"Just sign here, Miss Hayes."

The clerk's voice buzzed loudly, dull and distant, as if from another world.

The pen in Sloan's hand was unbelievably heavy, the golden tip hovering just one millimeter above the brand-new paper. The documents exude the scent of ink and the end—the marriage certificate. Brian's hand rested on her back, a kind of possessive weight that should have been comforting. However, a slick and suffocating fear slowly slid down her throat.

A sharp and cruel flashback suddenly tore her apart.

No, that's not memory—it's something more real than memory.

The hospital ward was sterile white. The machine's rhythmic, heartbreaking buzz, the device that breathed for her. Brian's face appeared faintly above her—handsome, ruthless. And Jazmin, her best friend, stood beside him, her smile like a knife.

"What a pity," Jazmin's voice was as sweet as poison, "She loves you so much." ”

Brian didn't answer. His fingers—the very few on her back at that moment—were gripping the ventilator tube. He gently twisted it.

Air. She needs air.

The pressure on my chest felt like it was being crushed by something heavy. Burning pain in the lungs. Black spots appeared in his field of vision. The machine's buzzing turned into a single, piercing scream—

Sloan snapped his eyes open.

She was not lying in a hospital bed. She was sitting at a polished wooden table in New York City Hall. Brian was right beside her, his suit perfectly tailored, his smile full of love.

"Sloane, darling?" Are you okay? His voice was a warm and concerned whisper.

That voice made her stomach clench sharply. The air she inhaled in her lungs felt like swallowing shattered glass.

She looked at his face—the one she had admired for three years—but only saw the man who murdered her. The thin layer of greed in his eyes was barely covered by false tenderness, existing bare and raw. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the Hayes family's funds—$300 million, enough to save his company on the brink of bankruptcy.

The pen slipped from her numb fingers and landed on the table, making a soft sound.

"I ......," she said, gasping for breath. This is not acting. That flashback was so real, that suffocating hallucination so intense that her body reacted against her will. She scratched her chest, her knuckles turning white. "I...... I was out of breath. ”

"Sloan!" Brian's worry was tinged with a clearly visible trace of annoyance. Just one step away. He reached out to grab her.

As soon as his fingers touched her arm, a scream tore from her throat—primal, pure fear. She stepped back in terror, her chair knocked over, and a loud bang echoed through the quiet, bureaucratic hall.

"Don't touch me!" She screamed, her voice hoarse.

She stood up, staggering away from him, and placed the fallen chair between them like a shield. The clerk—a kind-looking middle-aged woman—stood up, looking panicked. Several other couples waiting glanced sideways.

This is her chance. The only chance.

"Sloane, what's going on with you? Stop messing around. Brian shouted hoarsely. His concerned mask slipped off, revealing the ugly impatience beneath him.

"My head......" she panted, pressing the base of her palm to her temple. Pain is a convenient excuse, but trembling is real. Her whole body trembled with adrenaline and fear. "It hurts so much. I ...... I don't know where I am. Who are you? ”

She said the last few words straight to Brian. His face shifted from annoyance to complete confusion. It was a small but satisfying victory.

"What are you talking about? It's me, Brian. We're getting married. He stepped forward, his hands soothingly extended.

"Getting married?" She let out a sound somewhere between laughter and tears. "I don't ...... I don't know you! ”

The clerk—whose badge reads Brenda—circles the table, building a reassuring barrier between Sloane and Brian.

"Sir, maybe you should give her some space." Brenda said firmly. Then he turned to Sloan, "Miss, do you need me to call medical staff?" ”

"Yes." Sloane struggled to squeeze out the word, clutching the lifeline tightly. "Please. Something happened. ”

A storm of conflict flashed across Brian's face—anger, confusion, and a growing fear. His prey slipped through his fingers. He couldn't force her to sign, couldn't be here, in front of so many witnesses.

"Sloane, stop right now!" His voice was low and threatening.

But she didn't listen. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for an exit. The main entrance with a heavy revolving door is thirty feet away. Two security guards stood beside the metal detector. She must act, now.

The moment Brian was distracted by the clerk speaking on the phone, Sloan moved. She pushed aside a pot of decorative banyan trees, her white dress hooked by branches—she didn't care.

"Sloan!" Brian's roar exploded behind her.

She ran away.

Her high heels slipped on the polished marble floor, steadying herself, driven by a fear that had existed for years and was now vividly alive. She ignored the stares and exclamations, pushed open the revolving door, rushed down the steps of City Hall, and burst into the noisy bustle of Lower Manhattan.

The air was filled with car exhaust and the smell of street hot dog stands. It was the most wonderful scent she had ever smelled—the scent of being alive.

