The impact felt like the world exploding.

One second I was checking my phone, confirming my London flight details, the next there was screaming metal and shattering glass and my body was being thrown in directions bodies weren't meant to go. The airbag punched my face. Something cracked in my chest. Then everything went dark.

I woke up to beeping machines and white walls.

"Damien? Can you hear me?"

A doctor's face swam into focus above me. Middle-aged woman, kind eyes, concern written across her features. I tried to speak but my throat was raw, like I'd swallowed broken glass.

"Don't try to talk yet. You've been in a serious accident. You're at Mercy General Hospital. You've been unconscious for two weeks."

Two weeks?

I tried to sit up but pain exploded through my ribs. The doctor gently pressed my shoulder back down.

"Easy. You have three broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, and severe head trauma. You're lucky to be alive."

Lucky. I didn't feel lucky. I felt like I'd been hit by a train.

"There's someone here to see you. Your friend James has been here every day."

James appeared beside the bed, looking exhausted. His normally crisp appearance was rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. He gripped my hand hard.

"Thank God. We thought we'd lost you."

"What happened?" My voice came out as a croak.

"Car accident. On the highway to the airport. A truck clipped your car and you hit the barrier. Your car flipped three times." James's voice cracked. "Damien, the paramedics said if you'd been going any faster..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

The doctor cleared her throat. "Mr. Cross, I need to run some tests. Can you tell me what year it is?"

"2023."

She exchanged a glance with James. Something cold settled in my stomach.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Damien," James said carefully. "It's 2028. Five years have passed since you think it's 2023."

I stared at him. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking." He pulled out his phone, showed me the date. May 15, 2028. "You have retrograde amnesia. The head trauma affected your memory."

The room spun. Five years? Gone?

"The last thing I remember is... I was working on the Henderson merger. I'd just made junior executive." I looked at James, panic rising in my chest. "What happened? Where have I been? What did I do?"

"You've been here. Working. Running the company, actually. Your father retired three years ago. You're CEO now."

CEO. I was twenty-seven in my memories. How could I be CEO?

"What else?" Something in James's expression told me there was more. "Tell me everything."

James sat down heavily in the chair beside my bed. "You got married four years ago. To a woman named Elara Bennett. You divorced her two weeks ago, right before the accident."

The words didn't make sense. Married? Divorced? I had no memory of any woman named Elara.

"I don't understand. Why would I marry someone and then divorce them?"

"I don't know, man. You didn't talk about it much. You kept your personal life separate from work." James rubbed his face. "Look, I only met her a handful of times. She seemed nice. Quiet. You brought her to company events but you two never looked particularly happy together."

"Do you have a picture?"

James hesitated, then pulled up a photo on his phone. A wedding photo. Me in a tuxedo, looking stiff and formal, standing beside a woman with dark hair and sad eyes. She was beautiful, delicate, wearing a white dress that probably cost a fortune. She was smiling but there was something hollow about it.

I stared at the stranger I'd apparently married. I felt nothing. No recognition, no memory, nothing.

"Tell me about her."

"I don't know much. She worked at some gallery when you met. You seemed intense about her at first, then after the wedding you barely mentioned her. She stopped coming to events after the first year. Your mother made some comments about her not fitting in, but Victoria makes comments about everyone."

My mother. Of course she did.

"Why did we divorce?"

"You didn't say. You just announced one day that you were handling it. That was two weeks ago. Then the accident happened the same day."

Two weeks ago. The day I couldn't remember.

Over the next few days, James filled in the gaps. I'd transformed Cross Industries, made it twice as profitable, earned a reputation as ruthless and brilliant. I'd cut ties with old friends, worked eighteen-hour days, became someone I didn't recognize in the stories he told.

"Was I happy?" I asked one evening.

James was quiet for a long time. "I don't think you let yourself feel anything. You were driven, successful, respected. But happy? No, Damien. You weren't happy."

They released me from the hospital after a week. James drove me back to a penthouse I didn't remember buying. Everything was expensive and cold, like a hotel room rather than a home. I walked through empty rooms, touching furniture that meant nothing, looking at art I didn't remember choosing.

