The Shattered Reflection

The penthouse elevator hums a soft, expensive lullaby as it climbs, and you watch the city sprawl below—a glittering grid of lights that feels like a memory you can't quite touch. Julian's hand rests on the small of your back, warm and proprietary, his cologne a familiar scent that should comfort you.

"Almost home, darling," he murmurs, and the word home snags on something sharp in your chest.

You look down at your left hand. The diamond on your ring finger catches the light, flawless and cold. The scar on your palm—a thin, pale line—itches beneath your thumb. The doctors said it was from the accident. Julian said the same. But when you trace it, you feel something else: a phantom ache, a whisper of a different life.

The elevator doors slide open. The penthouse unfolds before you—marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, art you're told you chose. It's beautiful. It's perfect. It's wrong.

Julian steps ahead, turning back with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I had Margo stock the fridge with your favorites. Oysters, that champagne you love."

You don't love champagne. You know this the way you know your own pulse. But you smile anyway.

"Thank you," you say, and the lie tastes like ash.

His eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them. "You don't remember this place at all, do you?"