Damian’s POV

“Call Dr. Serra,” I commanded into the phone, “Tell him I want him here in twenty minutes.” I glanced at Elena, who flinched and pulled the duvet higher. “And tell him to bring the heavy-duty memory inducer. I don’t have time for slow recovery.”

I hung up without waiting for a reply and pocketed my phone

“You see, Elena. I can’t wait. So, we solve the illness first.” I spoke.

The wait was agonizing. Elena stared at me, breath hitching, trying to gauge how far I would go.

Exactly seventeen minutes later, the door opened again. A man in an expensive gray suit, the doctor, entered, followed by two stern-faced nurses, one carrying a discreet metal case.

“Damian,” Dr. Serra nodded, professional and cold. “Amnesia, you said. Disorientation. We can handle that.” He didn't look at Elena; he looked only at the problem.

“I want the blockage gone. Now,” I ordered, gesturing to Elena. “No gentle process. I need the truth, and I need it fast.”

Dr. Serra gave a tight, bloodless smile. “The memory induction cocktail is potent, sir. It will generate an extreme physiological reaction. But it’s effective.”

He opened his case. One of the nurses stepped forward, a syringe already prepared.

Elena finally found her voice, a dry, terrified croak. “No! I told you, I don’t remember! You can’t…”

“Hold her,” Dr. Serra instructed.

The nurses moved with speed. Elena cried out, but her weak body was no match for their strength. They pinned her arms and legs against the heavy mattress.

“It will hurt, little one,” the doctor murmured, though the words held no compassion. He swabbed a spot on her neck.

Damian remained standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest.

The needle plunged in.

Elena’s spine arched violently against the nurses’ hold. A strangled wretch tearing from her chest. Overwhelming inflow of memories flashed behind her eyes.

“Stop! Please!” she screamed, her body thrashing against the drug’s assault. The two nurses grunted, struggling to keep her still.

Damian didn’t move a muscle, but his jaw was so tight. He watched the sweat spring onto Elena’s forehead and the way her eyes rolled back into her head, filled with agony.

A final, prolonged shudder ran through her, and then the struggle ceased. Her body went instantly limp, her breathing slow and shallow.

Dr. Serra stepped back, wiping his hands. “There. It’s done.”

He signaled the nurses away. They smoothed the sheets and left the room as silently as they came, taking the used syringe with them.

Damian approached the bedside, looking down at Elena’s lifeless pale face. “Well?”

“It was a complete cellular reaction,” the doctor said, packing his case. “The neural pathways are now highly sensitized. The memories are there. They’ve been forced to the surface. She should be given a small window of time to wake up naturally to see the improvement. When she wakes, the initial shock should have passed.”

“How long?”

“An hour, maybe two. No longer. Let the chemical stabilize. I’ll check in later.”

Damian dismissed the doctor with a wave of his hand; his eyes still fixed on Elena.

Damian finally turned to walk away when his phone buzzed. It was Adrian.

He answered, his voice colder than usual. “What is it?”

“Relax, Dam. I’m just calling to remind you of the mandatory fun time that involves four separate government officials and three rival families.” Adrian’s voice was laced with its usual irreverent sarcasm. “The International Trade and Solidarity Conference start tonight in Geneva, remember? You know, the one where we pretend that we’re all legitimate businessmen and talk about cheese exports?”

Damian closed his eyes briefly. “Tonight. Right.”

“No such luck. Your jet leaves in three hours. Can’t miss it. You know how disappointed the Minister of Faux-Cooperation would be.”

“Fine. Handle the preparations. I’ll be there.”

He ended the call, running a frustrated hand through his hair. A trip now? Just when the truth was within reach? He glanced at Elena. He couldn't leave without knowing. He wouldn't. He had two hours at most.

He sat in the room, working on his laptop, every few minutes glancing at the still figure in the bed. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Elena’s eyelids fluttered.

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. She looked around the room, then down at her bandaged thigh, then up at Damian, her expression moving from confusion to recognition, and finally to stark terror.

“Where am I?” she whispered, frightened.

Damian leaned forward, his voice low, intense, and demanding. “You’re awake. Good. Tell me what you remember. Tell me the names.”

Elena stared back, her brow furrowed in desperate concentration. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the images, the names, to the surface.

She opened them, and the terror in her eyes was overlaid with genuine despair.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I still can’t remember anything.” A single tear rolled down her temple. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Damian stood abruptly, knocking his chair back a few inches. Were all that pain and the brutal injection for nothing?

He grabbed his phone and called Dr. Serra back instantly. “She’s awake. And she remembers nothing. What the hell did you inject into her?”

The doctor’s voice came back calm. “Sir, that is medically impossible. The cocktail works. However, the memory is suppressed by extreme psychological trauma.”

“So what? It didn’t work?” Damian’s voice was dangerously low.

“It worked, but sometimes, in cases like this, the patient requires environmental stimuli.”

“Explain.”

“We need to put her out in a dangerous situation,” Dr. Serra proposed. “Not mortal danger, but a situation that forces her survival instinct to override the psychological defense. It might just help juggle her memory.”

Damian looked at Elena, who was now weeping softly, completely oblivious to the cold calculation being discussed over the phone.

“A dangerous situation,” Damian repeated, the idea settling cold and hard in his mind. “Understood, Doctor.”