The first thing she felt was cold.
Not the kind of cold that crept in from a drafty window or brushed past your skin on a windy day. No—this was bone-deep, marrow-freezing, like she had been lying on ice for hours. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy, unwilling to obey.
A sharp, sterile scent hit her nose—antiseptic. The faint beeping of a monitor pulsed somewhere to her right, steady but uncomfortably close. The soft rustle of fabric told her she wasn't alone.
Her lips were dry, cracked. She tried to wet them, but her tongue felt like sandpaper. A voice—a woman's voice—cut through the fog.
"She's waking up. Get Dr. Patel."
Her heart stuttered. Where am I?
She forced her eyes open. Harsh fluorescent light stabbed at her pupils, making her wince. White ceiling. White walls. White sheets. She blinked, but the blur didn't go away fast enough.
The woman leaning over her wore pale blue scrubs, her hair tied back in a bun. A nurse.
"You're safe," the nurse murmured, though her eyes carried a flicker of hesitation, as if she wasn't entirely convinced herself. "Don't move too much. You've been through a lot."
Safe? The word rang hollow.
Her gaze shifted down, and that's when she saw it—her hands. Pale fingers trembling against the sheet, nails chipped. Her right hand clutched something tightly, so tightly her knuckles were white.
She loosened her grip slowly. A piece of paper unfolded in her palm, crumpled and damp with sweat. It was torn straight down the middle, jagged edges like it had been ripped apart in anger.
Her breath caught. It was a photograph.
On one side—a man's jaw, sharp and severe. Broad shoulders, the hint of a black suit. The rest of his face was missing, lost to the other half.
Her gaze drifted lower—she was wearing a white gown. No… not a hospital gown. Satin. Lace. The neckline was delicate, the skirt voluminous. A wedding dress.
The beeping quickened.
"Where—" Her voice was rough, foreign in her throat. She coughed, wincing. "Where am I?"
The nurse's lips tightened. "You were in a car accident. You're in St. Augustine General Hospital."
Accident. The word felt wrong. Her head throbbed, images threatening to surface—but they dissolved into nothing, like smoke slipping through fingers.
The door opened and a tall man in a white coat entered—middle-aged, hair peppered with gray. Dr. Patel, the tag read. He approached with a cautious smile.
"You gave us quite a scare," he said gently. "Do you remember your name?"
She hesitated. Of course I do. My name is…
The thought vanished before it could take shape. Her pulse spiked.
"No," she whispered, the sound trembling in the sterile air.
Dr. Patel's expression softened, but there was a weight in his gaze, as if he already knew the answer. "That's all right. It happens sometimes after trauma. Memory loss can be temporary."
She swallowed, the dryness in her throat painful. "Do I have any… family?"
The nurse glanced at the doctor. He sighed. "No one has come forward yet. But when you were brought in, you had this."
He reached into his coat pocket and placed something on the bed. A small, folded note.
Her trembling fingers picked it up.
The handwriting was sharp, almost carved into the paper:
Damian Stone. Don't trust him.
Her stomach knotted. The name stirred something—a chill, a shadow—but no image came to mind.
The nurse adjusted her IV. "You should rest. We'll run more tests later."
But she couldn't rest. Not with that name echoing in her skull. Damian Stone.
Who was he? Why would someone warn her?
She stared at the torn wedding photo again, her thumb brushing the faceless groom's suit. Deep inside, her chest ached with something she couldn't name. Loss? Fear?
She closed her eyes, and for a fleeting second—she saw flames.
A car crushed against a guardrail.
A man shouting her name.
Water swallowing her whole.
She jolted upright, gasping for breath. The monitor wailed in alarm.
"Easy!" The nurse's hands pressed her shoulders gently back down.
Her mind was a foggy battlefield, memories hiding behind walls she couldn't break. But one thing was certain—she wasn't safe. Not here. Not anywhere.
Her gaze fell back to the note. The name was a lifeline and a threat in one.
And as the beeping slowed, a strange thought crystallized in her mind:
If Damian Ston
e was the only link to her past… she would find him.
But she would not trust him.