Chapter 6 Double Proposal

# Chapter 6: Double Proposal

Three months after I regained my partial memories, life with Scott had settled into a comfortable rhythm. We were dating again, essentially—rediscovering each other without the pressure of contracts or business arrangements. Some days I remembered new fragments of our past; other days brought nothing but the present moment, which increasingly felt like enough.

Scott had returned the money to his accounts at my insistence, though he'd set up a substantial research fund in my name. My work in astrophysics was progressing well; muscle memory had restored much of my technical knowledge even when explicit memories failed me.

"Dr. Parker-Blackwood?" My research assistant's voice pulled me from my calculations. "Your husband called. He said to remind you about your 'appointment' at 3 PM."

I smiled, glancing at my watch. Scott had been mysteriously absent all morning, claiming a "special project" needed his attention. Whatever he was planning, I had exactly forty-five minutes to finish my work and get ready.

At precisely 3 PM, a sleek black car pulled up outside my university office. The driver handed me an envelope containing a single notecard: "NASA Johnson Space Center. Wear the earpiece in the glove compartment."

Intrigued, I found the small communication device and placed it in my ear.

"Can you hear me?" Scott's voice came through clearly.

"Loud and clear. Want to tell me what this is about?"

"It's a surprise." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Just trust me."

An hour later, the car turned into the NASA complex. I'd visited before—my research occasionally intersected with their projects—but never like this, with a mysterious summons and a husband whispering directions in my ear.

"Tell the driver to take you to Building 30," Scott instructed.

Building 30—the Christopher C. Kraft Jr. Mission Control Center. My pulse quickened. What was Scott up to?

A NASA official met me at the entrance, checking my ID before escorting me through security. "Mr. Blackwood is expecting you," she said with a knowing smile.

"Still there?" Scott's voice asked in my ear.

"Yes. Scott, what exactly is happening?"

"Patience, stargazer."

The official led me through corridors until we reached a door labeled "Mission Control." Inside, dozens of screens displayed data streams, star charts, and video feeds. And there, standing at the center of it all, was Scott.

He wore a suit I'd never seen before—midnight blue with subtle silver pinstripes that reminded me of stars against the night sky. When he saw me, his face lit with the smile that still made my heart skip.

"Welcome to Mission Control," he said, both through the earpiece and across the room.

As I approached, I noticed something odd. The NASA personnel were watching us with barely concealed excitement. Several had phones out, recording discreetly.

"Scott," I said carefully, "what's going on?"

He took my hands in his. "I wanted to do something special. Something you'd never forget, even if—" he tapped my temple gently, "—this decided to misbehave again."

Before I could respond, he gestured to the main screen. It switched to a live video feed showing what appeared to be the interior of the International Space Station. Two astronauts floated into view, waving.

"Dr. Parker-Blackwood," the female astronaut said, "we have a special communication for you from Earth."

Scott squeezed my hands, then dropped to one knee. A collective gasp rose from the NASA staff.

"Celia," he began, voice steady despite the audience, "when you lost your memory, I thought I'd lost you forever. Then I got a second chance I didn't deserve, and I promised myself I wouldn't waste it."

My throat tightened as I realized what was happening.

Scott continued, "We've done this all backward—contract, marriage, falling in love, almost-divorce, and now dating again. But I wouldn't change a thing, because it led us here."

He nodded to someone off-camera, and the astronauts on screen moved apart to reveal a sign floating between them: "CELIA, OF EARTH'S 7 BILLION PEOPLE, I'VE ONLY LIED TO YOU ONCE."

"When I said I could live without you," Scott explained, pulling a ring box from his pocket. "That was the lie."

He opened the box to reveal a stunning ring—a diamond surrounded by tiny sapphires that resembled a star cluster.

"Celia Parker-Blackwood, will you marry me? Again, for real this time. No contracts, no business arrangements. Just love."

Tears blurred my vision. This grand gesture—arranging a proposal from space—was so perfectly Scott. Dramatic, over-the-top, and heartfelt.

