Chapter 2: Echoes in Marble and Glass

The discharge papers feel wrong in my hands. My own signature looks like someone else's—too neat, too careful, like I was trying to impress a stranger. I tuck a curl behind my ear for the third time in five minutes, the hospital bracelet long gone but the phantom itch remains.

Desmond stands by the door in a charcoal suit that costs more than my entire wardrobe, or at least what I remember of it. His blue eyes track every fidget. "Ready to come home, darling?"

Home. The word lands like a stone in still water. I nod because what else can I do? The anonymous text burns in my memory. The recording of my own voice accusing him. But the doctors say rest, familiarity, no stress. And his hand on the small of my back feels like the only solid thing left.

The drive up the coast is silent except for the low hum of the luxury car. My ribs ache with every turn, a sharp reminder that my body knows things my mind erased. I catch him glancing over, thumb running along his jaw once before he catches himself.

"You'll love the penthouse again," he says, voice velvet-smooth. "We picked it together. The light in the mornings, the way it catches the sea."

I stare out at the waves crashing far below. The cliffs from my flash memory. My pulse spikes. Did we stand there together before the terror hit? God, why does even the thought make my hands sweat?

The building rises like a glass blade against the sky, sleek and impersonal. Doorman nods to Desmond like he's royalty. Elevator whispers upward, and suddenly we're there—floor-to-ceiling windows, marble that gleams cold under recessed lights. It smells like expensive nothing. Clean. Controlled.

My feet hesitate on the threshold. This isn't mine. Can't be. Yet there on the console table sits a stack of vintage postcards, edges worn from handling. Paris. Kyoto. A faded one from Lisbon with my handwriting on the back: Hold this place for me.

I pick it up, fingers tracing the ink. Why does touching my own words feel like betrayal? My chest loosens anyway, like muscle memory betraying me.

"You collected them obsessively," Desmond says from behind me, close enough that his breath stirs my hair. "Said they were proof the world kept turning even after your parents. After your uncle."

Uncle. The word snags. The recording echoes in my skull—I know what you did to my uncle. I set the postcard down too hard.

He doesn't seem to notice. Or pretends not to. His hand finds my waist, guiding me deeper into the space that feels like a beautiful cage. "Bedroom's this way. Our room."

Our. The claim in that single word sends heat crawling up my neck. The master suite opens like a stage set—king bed dressed in slate linens, his and hers closets visible through open doors. My clothes hang there, dresses I don't recognize, tags still on some. A silk robe the color of midnight drapes over a chair.

I move to the balcony doors on instinct, sliding them open. Salt air rushes in, tangling my curls. The view drops straight to the sea, waves foaming white against rocks far below. My left side twinges as I lean on the railing.

Desmond steps out behind me. Not touching, but near enough that I feel his heat. "We danced out here the night after you moved in. You were humming that Debussy piece, tipsy on the champagne I don't drink."

Something flickers. Not a full memory—more like a ghost of sensation. His hands on my hips, pulling me close. The hard line of his body against mine. My cheek against his chest, the faint metallic scent under his cologne. The music swelling. But underneath it, a prickle of unease I can't name. Why does it feel both safe and sharp at the same time?

"It was perfect," he continues, that boyish laugh slipping out—startling, warm. It cracks his polished edges. For a second he looks younger, almost uncertain. "You kept saying the stars looked close enough to steal."

I want to believe him. God, I want it. The way his eyes soften when he looks at me tugs at something deep, like coming home to a house you forgot you owned. But the text. The recording. My own screams on that cheap black phone.

The doorbell chimes, saving me from answering. Desmond's jaw tightens just a fraction. "That'll be Lila. She wouldn't wait another day."

Lila bursts in like a champagne cork, all platinum bob and designer yoga pants in violent fuchsia. Her arms are around me before I can process, squeezing just enough to make my ribs protest. She smells like vanilla and expensive hair products.

"Oh my God, babe. Look at you. Alive. Here. With actual color in your cheeks instead of that hospital gray." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying me with bright eyes that don't quite match her smile. "I brought pastries. And that awful herbal tea you pretend to like."

I manage a laugh that sounds rusty. "Thanks. I think."

She glances at Desmond, something unreadable flickering across her face before she covers it with a grin. "Des, you didn't tell her I was the one who forced you two to talk at my gallery opening? Like, I practically shoved her into your arms. Hero of the hour right here."

Desmond's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You did. Though I recall Cecilia telling you to mind your business."

Lila waves a hand, already unpacking a white bakery box on the marble island. "Details. Anyway, true crime podcast I listened to on the way over—guy with amnesia who killed his wife but didn't remember. Wild, right? Moral of the story: don't dig up what wants to stay buried."

