Cassian’s words echo in my head long after he leaves.

You’ve been remembering pieces.

I sit in my apartment, my arms wrapped around my knees. The door is locked now—triple checked. But my sense of safety doesn’t return with it.

Who is he to know my art better than I do? How long has he been watching me? What does he mean by “we’ve met before”?

I try to focus on the facts. Vale Gallery. Solo exhibition. Full sponsorship. No application. No warning.

No boundaries.

A rich, powerful man walks into my life uninvited, already controlling the next two weeks of it. And for some reason, I haven’t reported him.

Why not?

Because he didn’t touch me.

Because he knew things no one else could.

Because a part of me—one I don’t like—is intrigued.

---

At noon, a courier shows up at my door with a branded package: Vale Gallery embossed on the box in silver.

Inside: a phone, a set of printed schedules, and a card.

Day One: Press announcement and contract signing. 4 PM. Car will arrive at 3:30.

I pick up the phone. It’s already powered. My name is on the wallpaper.

This is next-level invasive.

I should throw it away.

Instead, I sit on my bed and stare at the contact list. Only one number is saved:

Cassian Vale

---

3:28 PM. I pace my apartment.

3:30. I peek out the window.

A black car idles at the curb. Long, sleek, clearly expensive. Tinted windows. The driver steps out and opens the back door without a word.

I could say no. I could walk away.

But something deeper than fear—something sharper than curiosity—pulls me forward.

I go.

The driver says nothing. The interior of the car smells faintly of leather and rain. I don’t ask questions.

I expect we’re heading to the gallery.

We don’t.

We drive through downtown, past the arts district, and pull up to a tall grey building with no sign out front. The door opens before I knock.

Cassian is already inside, waiting.

“Right on time,” he says.

My voice is flat. “Where are we?”

“A place I use for private meetings.”

“You mean your lair?”

His lips curve slightly. “Not quite.”

He gestures to a chair by the window. Sunlight pools across the hardwood floor. An empty contract folder rests on a table beside it.

“You brought me here to sign a contract?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re here because you need to understand what you’ve agreed to—whether or not you realize you’ve agreed yet.”

I cross my arms. “I haven’t.”

Cassian steps closer, holding my gaze. “Amira. That shadow you paint in every sketch. The one you never show anyone. It’s real.”

My stomach drops.

“How do you know that?”

He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket: a photograph.

My breath catches.

It’s one of my drawings.

Except it’s not.

It’s older. Crumpled. Tinted yellow like it was taken decades ago. But the shape—the lines—it’s unmistakably my work. A forest. A figure standing at its edge. Same haunting shadows. Same bleeding ink.

But I didn’t draw this one.

My voice trembles. “Where did you get that?”

He watches me carefully. “You did. Five years ago.”

“I wasn’t painting five years ago.”

“You were. But your memory of that time was... fractured.”

I shake my head. “That’s not possible.”

He steps closer, voice low. “Tell me, Amira. Why do you draw with your eyes closed?”

I blink.

I’ve never told anyone that.

Not even Talia.

He nods slowly. “Because your hands remember what your mind won’t.”

A sharp ringing fills the air. I jump.

It’s the phone. The one Cassian sent me. It lights up with a single message:

CONFIRMING: Signed Press Announcement begins at 4:00 PM sharp. Attendees have arrived.

Cassian glances at his watch. “Time to go.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

He meets my eyes. “But you didn’t say no.”

---

The gallery is colder than I expect.

Not in temperature—but in presence.

The room is pristine. Marble floors. Spotless glass. Gold accents. And on every wall—my art.

Pieces I hadn’t finished. Others I hadn’t shared. Some I didn’t know were missing from my studio.

“Did you—” I start.

Cassian answers before I finish. “They were taken from your storage. The gallery has access to all relevant inventory.”

I look at him, stunned. “You had no right.”

“Legally, I did. You’ll find everything accounted for in the contract.”

I want to scream. Instead, I walk up to one of the paintings. It’s the forest again. That dark, endless path. The one I keep seeing in dreams.

A woman walks past, whispering to her partner. “There’s something haunted about this one. Don’t you feel it?”

Cassian steps beside me. “They feel what you’ve forgotten. That’s why you’re special.”

I want to argue. To run. But then I hear another voice.

“Amira Dalen, yes? I’m Lauren from the Tribune. May I ask a few questions about your process?”

Suddenly I’m surrounded. Journalists. Gallery staff. Art collectors.

And Cassian—just behind me, always just behind me—answering for me when I hesitate.

“She’s deeply intuitive,” he says.

“She paints from memory,” he adds.

“She’s returning to the spotlight after years of creative silence.”

I feel like I’m watching myself from underwater.

Eventually, it ends. Cameras flash. Reporters retreat.

The gallery clears out.

Cassian watches me as I sink into a bench near the back wall. “You held yourself well.”

I shake my head. “You’ve built a story around me that isn’t true.”

He says nothing.

“I don’t remember any of this. I didn’t choose this.”

“But you will remember,” he says. “And when you do, you’ll realize this isn’t a beginning. It’s a return.”

A long silence stretches between us.

Then, softly, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

Cassian’s expression changes. He walks toward the farthest wall.

There hangs the last painting.

It’s unlike the others. No forest. No shadows.

It’s a woman.

Not just any woman.

Me.

Sleeping. Pale. Unmoving.

In a hospital bed.

My heart stops.

My legs go weak.

I stumble forward.

“How—how did you—?”

Cassian speaks softly now. “You were in a coma, Amira. Five years ago. After the accident.”

“What accident?”

“You were struck by a car. Late at night. Near the Vale estate. You were unconscious for months.”

I stare at the painting. I feel dizzy.

“You don’t remember,” he says.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then says the words that undo me:

“You weren’t alone that night. I was with you.”