Chapter 1 Awakening from the Accident
Chapter 1: Awakening from the Accident
The first thing I registered was the scent—antiseptic and something darker beneath it, like copper and burnt sugar. Then the pain. A white-hot knife twisting behind my eyes.
"Mrs. Stevens, can you hear me?"
My eyelids fluttered open to a blur of fluorescent lights. A stranger in a white coat loomed over me, his mouth moving, but the words drowned in the shrill scream of the cardiac monitor.
"She’s crashing—"
Hands pinned me down as my body convulsed. Somewhere beyond the chaos, a voice cut through like a scalpel.
"Enough."
The room fell silent.
Ward Stevens stood at the foot of my bed, his tailored suit immaculate, his expression as unreadable as the day he’d stolen my biggest client. In his hands, a bouquet of black roses dripped onto the linoleum.
"Hello, darling." His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "You gave us quite the scare."
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, as if I’d been screaming. The last thing I remembered: headlights veering toward my car, the shriek of metal, then—nothing.
"What… did you do?" My voice was a broken thing.
Ward sighed, as if disappointed. He placed a single photograph on my tray—our wedding day. Me in a lace gown, his hand possessive on my waist, my smile too bright to be real.
"Memory loss is common after trauma," the doctor said, avoiding my gaze. "You were in a coma for three days."
I stared at the platinum band on my left hand. "This is a joke."
Ward’s fingers brushed my cheek. "I wish it were."
They discharged me into his care.
The penthouse was a gilded tomb—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, every surface polished to a lethal shine. Ward carried me over the threshold like a corpse bride, his grip tight enough to bruise.
"Home sweet home," he murmured, setting me down.
I recoiled. "I live on Park Avenue."
"Not anymore." He tossed a set of keys onto the marble counter. "You sold it after the honeymoon. Said it was too many memories."
I limped toward the nearest door—locked.
"Ah-ah." Ward caught my wrist, spinning me to face him. "Doctor’s orders. No stress." His thumb traced the pulse in my wrist. "Wouldn’t want a relapse."
I yanked free. "Show me the bedroom."
His smirk was a blade. "Eager, are we?"
The master suite was a study in control—his. Silk sheets, a single pillow on his side, and a motion-activated camera blinking above the bed.
"Security system," he said, following my gaze. "After the break-in."
"What break-in?"
"The one where they nearly took you from me." His voice dropped, rough with something like grief. "I won’t lose you again."
I waited until his 2:00 AM "business call" (always in Russian, always exactly four minutes) to move.
The study was locked, but the hairpin from my updo slid into the mechanism with ease. Inside: a wall of screens showing every room in the penthouse—including the shower.
"Bastard," I whispered.
A leather-bound ledger lay open on the desk. I flipped through pages of surveillance logs, meticulous notes on my routines, and then—
"Subject shows increased resistance. Proceed with Phase II sedation."
My blood turned to ice.
A sound behind me.
"Find what you were looking for?"
Ward leaned against the doorframe, swirling a glass of bourbon. "You always were too curious for your own good."
I grabbed the letter opener from the desk. "Stay back."
He laughed, low and dangerous. "That’s the spirit."
The fight was brutal.
He disarmed me in seconds, pinning me against the wall with his body. "You’re not well," he breathed, lips grazing my ear. "Let me help you."
"Go to hell."
"Already there, darling." He dragged me to a hidden door behind the bookshelf. "Since you insist on the truth."
The room beyond was a shrine—photos of me spanning a decade, my college diploma, even the scarf I’d lost last winter. And at the center, a monitor playing footage of me sleeping, timestamped three days before the accident.
"You’ve been mine longer than you know," Ward said, stroking my hair. "The accident just… expedited things."
I spat in his face.
He wiped it away, unfazed. "We’ll try again tomorrow."
At dawn, I made my move.
The scalpel from the hospital (tucked into my sleeve during discharge) slid between his ribs as he slept. "That’s for the Porsche," I whispered.
He woke with a gasp—not of pain, but pleasure. "There’s my girl."
I fled to the elevator. It demanded a retinal scan + voice ID. Pressing his twitching finger to the reader, I hissed our safe word from the prenup:
"Obedience."
The doors opened. Freedom.
Then every screen in the lobby lit up with our wedding video—the uncut version, where I sobbed as he slid the ring onto my finger.
"P.S. I love you," flashed across the screens as the exit gates slammed shut.