But before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The timing was terrible, but something told me to check it.

"One second," I whispered to Scott, whose expression wavered between hope and confusion.

The screen showed a calendar notification I'd set months ago, before the accident: "Operation Boomerang – Phase 2."

And suddenly, another wave of memories crashed over me—not fragments this time, but a complete sequence. Me, sitting in a hotel room, meticulously planning what I'd labeled "Operation Boomerang." A scheme to make Scott believe I wanted a divorce, to test if he'd fight for me or let me go. The accident had interrupted before I could reveal the truth: there had never been divorce papers, only a carefully orchestrated bluff.

I had been the one playing games all along.

Looking down at Scott, still on one knee and growing more anxious by the second, I made a split-second decision.

"I need to show you something first," I said, pulling out my phone and opening the gallery app. I'd discovered it weeks ago but hadn't understood its significance until now.

I turned the screen toward him, showing a photo of myself holding a positive pregnancy test, dated one week before my accident. The caption read: "Operation Boomerang – The Ultimate Reveal."

Scott's eyes widened, his gaze darting between the phone and my face. "You were..."

"I was never going to divorce you," I admitted, loud enough for our audience to hear. "It was a test—a stupid, manipulative test to see if you'd fight for me. And then the accident happened, and I forgot my own game."

The NASA control room had gone silent. On screen, the astronauts exchanged confused glances.

Scott slowly stood, his expression unreadable. "You were pretending?"

I nodded, ashamed. "I thought you were losing interest in me. That once the contract's business benefits were secured, you'd want out. So I created this elaborate scheme to... I don't know, prove your love? It was childish and cruel and—"

Scott cut me off by pulling me into a fierce kiss. When he finally released me, he was laughing. "You devious, brilliant woman. You were testing me?"

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

He shook his head, still grinning. "Don't be. I failed spectacularly by believing you wanted out instead of talking to you directly." His expression sobered. "But the pregnancy... after the accident..."

"I lost it," I said softly. "The doctors told you, but you kept it from me to protect me during my recovery."

Understanding dawned on his face. "You've known for weeks."

"My obstetrician called for a follow-up. I didn't say anything because I was still piecing together why I'd kept it secret from you in the first place."

Scott cupped my face in his hands. "No more secrets. No more tests. Just us, being honest with each other."

"No more secrets," I agreed.

He glanced at the ring box, still open in his hand. "You still haven't answered my question."

I smiled through my tears. "Yes, Scott Blackwood. I will marry you again."

The control room erupted in applause. On screen, the astronauts cheered and performed zero-gravity somersaults. Scott slid the ring onto my finger, where it nestled perfectly against my original wedding band.

"I have one condition," I added as he embraced me.

"Anything."

I pulled out a small box from my purse. "I accept your proposal if you accept mine."

Scott's expression was priceless as I opened the box to reveal a platinum band engraved with constellations. "I've been carrying this for weeks, waiting for the right moment."

"You're proposing... to me?" He sounded incredulous.

"Equal partnership," I explained. "No contracts, no games. Just us, choosing each other every day."

Scott's smile could have outshone the sun. "Yes," he said simply, extending his hand so I could place the ring on his finger.

The NASA director approached, beaming. "I believe this calls for a celebration. We've prepared a small reception in the observation room."

As we followed him, Scott whispered in my ear, "How long have you remembered everything?"

"Not everything," I admitted. "But most things came back about a month ago."

"And you didn't say anything because...?"

I smiled mischievously. "I was waiting to see how far you'd go to make me fall in love with you again."

Scott laughed, shaking his head. "We're quite the pair, aren't we? You, pretending to want a divorce. Me, pretending you never wanted one."

"At least we're well-matched in our deviousness."

The reception was lovely—champagne, congratulations, and a video call with the astronauts who'd participated in the proposal. As we prepared to leave, the NASA director handed Scott a framed photo they'd captured of the moment I'd said yes.

