The first thing I felt was pain.

It spread behind my eyes, dull and relentless. My throat was dry, my body heavy, and the sharp smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

I tried to open my eyes, but the light above me was too bright.

A hospital.

The thought came slowly, followed by a question that tightened my stomach.

Why was I here?

I remembered going to bed, rain tapping against my window, and an unfinished article waiting on my laptop. I remembered being frustrated because my computer had frozen before I could save my work.

Then nothing.

I searched my mind for answers, but it was like standing before a row of locked doors with no keys.

A movement beside me made me turn my head.

A man sat in a chair next to my bed. His dark hair was disheveled, his white shirt creased, and a shadow covered his jaw. He looked as though he had not slept properly in days.

He was handsome. That was my first thought.

My second was that I had never seen him before.

He was holding my hand.

I pulled away.

His fingers opened immediately, and he leaned forward.

"Elara?"

My name sounded strange in his voice, as if it belonged to someone else.

"Who are you?"

He stared at me, searching my face for something I couldn't understand. Then he stood and turned toward the window, pressing a hand against his mouth.

When he faced me again, his eyes were wet.

"My name is Adrian Cross."

I waited for an explanation, but none came.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

The question seemed to hurt him.

"Yes, Elara. You know me."

"Then why can't I remember you?"

His jaw tightened.

"I am Adrian," he said quietly. "And I love you."

I stared at him, waiting for his words to make sense. They didn't. I couldn't remember his face, his voice, or what it felt like to have him hold my hand.

"Please call a nurse."

He pressed the call button without arguing. As he turned back toward me, I noticed something unsettling in his expression.

Fear.

Not fear of me, but the fear of someone who had spent a long time dreading a moment like this.

A doctor entered with a nurse a few minutes later. He introduced himself as Dr. Bennett, checked my pupils, and asked me several questions.

"Do you know your name?"

"Elara Vale."

"Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital."

"Do you remember what happened before you arrived here?"

I hesitated. "No."

He exchanged a glance with Adrian.

I noticed.

"What does that mean?" I demanded.

"Your condition has been complicated," Dr. Bennett explained. "You've been unconscious for a considerable period. Confusion and memory difficulties can occur after a prolonged medical crisis."

"How long?"

The doctor paused.

"Almost eleven months."

For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.

Eleven months.

I had gone to sleep expecting to wake the next morning. Instead, nearly a year of my life had disappeared.

I tried to sit up, but dizziness forced me back against the pillow.

"Easy," the doctor warned. "You need to rest."

"What happened to me?"

"We're still assessing your condition. Your memories may return gradually, but we cannot promise that all of them will."

"That isn't an answer."

"I understand your frustration, Miss Vale. I'll explain more when we have established what we can safely tell you."

Everyone seemed determined to speak around the truth.

I turned to Adrian. "You said you love me. You must know what happened."

"I know some of it."

"Then tell me."

His lips parted, but no words came.

Dr. Bennett interrupted. "You need time to recover. I'll return later."

After the doctor left, I fixed my eyes on Adrian.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When you're ready."

"You don't get to decide that for me."

He lowered his head. "No. I suppose I don't."

For the first time, I noticed something beneath his fear.

Guilt.

It vanished quickly, but not before I saw it.

Adrian Cross was hiding something.

Later that afternoon, Dr. Bennett returned to explain my condition. My body was weak, and recovery would take time. He warned me that some memories might return while others could remain lost.

After he left, Adrian brought me a glass of water.

"Can I see my phone?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to know what day it is. I'd like to know whether I have family, friends, a job, or a life that everyone has forgotten to mention."

His expression tightened.

"You have all those things."

"Then give me my phone."

He reached into his pocket and placed a black phone on the bedside table.

"This is yours."

The screen demanded a passcode. My birthday didn't work, but Adrian supplied the correct combination when I asked.

Hundreds of notifications filled the screen. Missed calls, unanswered messages, and names I barely recognized stared back at me.

Most of the messages were nearly eleven months old.

One, from a contact named Mira, made my stomach tighten.

Elara, please tell me you're safe. I can't keep pretending I don't know what happened. Call me when you can.

I looked up.

"Who is Mira?"

"Your best friend."

"Why would she send me that?"

"I can't answer that for her."

"What about my family?"

"Your mother is alive."

"And my father?"

"He died several years ago."

The words left a strange ache in my chest, even though I couldn't remember his face.

"Do I have any siblings?"

