Chapter 3: Fragments Under the Needle

The penthouse feels smaller this morning, like the walls have learned to listen. I stand at the balcony doors watching the sea chew at the rocks below, my left side throbbing in that familiar off-rhythm way that makes me wonder if the doctors missed something. Desmond moves behind me in the kitchen, the clink of a coffee cup too deliberate, too normal.

His voice slides over my shoulder, low and careful. "The facility called. They can see us at ten. Hypnosis might unlock things safely, without the... spikes."

I don't turn around. My fingers find a curl and tuck it hard behind my ear. The pocket watch sits in my memory from two months before we met, its engraving still burning. The key. God, the key.

"Safe," I echo. My voice sounds borrowed. "Like the way you kept the key safe from me?"

He crosses the room in that predatory way, stopping just close enough that I feel his heat against my back. His hand doesn't touch me but it might as well. The almost-contact makes my skin prickle with the ghost of dancing here, of his mouth on my neck while Debussy played.

"Darling, the doctors specialize in cases like yours. Elite discretion. No leaks to the press or... others." His thumb brushes his own jaw once, the gesture so quick I almost miss it. "I only want what's best. For us."

I bite my lower lip until I taste blood. Why does his voice still pull me in like this when the texts scream otherwise? Stop it, Cecilia. Just stop. But what if the only safety left is the lie?

"Fine," I say. "But I ask the questions this time."

His smile when I finally face him is almost boyish, startled. It cracks something in my chest I can't afford to let break.

---

The private medical facility looms against the cliffs, all glass and sterile silence, the same place they brought me after the crash. No signs announce its purpose. Just a discreet brass plaque. Desmond's hand rests possessively at the small of my back as we enter, guiding me through security that feels more like a bank vault than a hospital.

My pulse hammers against my ribs. The metallic taste floods my mouth again. I start to hum a few notes of Clair de Lune under my breath before I catch myself and stop, fists clenched at my sides.

Dr. Hale greets us in a windowless office that smells of lemon polish and something sharper underneath. He's older, silver at the temples, with sharp eyes that catalog me like an appraiser would a questionable painting. Victor's superior, I realize with a jolt. Or one of them.

"Miss Albright. The retrograde amnesia presents uniquely. We'll use light hypnosis to access without trauma. Desmond will observe from the monitoring room. For support."

I glance at Desmond. His face is composed, but that thumb runs along his jaw again as he nods. Calculating. Always calculating. My stomach flips at how easily he fits here.

They settle me into a leather chair that reclines with a soft mechanical sigh. Electrodes on my temples. The room dims. Dr. Hale's voice becomes a gentle tide. "Focus on my words, Cecilia. Let the fragments come. What do you see when you think of Desmond?"

My eyelids grow heavy. The world tilts sideways. For a moment there's only the sound of waves and my own breathing, ragged now.

Then it slams in, jagged and too fast.

Rain on my face. His mouth on mine, desperate, my hands fisting his shirt as waves crash somewhere close. Salt on our lips. His fingers tangled in my wet curls. The way he whispered my name like both a confession and a threat. My body arches toward the memory even as my mind screams wait, this isn't the cliff, this isn't the fight.

The image fractures. I'm in his office at the firm, heart racing, picking a lock with a hairpin because the pocket watch wouldn't leave me alone. The door behind his desk swings open. Files. So many files with my uncle's name stamped across them in red. Dates that don't make sense. Transfers. A ledger entry that looks like payment for silence. And there, tucked inside one folder, the key. The same one from the penthouse argument. My fingers close around its cold metal in the memory just as everything whites out.

I jerk awake, sweat slicking my neck. The electrodes feel like bugs crawling on my skin. I yank at one, breath coming short. Dr. Hale watches me with clinical interest while Desmond stands in the doorway now, face carefully blank. But his eyes. God, his eyes hold a storm I can't read.

"Tell us what you saw," the doctor prompts, pen poised.

My throat closes. The kiss still burns on my mouth, real enough that I press my fingers there without thinking. The key in the memory makes my hands shake. Why does it feel like both proof and trap at once?

