Chapter 5 Truth and Apple Pie

# Chapter 5: Truth and Apple Pie

The mirror messages continued for a week—silent conversations that felt safer than speaking the words aloud. I would write a question: "Did I ever tell you why I was afraid?" He would respond: "Only that you'd been hurt before. You never shared details."

These bathroom door confessions became our most honest form of communication, even as we maintained a careful distance in person. Scott respected my space, never pushing for more than I offered, but I caught him watching me sometimes with such naked longing that it made my chest ache.

Then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, everything changed.

I woke with a splitting headache and fragments of dreams that felt more like memories—Scott laughing as I tried to teach him constellations; his hands gentle as he helped me zip a dress; his voice, low and intimate, whispering promises against my skin.

But there were darker fragments too—arguments in hushed tones; tears on my cheeks as I packed a suitcase; Scott's face, devastated, as I said words I couldn't quite remember.

I stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. When I looked up, the woman in the mirror seemed different—more familiar somehow. And suddenly, like a dam breaking, memories flooded back.

Not all of them. Not even most. But enough.

I remembered meeting Scott at a university fundraiser, his cool business proposal over dinner the following week. I remembered calculating the benefits—funding for my research in exchange for playing the role of devoted wife to a man who needed family credibility to secure certain business deals.

I remembered our wedding—small, efficient, witnessed only by lawyers and a few trusted friends who understood the arrangement. I remembered the rules we'd established: separate bedrooms, no emotional entanglements, mutual respect.

And I remembered how those rules had crumbled, slowly at first, then all at once on a yacht under fireworks.

Most importantly, I remembered why I'd left—the panic that had gripped me when I realized I'd broken my cardinal rule: never fall in love with someone who could destroy you.

I gripped the sink, breathing hard. These weren't just fragments anymore; they were coherent chapters of my story. Not the whole book, but enough to understand the plot.

I needed to confront Scott.

I found him in his study, reviewing documents with the intensity he brought to everything. He looked up when I entered, his expression shifting instantly to concern.

"Celia? Are you alright? You look pale."

"I remember," I said simply.

Scott froze, document forgotten in his hand. "What do you remember?"

"Enough." I moved to stand before his desk. "I remember the contract, how it started. I remember falling in love with you even though it violated everything we'd agreed to. And I remember being terrified of that love."

He set down the papers carefully, as if handling explosives. "And do you remember why you wanted the divorce?"

"Because I was afraid of how much power you had over me," I said, the truth of it resonating as I spoke. "I've never let anyone that close. When I realized how deeply I cared for you, it terrified me."

Scott's expression was unreadable. "So you ran."

"I tried to," I corrected. "Then the accident happened."

He stood slowly. "And now? Are you still afraid?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implication. Before I could answer, my phone rang—the new one Scott had given me after the accident. The screen showed Diane Weber's name.

"I should take this," I said.

Scott nodded, gesturing for me to use his office. "I'll give you privacy."

Once he'd closed the door behind him, I answered. "Diane?"

"Celia, I've been trying to reach you. We need to discuss your settlement."

"Settlement?"

"The divorce settlement," Diane clarified. "Scott's lawyers contacted me this morning. They've agreed to all your terms, plus a significant addition. I've never seen anything like it."

My heart raced. "What addition?"

"A direct transfer of ninety-nine percent of his personal assets to your accounts. The transaction completed an hour ago."

I sat heavily in Scott's chair. "How much?"

"Celia... it's just shy of a billion dollars. Nine hundred and ninety-nine million, to be exact."

The room seemed to spin. "That's impossible. Why would he—"

"There was a note with the transfer," Diane continued. "'Per contract violation clause: all assets transferred upon dissolution.' But Celia, that clause was never in your formal agreement. I reviewed it myself."

The handwritten note on the contract. Scott's addition that I'd found in his drawer: "Violation clause: Should Party A develop genuine emotional attachment, all assets to be transferred to Party B upon dissolution."

He had fallen in love with me—breaking his own rule—and now he was paying the penalty he'd set for himself.

"I need to go," I told Diane, ending the call before she could respond.

I found Scott on the terrace, looking out over the lake where our yacht was moored. He turned when he heard my footsteps, rain misting his hair.

"You transferred nine hundred and ninety-nine million dollars to my account," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

He nodded once. "The violation fee."

"For falling in love with me."

"Yes."

"That's insane, Scott."

A small smile touched his lips. "I've never claimed to be entirely rational where you're concerned."

I moved closer, studying his face. "Why now? We've been living in this strange limbo for weeks. You could have kept pretending, hoping I'd never remember."

"Because you deserve the truth," he said simply. "All of it. Even the parts that make me look like a fool."

"And what is the truth?" I asked, my heart hammering.

Scott took a deep breath. "That I fell in love with my contract wife. That I broke every rule we set. That when you realized how you felt about me, you ran, because love wasn't part of our deal. And that I've been selfishly grateful for your amnesia because it gave me another chance to make you fall in love with me again."