"An older brother. Daniel."

"Where is he?"

Adrian looked away.

"Where is my brother?"

"He disappeared several years ago."

"Disappeared?"

"The circumstances were complicated."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Everything is complicated with you, isn't it?"

He didn't defend himself.

I was about to call Mira when a message appeared from an unknown number.

You should have stayed dead.

My fingers went cold.

Adrian read the message, and the color drained from his face.

"Who sent this?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"But you have an idea."

His silence was answer enough.

I reached for my phone, but he held it away from me.

"Give it back."

"Elara, listen carefully. Don't reply to that message or call the number. And don't tell anyone outside this room that you received it."

A chill crept through me.

"Why?"

"Because whoever sent it believes you're dead."

"They know I'm alive now."

"Yes."

"And they want me dead."

His expression hardened, but he didn't deny it.

I pushed the blanket aside, desperate to put some distance between us. The room spun, and Adrian instinctively reached for me.

"Don't touch me."

He stopped immediately.

"Did someone try to kill me?"

He glanced toward the door before answering.

"I don't know exactly what happened that night."

"What night?"

He closed his eyes briefly.

"What night, Adrian?"

Before he could answer, a nurse entered to check my vital signs. I used the distraction to reclaim my phone and save a screenshot of the threatening message.

Someone had gone to considerable trouble to make the world believe I was dead.

Now that I was awake, someone wanted me to regret it.

That evening, Adrian stepped out to speak with the doctor, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I searched through my photographs, hoping something might awaken a memory.

Most showed unfamiliar places and people whose names meant nothing to me. Then I found a picture of Adrian and me beneath a flowering tree.

His arm was around my waist. My head rested against his shoulder, and I was laughing while he watched me with unmistakable tenderness.

I looked genuinely happy.

I looked like someone who trusted him completely.

A memory flickered.

Warm sunlight. His fingers brushing mine. His voice was close to my ear.

Then a dark room and my own voice, trembling with anger.

"You promised me you would never lie."

I gasped.

The memory vanished before I could grasp it. My heart hammered as I pressed my fingers against my temples, searching for more.

Nothing came.

The door opened, and Adrian returned with a paper bag and a bottle of water.

"What happened?"

I showed him the photograph.

"Was I happy with you?"

"Yes."

"Did you love me?"

His answer came without hesitation.

"More than anything."

I wanted to believe him. That frightened me more than I could explain.

"Then tell me the truth about the night I disappeared."

He pulled the chair closer and sat down, his fingers tightly interlocked.

"You and I had an argument," he said.

"About what?"

"Something I did."

"What did you do?"

"I made a decision without telling you. You found out and believed I'd betrayed you."

"Had you?"

He met my eyes.

"At the time, I thought I was protecting you."

"That's not what I asked."

He looked away.

"No," he admitted quietly. "It isn't."

His answer settled between us like a door slamming shut.

Exhaustion began to pull at me. I turned toward the window, hoping sleep might offer something my waking mind could not.

Just before I closed my eyes, Adrian reached for my hand.

This time, I didn't pull away.

I was too tired, and some foolish part of me wanted to believe that the man in the photograph had been real.

His fingers closed gently around mine.

"I'm sorry, Elara," he whispered.

I wanted to ask what he was sorry for, but sleep claimed me first.

Rain fell against a car window in my dream.

A door slammed. Someone shouted, and I heard my own voice calling a name.

"Adrian!"

An unfamiliar voice answered.

"She knows too much."

I woke with a gasp.

The room was dark except for the light above the door. Adrian slept in the chair beside my bed, his head tilted awkwardly against the wall.

My phone lit up on the table.

Another message.

My hands trembled as I opened it.

The photograph showed a grave beneath a gray sky. A wreath rested against the headstone, and a plaque bore a name I knew too well.

ELARA VALE.

Beneath the photograph was a single sentence.

Ask Adrian why he attended your funeral.

I stared at the screen, unable to breathe.

Then I slowly turned toward the man sleeping beside my bed.

The man who claimed to love me.

The man who said he'd spent months believing I was dead.

The man who had admitted that he betrayed me before I disappeared.

"Adrian," I whispered.

He stirred but didn't wake.

I looked at the photograph again. My own name was carved into a grave, and someone had sent me proof that the world had already buried me.

For the first time since opening my eyes, I was certain of one thing.

Adrian Cross knew more than he was telling me.

And tomorrow, I was going to find out why he had attended my funeral.