was the topic of conversation, Stella meowed and patted my face with a soft paw. The gesture felt familiar, comforting.

"She recognizes me," I said wonderingly.

Scott's expression softened. "Of course she does. You're her mother."

That evening, as Scott and I ate dinner in the formal dining room, Stella curled on a cushion beside my chair. I'd spent the afternoon with her, discovering her favorite toys and treats. She had followed me everywhere, as if afraid I might disappear again.

"There's something else you should know," Scott said as we finished dessert. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch, sliding it across the table.

Inside was a delicate silver collar tag. I turned it over and read the engraving: "Stella Blackwood. Celia & Scott's Forever Family of Three."

My throat tightened unexpectedly. "When did we get this?"

"On our fourth anniversary," Scott replied. "You said..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "You said that Stella completed our family."

I ran my thumb over the engraving. "And did I mean it? That we were a family?"

Scott's eyes met mine across the table. "I believe you did. At the time."

There was weight to his words, a hint at the complications that had led to our impending divorce before my accident.

"What changed?" I asked softly. "Between us, I mean."

Scott was quiet for a long moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "We wanted different things," he finally said. "The contract had served its purpose for both of us. It was time to move on."

But something in his tone didn't ring true. There was more to the story—much more.

Before I could press him, Scott set down his glass and stood. "I have some work to finish. Will you be alright?"

I nodded, still holding the collar tag. "Yes, I'm just going to sit with Stella for a while."

Scott hesitated, then rounded the table. To my surprise, he knelt beside my chair, bringing his face level with mine.

"Celia," he said softly, "I know this is confusing. That you're trying to piece together a life you can't remember. But please believe me when I say that everything I've done since your accident has been for your benefit."

The sincerity in his eyes was difficult to doubt. "I believe you're trying," I said carefully. "But I need the whole truth, Scott. Not just pieces."

He nodded, then did something unexpected—he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. "One day at a time," he murmured against my skin.

The gesture sent warmth spreading through me, along with a strange sense of déjà vu. Had he done this often, before? Had I welcomed his touch, his closeness?

After Scott left, I moved to the library with Stella, settling into a plush armchair by the fire. The cat curled in my lap, purring contentedly as I stroked her fur.

"Were we happy, Stella?" I whispered. "Was he good to me?"

Stella blinked up at me with knowing blue eyes, offering no answers.

Later that night, as I prepared for bed, there was a soft knock at my door. Scott stood there, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

"I thought you might want this," he said, holding out a framed photograph. It showed the three of us—Scott, myself, and Stella as a kitten. We were seated on a garden bench, the cat tiny in my hands, both of us laughing at something Scott had said. We looked happy. In love.

"Thank you," I said, taking the frame.

Scott lingered in the doorway. "Celia, about what you asked earlier..." He seemed to be struggling with himself. "We didn't have a child, but..."

"But?" I prompted when he fell silent.

He took a deep breath. "Would you want one? A baby, I mean. If things were different between us."

The question caught me off guard. "I... I don't know. I haven't thought about it."

Scott nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course. It's not something you should have to think about right now."

But as he turned to leave, something made me call out to him.

"Scott?"

He looked back, a question in his eyes.

"If things were different," I said slowly, "would you want that? A child?"

For a brief moment, his mask slipped, revealing such raw longing that it took my breath away. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual controlled expression.

"Good night, Celia," he said softly, and closed the door.

I stood there holding the photograph, more confused than ever. What had happened between us? What had driven us apart when it seemed we'd built a life together—albeit one that had started as a business arrangement?

As I climbed into bed, Stella jumped up beside me, claiming a spot on the pillow next to mine. I reached out to stroke her, and she pressed her head into my palm, purring loudly.

"At least you remember me," I whispered.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, Scott's voice echoed in my mind: "Your body remembers more than you think."

And it was true. My hands remembered how to make his favorite pie. My feet had found their way to the kitchen in the dark. Stella recognized me, and I'd instinctively known how to hold her.

What else might my body remember, if I let it?

The thought followed me into sleep, where I dreamed of Scott's hands on my skin, his lips against my neck, and woke gasping in the darkness, my body flushed with heat.

Perhaps some memories were better left forgotten.