The knock on the door was sharp and unexpected.
Evelyn had just finished breakfast in the sunroom — a quiet meal prepared by silent, watchful staff she hadn't yet spoken to. The eggs were perfect. The toast crisp. The orange juice freshly squeezed. It all felt like it had been curated for someone else's life.
The knock echoed again. She sat straighter.
Marcus was already standing. "Stay here," he said, too quickly. His voice still carried that calm, honeyed tone — but there was tension in the way he moved, like he didn't want her near the front door.
She rose anyway, ignoring the flutter of anxiety in her stomach. She was tired of pretending she was some fragile, broken woman. Her memory might be gone, but her instincts were not.
She followed him silently, steps slow and light across the marble floor.
The grand double doors opened, and there stood a woman. Late thirties, maybe. Sharp eyes. A perfectly pressed navy coat and red lips that didn't smile.
"Mr. Blackwell," she said coolly.
"Ms. Verin," Marcus replied, blocking the doorway slightly with his body. "We weren't expecting you."
"I came with updates."
Evelyn's brows furrowed. Updates?
The woman's eyes flicked past Marcus — and landed directly on Evelyn. She stared. Blinked once. And for the briefest second, her expression… changed. Not surprise. Not shock. Something else.
Recognition?
"Evelyn," Marcus said quickly, turning to her. "This is Ms. Verin. She works with me. Corporate affairs."
"Hello," Evelyn said slowly, eyes narrowing. "Do I… know you?"
The woman smiled, tight and mechanical. "We've met before. Briefly."
"Really? When?"
Marcus stepped in again. "It was at one of our company events. You wouldn't remember."
Wouldn't or shouldn't? Evelyn swallowed the question.
"Perhaps we should speak in private," Ms. Verin said smoothly, never taking her eyes off Evelyn. "Business matters."
Marcus gave her a tight nod and shut the door behind them.
Evelyn stood frozen in the foyer, ears straining. She heard the murmuring of voices behind closed doors — low and urgent. Words she couldn't make out.
She turned away, wandering the hall aimlessly, until she found herself back in the main lounge. Her fingers brushed the edge of the fireplace mantel, where rows of framed photographs sat. Photos of parties. Celebrations. Smiling faces. But none of them were hers. Not a single one included her.
She picked one up. Marcus stood with the woman from the door. Both younger. The background was unfamiliar — a foreign city maybe. Her breath caught. The date scribbled in the corner read two years ago.
Marcus had said she met Ms. Verin only briefly. At an event. So why did they look so close?
And more importantly — where was she in all of this?
---
That evening…
Dinner was served in the rose garden, under the fading light of a lavender sky. Marcus had orchestrated it all — candles, wine, a delicate string quartet playing somewhere out of view.
To Evelyn, it felt like a bribe.
Still, she played her part. Quiet. Composed. Watching him between sips of wine.
"Marcus," she began softly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course." He smiled, brushing her hand. "Anything."
She hesitated. "Where's my family?"
His expression didn't change. Not right away. But the pause — that slight beat — was enough to make her heart jump.
"We… didn't speak much," he said finally. "There was a falling out. Before the wedding."
"Oh."
She looked down at her plate.
"And I have no siblings? No cousins? Anyone?"
"You had a younger sister," he said after a moment. "But… she passed. Years ago. I didn't want to bring it up."
Evelyn's breath hitched. "How?"
"Car accident."
Silence fell between them like glass shattering.
"I should've remembered something like that," she whispered.
"You've been through trauma," he said gently. "Some memories might never return. But I promise, you're not alone. I'm here. You're safe."
Safe.
She forced a smile and looked away, hiding the storm in her chest.
He was lying. She didn't know how she knew, but she did. The story was too clean. Too perfectly placed. Like a patch sewn over a tear.
---
Later that night…
She returned to the study.
This time, she brought a hairpin from her vanity.
It took longer than she expected, but eventually the locked drawer clicked open. Inside were more documents. A USB drive. Receipts. And tucked beneath them all, an old photo — worn at the edges.
Two little girls. Arms around each other. One of them was definitely Evelyn. Younger, brighter-eyed.
The other?
She had no name. But Evelyn knew one thing with terrifying certainty.
That girl was not dead.
And Marcus had lied.