"A memento," he said. "Though I doubt either of you will forget this day."

On the drive home, Scott couldn't stop smiling. "I can't believe you were testing me all along. Operation Boomerang?"

"Because I wanted you to come back to me," I explained, blushing. "It made sense at the time."

"And now?" He took my hand, his thumb tracing the outline of my new ring.

"Now I know better than to play games with the man I love."

When we arrived home, Scott carried me across the threshold like a new bride. Inside, another surprise awaited—our living room had been transformed for an intimate celebration, with Stella wearing a tiny bow tie.

"I planned for either outcome," Scott admitted. "Celebration or consolation."

"Always prepared," I teased.

After dinner, Scott led me to his study. On the wall, in a beautiful frame, hung our original marriage contract—complete with coffee stains and handwritten amendments.

"Why display this?" I asked. "It represents everything we're moving beyond."

"Because it's part of our story," Scott explained. "The beginning, not the end."

He pointed to a new addition—a handwritten note at the bottom of the frame: "Violation penalty: Must love each other until the universe reaches heat death."

"Astronomically speaking, that's a very long time," I noted, leaning into his embrace.

"Not long enough," Scott whispered against my hair.

Three years later, I stood in our bedroom, watching Scott sleep. Stella curled at his feet, equally peaceful. So much had changed—we'd renewed our vows in a ceremony that was everything our first wedding wasn't: intimate, emotional, genuine. My research had flourished with the foundation Scott had established in my name. We'd traveled the world, making new memories to complement the old ones that had mostly returned.

But the biggest change lay in the nursery across the hall, where our six-month-old daughter slept peacefully in her crib, mobile of planets spinning slowly above her head.

I crept back to bed, sliding under the covers beside my husband. As if sensing my return, Scott's arm wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest without fully waking.

"Everything okay?" he murmured sleepily.

"Perfect," I whispered. "Just checking on our girl."

He nodded, already drifting back to sleep, but his grip on me remained secure, protective.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the steady beat of his heart against my back. Tomorrow, I would execute the plan I'd been crafting for weeks—Operation Stellar Memory.

Scott deserved a taste of his own medicine, after all.

I'd spent days perfecting my "amnesia" performance—the confusion, the fear, the blank stares. The doctors were in on it, of course, having helped me understand exactly how to mimic my previous symptoms.

For our anniversary, I would give Scott the chance to make me fall in love with him one more time—a gift for the man who had never stopped fighting for us, even when all seemed lost.

As I drifted toward sleep, I smiled at the thought of his face when I would "wake up" confused tomorrow. And later, when I revealed the truth, how we would laugh at our matching schemes—his post-accident deception, my pre-planned performance.

Some might call us dysfunctional. I preferred to think we were perfectly matched—two strategic minds who had found in each other the worthiest opponents and the most devoted allies.

In the nursery across the hall, our daughter made a small sound. Scott stirred, instantly alert.

"I'll go," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my temple before sliding from the bed.

I watched him go, this man who had rewritten our story with patience and determination. Tomorrow, I would give him the chance to do it again—not because we needed fixing, but because sometimes the greatest gift is the opportunity to fall in love all over again.

As Scott returned with our daughter in his arms, his expression so tender it made my chest ache, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: contract or no contract, memory or no memory, what we had built together was the realest thing in my universe.

"Room for two more?" he asked softly.

I opened my arms, making space for my family. "Always."

Our daughter settled between us, her tiny hand reaching up to grasp my finger. Scott's arm extended across both of us, protective and loving. Stella repositioned herself at our feet, completing the picture.

Not just a family of three anymore, but four. Not bound by contracts or obligations, but by something far more powerful: choice. Every day, choosing each other again.

As sleep claimed me, I thought about the astronomical ceiling above us, projecting the vast universe beyond our home. In cosmic terms, our lives were infinitesimal—brief flashes in the grand timeline of existence.

But in this moment, in this bed, with these people, we were everything. A universe unto ourselves, expanding with each beat of our hearts.