The words land like ice down my spine. She touches her diamond stud earring, twisting it once. Her laugh comes too fast, too loud.

We settle on the massive sectional, the kind that swallows you whole. Lila chatters about gallery sales, about how the city's elite are all buying abstracts this season, about how I used to appraise them with this little frown that made collectors nervous. Every story feels like clothing that almost fits.

"You really don't remember any of it?" she asks suddenly, popping a macaron into her mouth. Her eyes dart to Desmond then back. "The whirlwind thing? The way he looked at you like you hung the damn moon?"

I shake my head, biting my lip again. The ring on my finger catches the light, heavy as an anchor. "It's all gone. Six months. Like someone hit delete."

She leans in, voice dropping. "Maybe that's for the best, babe. Some love stories have plot twists that ruin the reread." Her fingers brush her earring again. Then she straightens, all bubbly once more. "Anyway! I should let you two nest. Call me if the hot fiancé gets annoying. Or don't. Whatever."

The door clicks shut behind her. The penthouse feels bigger, emptier. Desmond watches me from across the room, hands in his pockets. That predatory grace makes my pulse jump.

"She's worried," he says softly. "We all are."

I nod, but my feet carry me toward the bedroom again. Needing space. Needing air that doesn't smell like him. I open drawers at random, telling myself I'm just looking for something familiar. My hands shake as I sift through silk and cashmere that cost thousands.

In the back of the nightstand—his side, I realize with a jolt—my fingers close around cool metal. An antique pocket watch, heavy and ornate. I flip it open. The engraving stops my breath.

For C.A. - Two months before we met. With all my love, D.

The date mocks me. Two months before the gallery opening Lila just described. Before we supposedly met. My thumb traces the letters. Why does this feel like proof he planned every step?

"Find something interesting?"

Desmond's voice from the doorway freezes me. I spin, watch still clutched in my palm like evidence. His eyes lock on it, blue going sharp for half a second. Then he runs his thumb along his jaw, calculating. "Ah. That. Sentimental of me, wasn't it? I bought it the week after we met, actually. Had it engraved later. Timepiece for the woman who made me want to stop wasting mine."

The lie sits between us, smooth as the marble floors. I can feel it. But his measured tone lingers in the air, disarming. My traitor body responds anyway, softening even as my mind screams warning.

He crosses to me in that measured way, taking the watch gently. His fingers brush mine and linger. The touch sends sparks up my arm. I hate how much I want to lean into it.

"Darling, the doctors warned against this. Chasing shadows." His voice drops, velvet over steel. He winds the watch with deliberate turns, the click-click filling the silence. "Let me hold the timeline for both of us."

I should pull away. Demand answers. Instead I stand there, trapped between the magnetic pull of his nearness and the cold weight of that engraving. My lower lip finds its way between my teeth again.

Later that night the penthouse creaks with unfamiliar sounds. Wind against glass. Distant waves. My mind won't settle. At 2:47 a.m. I slip from the bed—our bed, though I made him take the couch—and pad to the kitchen.

Stress-baking. The motions come without thought. Flour. Sugar. Eggs that I crack with practiced ease I don't remember learning. My hands know the rhythm. The penthouse fills with the smell of butter and vanilla as I hum under my breath.

Clair de Lune. The notes float out, haunting. The vanilla turns metallic on my tongue, the hum catching sharp in my throat.

And then it hits. Not a gentle memory. A brutal one.

I'm screaming the melody, voice raw, as glass shatters around us. Desmond's face inches from mine, eyes blazing with something dark. His hands grip my arms too tight. "You weren't supposed to find it," he snarls in the flash. "The key. What it opens."

The crash comes next—metal twisting, my own terror, the cliff edge rushing up.

I drop the spoon. It clatters loud in the silent kitchen.

Desmond appears in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, hair sleep-mussed. He looks devastating and dangerous in the low light. "Cecilia? What's wrong?"

My hands won't stop shaking. The melody dies in my throat. I meet his eyes across the marble island, the smell of baking bread suddenly sickening.

"We fought," I whisper. "Before the crash. I was screaming Debussy at you. You said... you said it was about a key."

His face does something complicated—softens, hardens, then settles into that careful mask. He steps closer, bare feet silent on the tile.

"Yes," he admits, voice low. "We did fight. Because you found something you weren't meant to."

The words hang there, sharp as broken glass. My blood runs cold. What did I find that was worth erasing six months of my life?

And why does the man who might have tried to kill me still make my stupid heart race like it's coming home?