She didn't look back. She knew he would catch up.

His thoughts raced in the chaos. She couldn't just disappear like that. Family members will worry. Brian would make up a story. She needed a cover—a reasonable, unshakable reason to explain her actions.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. A sudden severe psychological trauma. This explains everything: panic attacks, memory loss, irrational fear of your fiancé. Perfect.

A visitor saw her tears streaming down her face and handed her a tissue. She shook her head in refusal, her steps unstoppable. She won't be weak again, not this time.

Her left hand was heavy—the huge Cartier diamond ring on her ring finger. A symbol of a promise like a lie, the deposit of her life.

Her stomach churned, and the disgust almost made her nauseous.

She didn't stop and took off the ring. A dent from a year was left on his finger. Without hesitation or looking at it, she casually tossed it into a wire trash bin filled with discarded newspapers and coffee cups. The ring traced a flickering arc of light.

A wave of dizziness swept over him. The emotional outburst made her body tremble uncontrollably. She pressed her right hand deeply into her left palm, the sharp pain becoming her anchor point for returning to reality. She had to think.

At this moment, Brian should have already climbed the stairs, searching through the crowd. He would call her, call her brother. She needs to disappear into the crowds in the city center.

She glanced back. There he was—an angry figure in a tailored suit, trapped in the river of yellow taxis and delivery trucks across the street from Center.

That's enough.

Sloan bent over and slipped into a narrow alley. The smell of trash and rotten beer hit her nose, but she didn't care. She leaned against the dirty brick wall, trembling as she took a deep breath.

She took one last look at the trash bin at the street corner—where her old life was buried.

Goodbye, you foolish, gullible girl.

She walked out from the other end of the alley, stepping onto a different street, a different life. She blended into the anonymous yet surging crowd of New Yorkers, just another face in the crowd. For now, she is safe.

The pain in her thigh was sharp and real. Sloane dug her fingers into the muscle again, grounding herself. The sting was a confirmation. This wasn't a dream. She was twenty-two again. She was alive.

She walked quickly, her pace just shy of a run, heading north along Fifth Avenue. The iconic storefronts of Tiffany and Bergdorf's blurred past her. They were landmarks of a life she had just escaped.

Her mind was a whirlwind of strategy. The PTSD and amnesia angle was strong. It would buy her time. Time to get her family on her side, time to legally dissolve the engagement, and most importantly, time to protect her company, Innovatech, from Blaine's clutches. In her past life, he had used their impending marriage to gain control of the board and siphon funds. Not this time. This time, she would be the predator.

She was so consumed by her planning, so focused on the chess match unfolding in her head, that she didn't see the light change. She stepped off the curb at 57th Street directly into the path of oncoming traffic.

A horn blared, a sound that ripped through her concentration.

She looked up, her eyes wide with shock, as the grille of a massive black sedan filled her vision.

Tires shrieked against the pavement.

Time seemed to warp, stretching and slowing. She tried to jump back, but her body wouldn't respond. The impact wasn't a violent crash, but a solid, heavy shove. The car's fender connected with her knee, spinning her around and sending her sprawling onto the hard asphalt.

For a moment, she just lay there, the rough surface of the street scraping her palms, the smell of hot rubber in the air. A collective gasp rose from the pedestrians on the corner.

The back door of the Maybach opened with a quiet, expensive-sounding click.

A pair of immaculate black leather shoes stepped onto the pavement. They were followed by a man in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than her first car. He moved with an unnerving stillness, an aura of absolute power radiating from him like a physical force.

Julian Vanderbilt.

Even in her dazed state, she recognized him. The wolf of Wall Street. The cold, untouchable heir to the Vanderbilt fortune. His face, all sharp angles and aristocratic disdain, was a regular feature in the Financial Times.

His assistant, a harried-looking man in his thirties, rushed to her side first. "Miss? Are you alright? We need to get you to a hospital. We'll take care of everything."

Sloane's mind, momentarily stunned, kicked back into gear. A hospital. A legitimate medical reason for her disorientation. A perfect, unimpeachable witness who wasn't Blaine Sterling.

Opportunity didn't just knock. It hit her with a half-a-million-dollar car.

She had to play this perfectly.

Julian Vanderbilt stopped a few feet away, looking down at her not with concern, but with a cold, analytical assessment. His eyes, a startlingly pale grey, were narrowed.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed, or are you just another grifter looking for a payday?" he asked. His voice was a low baritone, laced with ice.

The accusation was exactly what she needed. A real victim would be hurt, offended. A calculating one would see an angle. She had to be the former.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, wincing. She let tears well in her eyes, genuine ones this time, born from the shock and the lingering terror of the morning. She looked up at him, deliberately making her expression as lost and bewildered as possible.