"We kissed," I manage, voice cracking. "In the rain. It was... intense." My cheeks burn. I can't look at Desmond. "Then later. In his office. I found a locked door. Files about my uncle. And the key. The one we fought over."

Silence stretches, thick enough to choke on. Desmond steps closer, his hand finding my shoulder. The touch is gentle but I feel the tremor in it. Or maybe that's me. My left side throbs harder, like the memory is trying to claw its way out through the old injury.

"Interesting," Dr. Hale says, making a note. "Memory recovery can be unpredictable. We'll schedule follow-ups. In the meantime, rest. No stress."

Rest. As if that's possible when every recovered piece makes the puzzle uglier. I tug another electrode free, the sting grounding me for half a second.

Desmond's fingers tighten fractionally on my shoulder before releasing. His voice when he speaks is velvet again. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll be in touch."

I stand too fast. The room spins. He catches my elbow, steadying me, and for one humiliating second I lean into him before pulling away. My body is a traitor. My heart is worse.

We step into the hallway and that's when I see him. Victor Hale. Salt-and-pepper hair, three-piece suit that probably costs what most people make in a year. He waits by the exit like he owns the building. Maybe he does. His unblinking stare lands on me like he knew we'd be here.

"Miss Albright," he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "A pleasure, even under these circumstances. Desmond has told me of your... progress."

His eyes don't blink. They measure me the way collectors measure flawed canvases. I fight the urge to tuck my hair again, biting down on the inside of my cheek instead.

"Mr. Hale," Desmond says, tone carefully neutral. But his thumb is working his jawline hard now. "We were just leaving."

Victor doesn't move. "A moment, if you will. The firm has a vested interest in your recovery, Cecilia. Your uncle was a valued associate. His estate matters require delicate handling. We wouldn't want any... misunderstandings to complicate things."

The words sound like corporate speak. Boring, even. But they crawl under my skin anyway, because of what they don't say. Loyalty. Control. The files I just remembered. The key that ties it all together.

"What exactly does the firm do with my uncle's estate?" I ask, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds.

Victor's smile is thin. "Guidance, my dear. Protection. Some assets are better managed without emotional interference. Desmond here has been exemplary in that regard." He touches his tie, a small adjustment that feels rehearsed. "Remember where your loyalties should rest. The past can be a dangerous place to wander."

He nods once to Desmond, a silent communication that makes my stomach drop, then turns and walks away with that deliberate slowness that somehow feels like a threat wrapped in manners.

My hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets only to find my phone buzzing there. Lila. The text lights up the screen.

Babe, whatever they did in there, STOP. Don't dig. Some stones bury people when they roll. I'm serious. Delete this and call me later? Or don't. Just... be careful. XOXO

I stare at the words until they blur. The hypnosis kiss still burns. The locked door and the key feel more real than the floor under my feet. What if every tender thing he's said was just another lock I picked myself?

Desmond watches me, blue eyes unreadable. "Ready to go home?"

Home. The word tastes like a lie now. I nod because my voice has deserted me. We walk to the car in silence, his hand hovering near my elbow without touching. The coastal road curves ahead, cliffs dropping away to hungry waves.

My phone buzzes again. Unknown number. I shouldn't look. I do anyway.

The video loads grainy but clear enough. Desmond's luxury car edging mine on the coastal highway that night. Deliberate. His vehicle nudging, forcing me toward the guardrail. Metal screaming. My car tipping. The cliff rushing up.

My blood turns to ice. The phone nearly slips from my fingers. I grip it tighter, nails digging into the case.

Desmond glances over as he starts the engine. "What is it, darling?"

I turn the screen toward him, heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe. The video plays on loop in my grip. His face doesn't change. Not really. Just that small tightening at the corner of his eye.

He meets my gaze, calm as still water. "That's not what happened. But I know who altered it. And they're closer than you think."

The engine purrs to life. The cliffs loom outside my window, waiting. And I realize with sick certainty that I have no idea which one of us is the threat anymore.