The silence in the mansion was too perfect. No creaking floorboards, no ticking clocks—just the quiet hum of modern luxury. Emily sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers clutching the hem of her skirt, eyes fixed on the closed door Liam had disappeared behind.
A fiancé. A home. A life she didn't remember.
The mirror across the room offered her a stranger's reflection. The cream walls, the elegant furniture, even the soft throw blanket over the chaise—it all looked curated. Like a magazine spread. Not like a home. Not hers.
She rose slowly, unsure of what to do or where to go. Her bare feet padded across the polished hardwood as she approached the window. Outside, perfectly trimmed hedges lined a marble path, and beyond that, an iron gate kept the world at bay.
Her world had shrunk into a series of rooms.
A soft knock startled her. The door opened slightly, and the housekeeper entered—a kind-looking woman with tired eyes and graying hair pulled into a neat bun.
"Miss Emily," she said gently. "Mr. West asked me to bring you something to eat. You haven't touched anything since you returned."
Emily managed a nod, stepping aside as the woman set a tray on the coffee table: tea, toast, a bowl of cut fruit.
"I'm sorry. I don't remember your name."
"Margaret," the woman replied with a kind smile. "But you used to call me Maggie. I've worked here for a few years."
Emily felt a pang of guilt. "Maggie, do you... know me? I mean, what I was like? Before the accident?"
Maggie hesitated. "You were quiet. Polite. But..." She stopped herself.
"But?"
"But you looked tired. Like your smile didn't reach your eyes."
Emily's stomach turned. She glanced back at the untouched tea.
"Thank you, Maggie."
The woman nodded and quietly exited, leaving Emily alone once again.
Downstairs, the house was just as silent. Emily wandered the halls, finding herself in rooms that looked untouched. A grand library with shelves of leather-bound books, a sunroom filled with lifeless plants, a formal dining room with more chairs than people.
Every step deepened her unease. Every painting, every vase, every piece of decor felt staged. Sterile. This place didn't whisper memories—it hid them.
In the far corner of the library, a small glass case caught her eye. Inside, a series of photographs—her and Liam at various events. Charity balls. Galas. Ribbon-cutting ceremonies.
Her smile was always picture-perfect.
His? Neutral. Disconnected. The way he stood beside her—always just close enough to be proper, never enough to feel real—made her feel more like a prop than a partner.
Something cold curled in her chest.
Behind her, a door creaked open. She turned, expecting Liam.
It wasn't.
A man in his late thirties entered, dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks. Sharp eyes. Curious expression. There was something familiar in the way he carried himself—self-assured, but not arrogant.
"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakens," he said with a smirk.
Emily blinked. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
He walked toward her, extending a hand. "Julian. Liam's cousin. Don't worry—we only see each other when forced to be civil."
She shook his hand hesitantly. "Emily."
"I know," he said. "Your pictures are everywhere. And so are the whispers."
Emily stiffened. "What whispers?"
Julian raised a brow. "You really don't remember anything, do you?"
She shook her head slowly.
He studied her face with a strange intensity. "Then let me offer you the first honest welcome you'll get here. This house... it doesn't forget. And it rarely forgives."
Before she could ask more, he gave her a nod and walked out, leaving her more confused than before.
Dinner that evening was served in a vast dining room where the chandeliers sparkled above a table that could seat twenty. Only two seats were occupied.
Liam sat at the head. Emily at the corner.
A line of dishes separated them like a trench. He cut his steak methodically, eyes never lifting. Emily poked at her vegetables.
"Do we always eat like this?" she asked finally.
"When we're both here, yes."
She waited for more. There was none.
"Did we love each other?" she asked softly.
His knife paused mid-cut. His eyes lifted to hers, unreadable. "We were engaged. That should be answer enough."
"That's not what I asked."
"No," he said simply. "We didn't."
The words hit harder than she expected. "Then why were we getting married?"
"Because it was expected."
Emily's chest ached. She pushed her plate away. "I want to remember. But everything here feels like it belongs to someone else."
Liam's voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "Maybe you'll grow into her again."
She stood. "Or maybe I never want to be her again."
She didn't wait for a reply.
That night, Emily sat in the grand bathtub in the en-suite, hot water hugging her skin, her eyes staring blankly at the tiled wall. Her fingers wrinkled, but she didn't move. Even the scented candles around the tub—lavender and vanilla—felt chosen by someone else.
When she finally slipped into the oversized bed, she stared at the ceiling for hours. Somewhere in this house was a version of herself she didn't know. A woman who lived with a man who didn't love her, surrounded by wealth that couldn't buy warmth.
At some point, she rose and paced the room. Her feet led her to a walk-in closet, organized to perfection. Dozens of elegant outfits. Neatly aligned shoes. A row of handbags.
Not a single personal item. No messy drawer. No handwritten note. No old photos or worn-out favorites. Nothing that whispered of a life lived. Nothing that belonged to her heart.
She wandered into the vanity area. There, tucked into a drawer, she found a journal.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
Most pages were empty. But one had a single sentence, dated three months before:
*"I don't know how much longer I can pretend."*
Emily's breath caught. She read the line over and over.
What had she been pretending?
The next morning, sunlight streamed in, warm and golden. But it didn't warm her. Liam knocked once and entered without waiting.
"We have a meeting today. At the West Foundation. They'd like to see you."
"The foundation?"
"Charity work. You used to sit on the board. You don't have to speak. Just smile."
She frowned. "Do you ever smile, Liam?"
He blinked. "When there's a reason."
"Was I really that different? Before?"
"You were composed. Polished. You knew how to make an impression."