"I... I don't..." she stammered, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Where am I?"

She let her gaze drift around at the gawking crowd, the tall buildings, the yellow cabs, as if she'd never seen them before. She was channeling every ounce of her past life's pain and betrayal into this one performance.

Julian's expression didn't change, but she saw a flicker of something in those grey eyes. He was re-evaluating. The woman crumpled on the pavement didn't look like a hardened scam artist. She looked like a broken doll.

"Get her in the car, Mark," he said to his assistant, his tone clipped. "Take her to Mount Sinai. I don't want a lawsuit over a fender-tap."

Mark gently helped her to her feet. Her knee throbbed, but she put very little weight on it, leaning heavily on the assistant. As she was guided toward the open door of the Maybach, she made a calculated move. She stumbled, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of Julian's suit jacket to steady herself.

The fabric was impossibly fine. He stiffened at her touch.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't call the police. I don't want any trouble. I just... I want to go home. But I don't remember where that is."

She needed a safe place. A sanctuary where Blaine couldn't reach her. This car, this cold and intimidating man, was the safest place in New York City right now.

She glanced at his wrist. A Patek Philippe watch. The license plate was custom. This man was not just rich; he was powerful enough to make problems disappear. He was the perfect shield.

Mark helped her into the cavernous back seat. The door closed, shutting out the city noise and encasing her in a cocoon of soft leather and silence. She sank into the seat, the smell of expensive cologne-sandalwood and something cold, like winter air-filling her senses.

She was taking a massive risk, placing her fate in the hands of a complete stranger. A dangerous one. But Blaine was a known threat. Julian Vanderbilt was just a potential one.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes and focusing on steadying her breathing. In her mind, she was already running through the script for the doctors. Head injury. Confusion. Memory gaps.

The other door opened and Julian Vanderbilt slid into the seat beside her. The space, which had felt enormous, suddenly felt claustrophobic. His presence was overwhelming.

He held out a bottle of Fiji water.

"Drink," he commanded more than offered.

She took it, her fingers brushing his. His skin was cool. She took a small sip, the water a balm to her dry throat. As she drank, she felt his eyes on her, scrutinizing, dissecting.

"You don't have a purse," he stated. It wasn't a question. "No ID. No phone. Who are you?"

She lowered the bottle, meeting his gaze. She thought of her brother, Liam, of her parents. A genuine pang of sorrow and longing hit her. She used it.

She put all the confusion and fear she could muster into her expression and shook her head slowly.

"I don't know."

A beat of silence. Then, she saw it. Her purse. Her beautiful, custom-made Hermès Kelly bag. She must have dropped it when she fled City Hall. It had her phone, her wallet, everything.

"My bag," she said, a note of real panic in her voice. "I think I left it somewhere. My phone is in it." She looked at him, her eyes wide and pleading. "May I... may I please borrow your phone? There's one number I think I remember. My brother."

---

The Maybach weaves majestically and smoothly through Manhattan's traffic, like a shark slicing through a sea of yellow taxis. Sloan gazed out at the tinted glass outside the car window, the city's lights blurred into an abstract band of colored light. For now, she is safe. In the quiet, leather-scented space inside the carriage, she carefully considered her words, word by word. She will remember her childhood, her family, and everything before she went to Stanford at eighteen. And the memories that follow—meeting Brian, founding the company, getting engaged—will be a blank slate. A four-year gap. Clean and simple, and it can also make sense in medicine.

They arrived at the private ward of Mount Sinai Hospital. Assistant Mark quietly and efficiently completed the admission procedures, and Sloan was helped onto a wheelchair and taken to the VIP suite on the top floor. The room felt less like a hospital and more like a luxury hotel—elegant artworks hung on the walls, and windows overlooked Central Park.

Sloan lay on the hospital bed in a clean, cool sheet, a thin blanket pulling up to his chin. Julian Vanderbilt stands by the window, his tall figure intimidated by the dazzling skyline. The silence between them was heavy and oppressive, filled with his unspoken doubts and the vulnerability she carefully crafted.

A nurse came in to measure vital signs. The blood pressure monitor cuff tightened on her arm, the thermometer tucked under her tongue—these routine checks in her carefully crafted deception offered a small yet reassuring sense of reality. This makes everything seem even more believable.

After the nurse left, Julian finally moved. He glanced at his watch—the Patek Philippe piece flickered faintly under the soft light.

"The doctor will be here soon. Mark will stay behind to handle the bill. He took a card out of his suit pocket and placed it on the nightstand. The card was thick, black, and printed in striking silver lettering. "If you remember who you are, have your family contact my office."

