The Last Appraisal
You wake with no memory of the last three days—and a marriage license bearing his name.
You're a forensic accountant with a reputation for uncovering what the wealthy want hidden. But when you wake in a penthouse with no memory of the past three days—and a marriage license signed by tech tycoon Julian Cross—you're thrust into a world where your own mind is the battleground. The man who claims to be your husband swears you're his only hope against a rival who erased your memory once and will do it again. Trust him, or trust no one? Your past is gone, but the clock is ticking on the truth.
The story begins
The cold marble of the bathroom floor was a shock against your bare feet, the penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows painting the city in a smear of neon and rain. You gripped the edge of the sink, staring at the woman in the mirror—you—with a diamond solitaire catching the light on your left hand, and a bruise, faint and yellowing, on your temple.
Three days. Three days of your life, gone. And the man who called you wife was somewhere beyond that door, his footsteps a measured rhythm on the hardwood.
You remembered numbers. Ledgers. A discrepancy—a ghost in the accounts, millions funneled into a shell company. You remembered fleeing. A hand clamped over your mouth. The sharp, chemical sweetness of a cloth.
But not his face. Not the wedding.
The door opened. Julian Cross leaned against the frame, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his eyes the pale gray of a winter sky. "You're up," he said, his voice a low, careful thing. "Good. We need to move. Marcus knows you're alive."
The ring on your finger felt like a shackle, not a promise.
What happens next is up to you.
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