Chapter 4 The Game of False Memories

# Chapter 4: The Game of False Memories

The morning after our conversation about children, I woke to find a note on my bedside table, written in a strong, masculine hand: "Meet me at the dock. 2 PM. Dress comfortably. -S"

Stella was curled at my feet, watching me with those knowing blue eyes. "What's he planning?" I asked her. She only purred in response.

I spent the morning in my study—my pre-accident workspace—trying to make sense of the equations I'd once understood. Fragments occasionally clicked into place, like puzzle pieces finding their homes, but the complete picture remained elusive.

At 1:45, I made my way down to the private dock extending from the property's edge into a lake I hadn't fully explored yet. Scott was already there, dressed in casual clothes—a sight I was still getting used to. He typically wore suits, armor against the world.

"There you are," he smiled, extending his hand. "Ready for an adventure?"

I took his hand cautiously. "What kind of adventure?"

"A trip down memory lane." He led me to a sleek yacht moored at the end of the dock. "Our first real date was on this boat. I thought recreating it might help trigger something."

The yacht was beautiful, clearly expensive, with "Stellar" emblazoned on the hull. "Named after Stella?" I asked.

Scott's smile faltered slightly. "Actually, you named it. You said it was a pun—'Stellar' for the stars you study, and because I called our first night together 'stellar.'"

Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Oh."

"Too much information?" He looked genuinely concerned.

"No, it's... I should know these things."

Scott helped me aboard, his hand warm and steady against mine. "No pressure. Today is just about making new memories if the old ones don't surface."

The afternoon unfolded like a carefully choreographed dance. Scott took us to the center of the lake, where he prepared lunch—all my apparent favorites. We talked about neutral topics: books I'd been reading since the accident, his latest business ventures, Stella's antics.

As the sun began to set, casting golden light across the water, Scott opened a bottle of champagne. "This is where it happened," he said, handing me a flute.

"Where what happened?"

"Where the contract began to change." He leaned against the railing, eyes on the horizon. "We'd been married for business purposes for six months. This trip was meant to be strategic—entertaining potential investors. But they canceled last minute, and we decided to go anyway."

I sipped the champagne, trying to imagine it. "And?"

"And we talked. Really talked, for the first time. About our childhoods, our dreams." His voice softened. "You told me about the first time you saw Saturn through a telescope. How it made you believe in magic."

Something stirred in my memory—a fragment, elusive as smoke. "Did I... did I wear a blue dress?"

Scott's head snapped toward me, eyes wide. "Yes. With small silver stars embroidered along the hem."

The image crystallized briefly—standing on this deck, champagne in hand, Scott looking at me with something like wonder. Then it was gone.

"I remembered something," I whispered.

Scott moved closer, careful not to crowd me. "What was it?"

"Just an image. Me, in that dress. You, looking at me..." I trailed off, frustrated at the incompleteness.

"It's a start," he said gently. "The doctors said memories might return in fragments."

As darkness fell, Scott excused himself to prepare "the finale." I stood at the railing, watching the stars emerge, trying to capture that elusive memory again.

Suddenly, the sky exploded with color—fireworks bursting overhead, their reflections dancing across the lake's surface. I gasped, turning to find Scott watching me.

"This was how our first kiss happened," he said, moving to stand beside me. "Under fireworks, on this boat. You said it was—"

"—like the stars were celebrating," I finished, the words rising unbidden.

Scott's breath caught. "Yes."

For a moment, we stood in silence, watching the pyrotechnic display. Then another memory surfaced—more distinct this time. Not romance, but business.

"We signed the contract here too," I said slowly. "On this boat. Before the kiss, before everything changed. We signed papers right at this table."

Scott's expression flickered. "Yes, we did."

"Why here? Why sign a business arrangement on a pleasure yacht?"

He turned to face me fully. "Privacy. Discretion. The contract wasn't exactly... conventional."

I nodded, pieces clicking together. "And when did things change between us? When did it become real?"

"That's a complicated question." Scott's eyes reflected the bursting fireworks. "For me, it was that night. For you..." He hesitated. "It took longer."

The fireworks reached their crescendo, bathing us in shifting light. In that moment, with Scott beside me and memories hovering just beyond reach, I felt an inexplicable urge to close the distance between us.

I didn't act on it.

The next morning, determined to piece together more of my past, I contacted the house manager for access to my personal effects. She directed me to a locked drawer in my study, providing the key with obvious hesitation.

Inside, I found a sleek phone—not the new model Scott had given me after the accident, but an older one. The battery was dead, but I found a charger in the desk.

Once powered on, it requested a passcode. I tried several combinations before remembering—Stella's birthday, according to her veterinary records I'd found. The phone unlocked.

Most of the data seemed to have been erased recently—few photos, no message history. But there was a voice recording app with one saved file from two days before my accident, labeled simply "Reminder."