In my office, I found files, contracts, emails written in my own hand but sounding like a stranger. Cold, efficient, merciless. Was this really who I'd become?

Then I found it. In the bottom drawer of my desk, underneath old contracts, a sealed envelope with "DON'T SEND" written in my handwriting.

Inside was a letter dated two years ago. Addressed to Elara.

My hands shook as I read it. I'd written about falling in love with her, about being terrified of vulnerability, about pushing her away because caring about someone felt like weakness. I'd promised to try harder, to be better, to let her in.

But I'd never sent it. I'd sealed it away and apparently continued destroying whatever we had.

I read it three times, trying to feel something, to remember. Nothing came.

"James," I called out. He appeared in the doorway. "I need you to find her. Elara. I need to know what happened. I need to understand."

"Damien, maybe you should let it go. The doctors said forcing memories could-"

"I don't care what the doctors said. Find her."

It took him three days. When he came back, his expression was grim.

"She's in Seattle. Running a small gallery. She changed her name back to Bennett." He paused. "She's moved on, Damien. Maybe you should too."

But I couldn't. I booked a flight that night.

I found her at a gallery opening, laughing with a client, vibrant and alive in a way she'd never looked in our wedding photos. When she saw me, everything about her shut down.

She walked out the back exit. I followed into the rain.

"Elara, wait. Please."

She turned, her face unreadable. "What are you doing here?"

"I had an accident. I have amnesia. I don't remember the last five years. I don't remember you, or us, or what happened. I just need to understand-"

"You don't remember me?"

Something in her voice made my chest ache. I shook my head.

She laughed, but it sounded like breaking glass. "Of course you don't. That's perfect, actually. Poetic."

"Please. Tell me what I did. Help me understand."

"What you did?" She stepped closer, rain streaming down her face. "You married me, Damien. You made me fall in love with you, and then you spent three years making me wish I'd never met you."

He stood there in the rain looking lost, like a child who couldn't find his way home. I hated that it affected me. I hated that some traitorous part of me wanted to reach out to him.

"Three years," I said, my voice shaking. "I spent three years trying to be enough for you. Do you know what that feels like? To live with someone who looks through you like you're invisible?"

"I'm sorry. I know that's not enough, but-"

"You're right. It's not enough." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the jacket I was wearing. "You want to understand? Fine. I'll tell you exactly who you were."

Damien's face was pale, water dripping from his hair. He looked nothing like the man I'd signed divorce papers with. That man had been composed, distant, untouchable. This man looked like he was barely holding himself together.

"When we met, you were different. Warm. Attentive. You pursued me like I was the only person in the world. You asked about my work, my dreams, what made me happy. You made me believe in fairy tales." I laughed bitterly. "The wedding was beautiful. Your mother hated me from the start, but I thought it didn't matter because we had each other."

"What changed?"

"You did. The day after our honeymoon, you went back to work and never really came home again. You'd stay at the office until midnight, sometimes later. When you were home, you were on your phone or your laptop. I'd try to talk to you and you'd give me one-word answers. I'd make dinner and you'd eat while reading reports."

He flinched. Good. Let him hurt.

"I tried everything. I dressed up for you. I planned dates. I learned to cook your favorite foods. Nothing worked. You treated me like an assistant, not a wife. Actually, no. You were kinder to your assistants."

"Elara-"

"I'm not finished." The words were pouring out now, three years of silence breaking open. "Your mother made comments about my background, how I wasn't sophisticated enough for the Cross family. Your brother Julian made inappropriate remarks and you never defended me. Your father ignored me completely. And you? You stood by and let it happen."

"I wouldn't-"

"You did. You absolutely did. Because you didn't care enough to stop them." I wiped rain from my face, or maybe tears. I couldn't tell anymore. "The worst part was that you gave me just enough hope to keep me trapped. Every few months, usually late at night after you'd been drinking, you'd come to me. You'd make love to me like I mattered. You'd hold me and I'd think maybe, finally, you remembered you had a wife who loved you."

His hands clenched at his sides. "And in the morning?"

"In the morning, you were a stranger again. Cold. Distant. Like those nights never happened."

The rain was coming down harder now. We should go inside, but I couldn't move. Three years of words were finally finding their way out.