The raw honesty in his voice took my breath away.

"You could have just told me all this when I woke up," I pointed out.

"Would you have believed me?" he countered. "That our marriage began as a business arrangement but became real? That we were genuinely happy until fear drove us apart?"

He was right. I wouldn't have believed him.

"The money," I said, changing tactics. "I don't want it."

"It's yours. Per the terms I added to our contract."

"Terms I never agreed to."

Scott shrugged. "Consider it an expensive lesson in why businessmen shouldn't mix contracts with feelings."

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. "And what am I supposed to do with nearly a billion dollars?"

"Whatever you want," he said. "Fund your research. Build an observatory. Buy a small country. It's yours, no strings attached."

I studied him—this complicated man who had gone from business partner to lover to almost-ex-husband to caretaker in the span of our relationship. Despite the gaps in my memory, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: the way he looked at me hadn't changed. Not once.

"There's something I need to show you," I said.

I led him to the kitchen, where I'd been working since dawn. On the counter sat an apple pie—perfectly golden, still warm from the oven.

Scott looked confused. "You baked?"

"I did more than bake," I said, pulling out a document from a drawer. "I had Diane draw this up this morning, before she called about the money."

He took the paper, scanning it quickly. His eyes widened. "This is..."

"A new contract," I confirmed. "Not for marriage or business, but for starting over. For trying again, with complete honesty this time."

Scott looked from the document to me, hope and wariness battling in his expression. "Why would you want to try again? You were so determined to leave."

"Because amnesia has its benefits," I said softly. "It gave me distance from the fear. It let me see you—see us—without the baggage of past hurts and anxieties. And what I saw was a man who loves me enough to give up everything just to honor a clause I never even agreed to."

I stepped closer, taking the contract from his hands and tearing it in half. "But we don't need this. No more contracts between us, Scott. No more rules or clauses or penalties."

His breath caught. "What are you saying?"

Instead of answering, I reached up and pulled his face to mine, pressing my lips against his in a kiss that felt both new and achingly familiar. He responded instantly, his arms wrapping around me, holding me as if he'd never let go.

When we finally broke apart, both breathless, I smiled up at him. "I'm saying I remember enough to know what I want. And what I want is to see if what we had—what we could have—is real."

Scott's eyes searched mine. "And the money?"

"Keep it," I said. "Or we can donate it. Or use it to fund a joint research project. I don't care about the money, Scott. I never did."

"And the divorce?"

I bit my lip. "I think we should put that on hold. Indefinitely."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise—slow, then all at once, brilliant and warm. "Are you sure? Your memories aren't complete. You might still remember reasons to hate me."

"I might," I agreed. "But I'm choosing to focus on making new memories instead."

Scott pulled me closer, pressing his forehead against mine. "I've missed you," he whispered. "Even when you were right here, I missed you."

Later that evening, as we sat on the terrace sharing apple pie, Scott pulled out another document from his jacket pocket.

"What's that?" I asked.

"My own proposal," he said, sliding it across the table. "I had it drawn up last week, but I wasn't sure when—or if—to share it."

I opened the folder to find a new contract, meticulously detailed. The header read: "In the event that Celia Parker-Blackwood regains her memories and still wishes to proceed with divorce..."

The terms were simple: Scott would retain all business assets and properties except the lake house (which would go to me), and we would share custody of Stella. No financial settlement requested or required.

But it was the handwritten addition at the bottom that made my throat tighten:

"New terms: If Party B loses their memory again, Party A reserves the right to awaken love by any means necessary, including but not limited to: astronomical ceiling installations, fireworks displays, apple pie at 3 AM, and shameless emotional vulnerability."

I looked up to find Scott watching me nervously. "It was presumptuous," he admitted. "I had no right to assume you'd want anything to do with me once you remembered."

"It's not presumptuous," I said, running my finger over his handwriting. "It's honest. And after all the half-truths between us, honesty is what we need most."

I took the contract and ripped it in half, just as I had the earlier one. "But we still don't need this. No more legal documents defining what we are to each other. Just us, figuring it out day by day."

Scott's smile was soft, a little uncertain. "And if you wake up tomorrow having remembered something that makes you hate me again?"

"Then we'll deal with it," I promised. "Together."

He reached across the table, taking my hand in his. "I'm holding you to that, Dr. Parker-Blackwood."

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Blackwood."

That night, for the first time since the accident, I slept in our bed—our real bed, the one we had shared before everything fell apart. As Scott's arms wrapped around me, his heartbeat steady against my back, I felt something I hadn't experienced since waking in this strange life: peace.

My memories weren't complete. They might never be. But perhaps that was its own kind of blessing—a chance to rediscover each other without the weight of past hurts.

As I drifted toward sleep, I caught Scott's whisper against my hair: "Thank you for giving us another chance."

I turned in his arms, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Thank you for being patient enough to earn it."

In the darkness, with Stella purring at our feet and the astronomical ceiling projecting stars above us, I realized something important: sometimes forgetting is the only way to truly remember what matters.