Heart pounding, I pressed play.

"This is your final reminder," my own voice said, sounding determined. "Tomorrow you sign the papers. Don't let him change your mind again. It doesn't matter how charming he is or what he promises. You've made your decision. You will not, under any circumstances, fall in love with Scott Blackwood again. You'd rather die."

I nearly dropped the phone. The vehemence in my voice—the absolute certainty—chilled me. This didn't sound like someone ending a business arrangement. This sounded personal. Emotional.

I needed professional advice. After some searching through my contacts, I found a listing for "Weber Legal" with a note: "divorce attorney." I called immediately.

"Celia!" A woman's voice answered warmly. "I've been trying to reach you for weeks. How are you feeling?"

"I'm... recovering," I said carefully. "I'm afraid I don't remember you."

A pause. "Scott mentioned your memory issues. I'm Diane Weber, your attorney. We were meeting the day of your accident."

"About the divorce," I confirmed.

"Yes." Her tone became professional. "Have you reconsidered?"

"I don't know what there is to reconsider. I can't remember why I wanted it."

Another pause. "I see. Would you like me to send over your file? The grounds for divorce, the settlement terms you requested?"

"Please. And..." I hesitated. "Do you have any recordings of our meetings? Anything that might help me understand my mindset?"

"Actually, yes. You insisted on recording our final consultation. Said you wanted to listen to it if you ever wavered."

"Can you send that too? Immediately?"

Twenty minutes later, I was listening to myself speak with cold determination: "Diane, I need you to understand. I said I would never love him, and I meant it. He can keep the money, the houses, everything. I just want out before I break completely."

Diane's voice: "Are you sure this is what you want? The prenup entitles you to—"

"I don't want anything from him. I just want my freedom."

"May I ask what changed? Six months ago, you were considering renewing the contract."

A bitter laugh—my laugh. "I made a mistake. I thought I could separate business from pleasure. I was wrong."

The recording ended there. I sat frozen, trying to reconcile this angry, hurt woman with the person I was now—and with the loving couple Scott had described.

That evening, Scott arranged for us to stargaze on the roof terrace. He had set up a professional telescope and a comfortable seating area with warm blankets against the autumn chill.

As we sat side by side, looking at Saturn's rings—apparently my favorite celestial sight—I gathered my courage.

"Scott," I said quietly, "I found a recording today. From before the accident."

I felt him tense beside me. "What kind of recording?"

"Me, reminding myself to go through with the divorce. Saying I'd rather die than fall in love with you again." I turned to face him. "What happened between us? The truth, please."

Scott was silent for a long moment, his face illuminated only by starlight. "The contract changed things," he finally said. "What started as business became... more. At least for me."

"And for me?"

He smiled sadly. "For a while, I thought for you too. We were happy, Celia. For almost three years, we were genuinely happy."

"Then what went wrong?"

Scott looked away. "I broke the rules. I fell in love with my contract wife."

The simple admission hung in the air between us.

"And that was a problem?" I asked.

"It was for you." His voice was barely audible. "You never wanted love. You made that clear from the beginning. The contract was supposed to protect both of us from... complications."

I tried to imagine myself pushing away someone who loved me. It seemed incomprehensible now.

"I should get some rest," I said finally, overwhelmed by revelations I couldn't fully process.

Scott nodded, not meeting my eyes. "Of course."

That night, I lay awake for hours, thoughts churning. If Scott's version was true, I had been running from love—from him. But why? What was I so afraid of?

I must have fallen asleep eventually, because I woke to hushed sounds from the adjacent room—Scott's current bedroom. Moving to the connecting door, I heard him speaking softly.

"Please," his voice broke with emotion. "Don't remember that part. Remember anything else, but not how much you hated me at the end."

He was talking in his sleep.

I returned to bed, his words echoing in my mind: "Don't regain your memory... please."

In that moment, I understood with perfect clarity: Scott was terrified of me remembering everything. He was using my amnesia as a second chance—recreating our beginning, hoping for a different ending.

I should have been angry. Instead, I felt an unexpected tenderness. Whatever had happened between us, his pain now was genuine.

The next morning, I wrote on the bathroom mirror with my lipstick: "I heard you last night."

I spent the day out with the house manager, shopping for new clothes—pieces I chose, not the designer items that filled my closet but felt like they belonged to a stranger.

When I returned, the mirror held a new message, written in shaving cream: "Then I can only hope you'll love me again."

The raw honesty of it made my breath catch. This wasn't manipulation. This was desperation.

That night, I dreamed of signing papers on a yacht, of fireworks reflecting in Scott's eyes, of a kiss that tasted like champagne and possibility.

I woke knowing two things with absolute certainty: I had once loved Scott Blackwood enough to break my own rules, and I had left him because that love terrified me.

The question now was whether history would repeat itself—or whether amnesia had given us both a clean slate.