It’s morning again but I can’t tell what day it is anymore. The sea outside looks the same, pale and endless, like it’s tired of pretending it’s beautiful. Adrian’s already gone when I wake up. He always leaves before I open my eyes, and somehow, that makes it worse.

Nina comes in with breakfast. She’s new—or maybe not. I can’t tell who’s new and who’s just pretending to be. Her face is soft, young, but her eyes flinch like she’s been caught in too many lies. She sets the tray down, murmurs, “Eat while it’s hot, Miss Cruz.”

Everything in me goes still. “What did you call me?”

Her eyes go wide. “I—Miss Vale, I meant Miss Vale, sorry, my tongue—”

She’s shaking now. I can see it. She grabs the tray like it’ll save her life, and I hear her whispering apologies as she backs out.

Cruz. The word hangs in my head like a shadow.

When Adrian returns, I’m still sitting there, cold tea in my hands. He smells like salt and steel—like the ocean and something sharper. “You didn’t eat,” he says.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

He studies me, quiet. “You used to eat like a storm. Especially my pancakes. Remember?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He smiles, faint, that patient, rehearsed smile. “You’ll get there.”

“I asked Nina about something,” I say.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. “Oh?”

“She called me Miss Cruz.”

The air tightens. His jaw shifts. Then—soft again. “Your maiden name, darling. Before the accident. You used it for work. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I had a job?”

“Of course. You were a journalist.” He sits beside me, takes my hand like it belongs to him. “Always digging into other people’s secrets.”

“And now?”

He tilts his head, eyes calm but too calm. “Now you get to rest.”

I nod, but my throat feels tight.

After he leaves, I find Nina in the hallway. She’s dusting a picture frame of me—or someone who looks like me. The woman in the photo has darker hair, shorter. She’s wearing sunglasses, smiling in a way I can’t remember ever doing.

“Nina,” I whisper.

She jumps. “Miss Vale!”

“You can tell me. Was my name really Cruz?”

Her lips press together. “I shouldn’t—”

“I won’t tell him.”

Her eyes flick toward the door. “Please, Miss, I—”

I take her wrist before she can run. “Tell me.”

“It was,” she breathes. “Lena Cruz. You were—before the wedding—” She stops when footsteps echo down the hall.

Adrian’s voice, calm, steady. “Elara?”

Nina slips away like smoke, gone before he turns the corner.

He sees my face, frowns. “You look pale.”

“I don’t feel well.”

He reaches for my forehead. “You’re warm.”

“Don’t touch me.”

His hand stops midair. “You’re upset.”

“You lied.”

He exhales, sits down across from me. “You’re confusing fragments of memory with dreams, Elara. That’s all.”

“Then why do I feel like everyone’s afraid to talk to me?”

“They’re being careful. You’ve been through trauma. You don’t remember the pain, but your body does.”

He says it so smoothly, I almost believe it. Almost.

That night, I can’t sleep. The waves outside hit the rocks over and over. I count them, like they might tell me something if I listen long enough.

Around midnight, I hear a faint sound from the east wing. A woman crying, maybe? Or whispering? I follow it barefoot down the hall, cold marble biting into my feet.

The sound stops when I reach the locked door.

Always the same one. The one he forbids me to enter.

There’s something behind it—I know it.

I press my ear against the wood. Nothing. Just the sea again.

When I turn back, Adrian’s standing at the other end of the hallway, watching me.

“Elara,” he says softly.

My stomach twists. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I told you to stay away from that door.”

“What’s inside?”

“Nothing you need to see.”

He walks closer, slow, deliberate.

“You don’t trust me,” he says quietly.

“Should I?”

His eyes flicker with something—pain? Anger? It disappears too fast. “You’re the one who asked me to protect you. You said you didn’t want to remember.”

My head spins. “That doesn’t make sense.”

He smiles again, and this one almost breaks me. “Neither does love.”

He takes my hand again, his thumb tracing circles against my skin. “Sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

But it never is.

When he leaves, I whisper my name under my breath. Lena Cruz. The syllables taste like static.

The sea crashes again, louder this time. Somewhere behind the walls, I swear I hear someone whisper it too.