He was about to leave. She couldn't let him think she was just a clumsy girl who accidentally had an accident. She needed to leave a different impression—she wanted to make sure the accident had no aftermath, no troublesome police reports, and no opportunity for Brian to find an insurance claim.

"I'm very sorry." Her voice was soft and hoarse, yet carried a hint of determination. He stopped at the door, his hand on the doorknob. "It's all my fault. I didn't look at the road—I walked straight onto the road. She slightly propped herself up against the pillow and met his gaze. This accident, your car ...... Please don't blame anyone. She made this sentence hang in midair, a straightforward plea. If we could ...... I'd be very grateful if nothing ever happened. ”

Julian studied her for a long time. A cold, analytical look flashed in his gray-white eyes, then replaced by an elusive expression. He nodded briefly.

"There's nothing to forget." he said. "The car will handle it. You won't hear anything about it anymore. ”

He left, taking away the immense pressure brought by his presence. The air in the room seemed much lighter. Sloane exhaled the breath he'd been holding for a while.

She immediately reached for the landline on the bedside table, clumsily dialing the number she knew more than her own—Liam's personal phone.

After the second ring, he answered. "Sloane?" Where are you? Brian kept calling, saying you ran out of town hall. ”

She took a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly. "Liam." She lowered her voice, infusing a trace of genuine fear. "I'm in the hospital. I had an accident. I don't know...... No one knows what happened. ”

Thirty minutes later, the door to the suite was suddenly pushed open. Liam strode in, his face full of heavy worry; Her parents followed closely, their faces full of panic.

"Sloan!" Her mother, Catherine, rushed to the bedside and spread her arms.

Sloane flinched.

This was the hardest thing she had ever done. When her mother reached out to hold her, she shrank back into the pillow, her eyes wide with feigned fear.

"You...... Who are you? She whispered, her words bitter as ashes in her mouth. Why are you all here? ”

This question hit her family like a heavy blow. My mother froze, her hands hanging in midair. Robert's face turned pale as he reached out to steady his wife's shoulder. Liam suddenly stopped in his tracks, his face turning pale. The disbelief and pain in his eyes were like a knife stabbing into her heart.

She hated herself for this. She hated hurting them. But it is necessary. Brian is a cancer, and she must remove it without killing the patient.

"Sloane, it's us." Liam's voice was tense. "It's Mom and Dad. I'm Liam, your brother. ”

She looked at him, her gaze hollow and unfamiliar lingering for a long time before allowing a trace of emotion to flash by. She was an actress, and this was the most important performance of her life—or rather, a performance that cost her life.

Later, when her father gently mentioned Brian's name, she showed a heartfelt, undisguised disgust. Just that name sent chills down her spine.

"I don't know anyone named Brian." Her voice grew sharp. "I would never get engaged to someone with that name."

The attending neurologist—a kind-faced man with tired eyes—walked in with her MRI and CT results.

"Physically, she's fine." He explained to his family. "There were signs of a mild concussion, most likely caused by a fall. Plus that major psychological stress source this morning...... Dissociative amnesia is not without precedent. The brain has its own way of protecting itself. ”

This is the official endorsement she needs. The family's last shred of doubt vanished, replaced by overwhelming sympathy and intense, protective anger toward the invisible source of trauma—Brian.

Her mother sat by the bed, gently stroking her hair. Sloan nestled against that touch, closed her eyes, and immersed herself in the maternal warmth she longed for in her last lonely moment in her previous life.

"I want to go home." She nestled beside her mother and whispered. She needed the security of Hayes Manor, that gate, that professional security team.

Liam immediately took over, his voice crisp and decisive by phone—double down on security and deny entry to anyone not on the pre-approved family list. Brian is now officially excluded.

Her gaze fell on the nightstand—the black card Julian Vanderbilt had left behind. The silver text was now clearly visible.

Julian Vanderbilt, CEO, Vanderbilt Group.

She gasped. Vanderbilt Group—one of the world's most powerful private equity firms—is a giant that can quietly swallow up her family business. Why would a man like that personally drive around Midtown on Tuesday morning?

A cold anxiety condensed in her stomach. She quickly returned to a calm confused expression, not letting her family see the shock that must have appeared on her face. This makes things complicated.

She looked at her family gathered around the bed, their faces filled with love and worry. A strong determination welled up in his heart. She had failed once and failed to protect them. She would rather die than let them down again.

At that moment, a commotion suddenly erupted in the corridor outside the suite—the volume was raised, a man's angry and tough tone, and the nurse's firm and persistent refusal.

Sloane's blood froze.

She recognized that voice.

Trouble isn't just coming—it's pounding on the door fiercely.