"I lost myself in that marriage. I quit my job because your family said it was inappropriate. I stopped seeing my friends because I had nothing to say that wasn't pathetic. I existed in this beautiful penthouse feeling like a ghost." My voice broke. "Do you know what it's like to be married and completely alone?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing. I don't want your apologies." I stepped back, creating distance between us. "You want to know what happened at the end? You called me into your office. You had divorce papers ready. You explained calmly that the marriage had run its course, that you'd been generous with the settlement. You had a flight to catch, so if I could sign quickly, you'd appreciate it."

Damien's face went white. "I said that?"

"Word for word. You thanked me for being reasonable. Then you reminded me to leave my key card at the front desk on my way out." I smiled without humor. "That was the last thing you said to me. Not goodbye. Not I'm sorry. A reminder about a key card."

"Jesus Christ." He looked like he might be sick.

"So now you know. You were cruel, Damien. Not because you hit me or screamed at me. Because you just didn't care. And somehow that was worse."

"Let me make it right."

"Make it right?" I stared at him. "You can't make it right. You can't give me back three years of my life. You can't undo the damage."

"I'm not that person anymore."

"You don't even remember being that person. That's not the same as changing." I turned toward the gallery door. "Go back to New York. Forget you found me. I already forgot you."

"That's a lie."

I froze. He was right, it was a lie. I wished it wasn't.

"I read a letter I wrote to you. Two years into our marriage. I told you I was falling in love with you but I was scared. I promised to try harder." His voice was rough. "I never sent it. I was too much of a coward."

"I don't care about a letter you never sent. I care about the three years you made me feel worthless."

"I know. And I can't fix that. But I can promise you I'm not that man anymore. The accident, the amnesia, it's like I got a second chance. I can see clearly now what I couldn't see then."

"Good for you." I opened the gallery door. "Use your second chance somewhere else. I'm done being your redemption story."

"Elara, please-"

"No." I looked back at him one last time. "You want to know the saddest part? I would have done anything for you. Anything. And you couldn't even bother to love me back."

I walked inside and locked the door behind me. Through the glass, I watched him stand there in the rain for a long moment before finally walking away.

My assistant Maya rushed over. "Are you okay? Who was that?"

I leaned against the wall, my legs suddenly weak. "No one."

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"I know I have no right to ask, but please don't block this number. I need you to know something. I found that letter I wrote. I was in love with you. I just didn't know how to show it. I'm sorry I learned too late."

I stared at the message, my hands shaking.

Maya touched my arm. "Elara? What's wrong?"

"He says he loved me." My voice came out as a whisper. "After everything, he says he loved me."

I flew back to New York feeling like I'd been gutted. James picked me up from the airport, took one look at my face, and didn't ask questions until we were back at the penthouse.

"That bad?"

"Worse." I poured myself a drink I probably shouldn't have with my medications, then poured it down the sink. "She told me everything. James, I was a monster to her."

"You weren't a monster. You were just-"

"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't make excuses for me. I read the letter I wrote. I knew I loved her. I knew I was hurting her. And I did nothing."

James sat down, loosening his tie. "So what now?"

"I don't know. She told me to forget I found her. To use my second chance somewhere else."

"Maybe you should listen."

I looked at him. "Would you? If you'd hurt someone you loved and couldn't even remember doing it, would you just walk away?"

"That's not fair. You can't remember her. You can't remember loving her. You're chasing a ghost of a feeling."

He was right. I knew he was right. But something in me couldn't let go.

Over the next two weeks, I became obsessed. I hired people to tell me everything about those five missing years. I read through emails, meeting notes, journal entries I'd apparently kept. I built a picture of who I'd become, and I hated him.

The Damien Cross of the past five years was ruthless, cold, brilliant, and empty. He'd sacrificed everything for success. He'd pushed away everyone who cared about him. He'd married a woman he loved and systematically destroyed her because he was too afraid to be vulnerable.

I found security footage from the penthouse. Hours of it. I watched myself come home late, ignore Elara's attempts at conversation, eat dinners she'd prepared while working on my laptop. I watched her face fall, watched her slowly stop trying, watched the light go out of her eyes.

