The AwakeningElara’s POV

“You’re awake,” a man says, voice calm but edged with something I can’t name, and before I even ask who he is, he adds, “You’ve been unconscious for three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” My throat hurts when I speak. “Where am I?”

“St. Helena’s private hospital,” he says, tone steady, too steady, like he’s rehearsed it.

I blink, my head aching, words jumbling in my mouth. “And who are you?”

“Adrian,” he says, leaning closer, his voice low like we’ve shared something once. “Adrian Vale.”

The name sits wrong in my head. “I don’t know you.”

“You don’t remember me,” he says, not asking, just stating it. “That’s normal. The doctor said this might happen.”

“Who are you to me?”

“I’m your fiancé.”

I stare at him, trying to understand if he’s joking. “My fiancé?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “We’ve been together two years. The accident changed things.”

“What accident?”

“Your car went off a bridge. They pulled you out barely breathing. You’ve been here since.”

I try to make sense of it. “And my parents?”

“They’re away in Europe for business,” he says without pause. “They’ll come when you’re stronger.”

“Europe,” I repeat. “They left while I was in a coma?”

“They trust me to take care of you.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just ask, “Why can’t I remember you?”

“You hit your head,” he says quickly, and I notice how fast the words come, how sure he sounds. “It’ll come back. I’ll help you remember.”

“Help me?” I echo.

He nods. “Like always.”

Something about the way he says it makes me uneasy, so I focus on what’s safe. “Do I have a phone?”

He hesitates. “The doctor said no devices yet. Too much stimulation.”

“Convenient,” I mutter, and he ignores it.

“You always say that,” he says. “When you don’t trust people.”

“I don’t trust strangers who call themselves my fiancé.”

“You’re not yourself right now.”

“Maybe I am, and you don’t like it.”

He exhales, frustrated but still calm. “You think I’d lie to you?”

“I don’t know what you’d do.”

A pause stretches between us, and he finally says, “You were on your way to meet me that night. You said you’d be late. It started raining, the roads were slick. You never showed up.”

“And now you’re what, playing nurse?”

“I’m taking care of you,” he says. “That’s what I do.”

Before I can respond, a nurse walks in, smiling like everything’s fine. “Good to see you awake, Miss Cruz.”

“Cruz?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Adrian answers for her. “Your maiden name.”

“Right,” I say, though it doesn’t sound right at all. “And who told you to call me that?”

The nurse glances at him, then at me. “He said it might feel more familiar.”

I look between them. “I don’t even know what feels familiar anymore.”

The nurse gives me a practiced smile. “Rest, dear. The body remembers what the mind forgets.”

When she leaves, the silence crawls back in.

“So that’s it?” I ask. “I’m supposed to believe all this because you say so?”

“I’m not your enemy, Elara,” he says. “I’m the one who stayed.”

“You talk like I owe you something.”

“You owe yourself the truth,” he replies. “And you’ll find it with me.”

“Sounds rehearsed.”

“It’s not,” he says softly. “It’s a promise.”

I stare at him, the words circling in my head. “You said we were engaged?”

“Yes.”

“What was I like?”

He almost smiles. “You hated being told what to do. You’d argue with anyone. You’d talk fast when you were nervous, just like now.”

“You sound like a walking biography,” I say. “What’s my favorite color then?”

“Red,” he answers instantly. “You said it made you feel alive.”

The certainty in his voice makes my chest tighten, not because I believe him but because part of me wants to.

He reaches out like he’s done it a hundred times, his hand stopping just before mine. “I’ve missed you.”

I don’t move. “Maybe you should’ve missed someone else.”

He lowers his hand but doesn’t look away. “You said that once before too.”

“Before what?”

“Before the last time,” he says quietly.

“What last time?”

He blinks, like realizing he’s said too much. “Nothing. You should rest.”

“Tell me what you meant.”

“Not now,” he says, already standing. “The doctor will explain more later.”

“Then get him.”

“I’ll bring him,” he says, and walks out.

The door shuts behind him and I’m alone with machines beeping too steadily. My thoughts spin, trying to grab onto something solid, but there’s nothing. Just his voice repeating promises I never asked for.

A while later, the doctor walks in, calm face, polite tone. “Good to see you conscious, Miss Cruz.”

“How bad was it?”

“Concussion, mild fractures, temporary memory loss,” he says, all in one breath. “Recovery will be gradual.”

“And Adrian?” I ask.

“He’s been here every day,” the doctor says. “He’s arranged for you to continue care at his estate once discharged.”

“Estate,” I repeat. “You mean his house.”

He smiles faintly. “Yes, a secure environment for your rehabilitation.”

“Does no one ask what I want?”

“You’re under his guardianship,” he says simply. “He provided the documents.”

“Guardianship?”

“Until full cognitive recovery,” he clarifies. “It’s temporary.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter. “Everything’s temporary.”

He doesn’t respond, just notes something on a tablet. “He’ll come collect you soon. Rest while you can.”

When he leaves, I don’t know how much time passes before the door opens again.

Adrian steps inside, voice soft but direct. “You look better.”

“Still don’t remember you.”

“You will,” he says.

“Tell me what you meant earlier—‘the last time.’”

He studies me a second, then sits down. “Sometimes when you wake up, things are harder. You get scared. You forget what’s real. I remind you.”

“Like now.”

“Yes,” he says. “Like now.”

“And what if I never remember?”

“You will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s happened before.”

I freeze. “What do you mean happened before?”

He doesn’t flinch. “You’ve forgotten before.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not for you,” he says.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve always woken up like this. Different room, same confusion. Every time I tell you the truth, you fight me, and every time you end up remembering.”

“That’s insane.”

He nods once. “Maybe. But it’s real.”

“Then tell me everything.”

“I can’t yet.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

He meets my eyes. “Both.”

“You expect me to just follow you out of here?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’ll trust you?”

“I don’t need you to trust me,” he says. “I need you alive.”

“Why?”

“Because I promised you I’d keep you safe.”

I shake my head slowly. “From what?”

“From yourself.”

A sharp laugh slips out of me. “You sound crazy.”

He doesn’t argue. “Maybe. But you know I’m right.”

“Stop saying that,” I snap. “Stop talking like you know me.”

He lowers his voice. “You used to tell me not to stop talking. You said silence felt worse.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“You said that too.”

I look away, my pulse racing though I don’t understand why. “You’re manipulating me.”

He stands, calm again, voice even. “No, I’m reminding you.”

“Of what?”

“Of us.”

“There is no us,” I say. “Not if I can’t remember.”

“You don’t have to remember,” he says, taking a step closer. “You just have to come home.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s deciding whether to argue, then quietly says, “You said that the first time too.”

“The first time what?”

“When you woke up.”

I stare at him. “You mean—this isn’t the first?”

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

The air in the room feels thin. “How many times?”

“Enough.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he says. “You’ll remember soon.”

He walks toward the door, stops, and turns back, his voice lower now, almost a whisper but every word clear.

“You’ll remember me, you always do.”