In one video, she'd decorated the living room for our second anniversary. Candles, flowers, she was wearing a beautiful dress. I'd walked in, barely looked at it, told her I had a conference call and went into my office. The camera caught her standing there alone for twenty minutes before she blew out all the candles.

I threw up after watching that one.

"You need to stop this," James said, finding me in my office at three in the morning surrounded by files. "You're torturing yourself."

"I need to understand."

"Why? So you can feel worse? Damien, the doctors said forcing these memories could damage your recovery."

"I don't care about my recovery. I destroyed someone who loved me. I need to know why."

James grabbed my shoulders. "Listen to me. You were drowning. After your father started pushing you to take over, you changed. You worked yourself to the bone trying to prove you were good enough. You stopped sleeping, stopped eating properly, stopped living. Elara was collateral damage."

"That's not an excuse."

"I'm not making excuses. I'm giving you context." He let go, stepped back. "You want to know the truth? I think you pushed her away because you were terrified. Your parents had the worst marriage I've ever seen. Your father cheated constantly. Your mother stayed for the money and the name. You watched them destroy each other for years."

I remembered that. My parents' marriage was a battlefield disguised as a society partnership.

"You thought if you didn't let yourself love Elara, you couldn't hurt her the way your father hurt your mother. Instead, you hurt her worse." James shook his head. "The irony is fucking tragic."

My phone rang. My mother. I'd been avoiding her calls since the accident.

"Answer it," James said. "She's been calling me too. She knows you have amnesia and she's worried you'll do something stupid."

I answered. "Mother."

"Damien, darling. How are you feeling?" Victoria Cross's voice was saccharine sweet with an edge of steel underneath.

"I've been better."

"James tells me you flew to Seattle. To see that girl." The way she said 'that girl' made my jaw clench. "I hope you've come to your senses."

"Her name is Elara. She was my wife."

"Was being the operative word. The divorce is final. You're free. Why on earth would you dredge up that unfortunate chapter?"

"Because I need to understand what happened."

"What happened is you married beneath yourself, realized your mistake, and corrected it. It's quite simple." Her tone turned sharp. "Damien, I'm hosting a dinner party next week. Senator Morrison's daughter will be there. Beautiful girl, Wellesley educated, perfect breeding. I think you two would-"

"I'm not interested."

"Don't be ridiculous. You need to think about your future. About the family name. That Bennett girl was never suitable and you know it."

Something in me snapped. "Did you make her feel that way? When she lived here, did you tell her she wasn't good enough?"

Silence. Then, "I may have mentioned certain social realities. Someone had to. You were too infatuated to see clearly."

"You made her miserable."

"I made her aware of her position. There's a difference." Victoria's voice turned cold. "That girl was using you for your money and your name. I was protecting you."

"She never asked me for anything. Not once. I checked."

"Of course not. She was smarter than that. She played the long game. And look, she got a generous settlement, didn't she?"

I thought about Elara in that rainy alley, telling me about three years of pain. She hadn't mentioned the money once.

"You're wrong about her."

"I'm never wrong about people. It's how I've survived this family for thirty-five years." She paused. "Damien, whatever romantic notions you have about that girl, let them go. You don't even remember her. Move on."

"What if I don't want to move on?"

"Then you're a fool." Her voice turned icy. "That marriage nearly destroyed you. You were distracted, unfocused, weak. After the divorce, you became the man you were meant to be. Do you really want to throw that away for a woman who's already moved on?"

"Has she? Moved on?"

Victoria laughed, but it wasn't a kind sound. "Why don't you ask her? Oh wait, you did. And she told you to leave her alone. Take the hint, darling."

She hung up.

James was watching me carefully. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking my mother is poison. And I'm thinking I need to find out if Elara has really moved on."

"How?"

My phone buzzed. An email from my private investigator. Subject line: *Eleanor Bennett - Full Report*.

I opened it and my stomach dropped.

James leaned over. "What is it?"

I couldn't speak. I just showed him the screen.

The first line read: *Subject has been seen multiple times with Marcus Chen, owner of Chen Gallery. Relationship appears romantic in nature. Photographs attached.*

"Damien-"

"She's with someone else." The words felt like hollow in my throat. "She's already replaced me."