Chapter 4

The police officers finished their report, the scratch of pens on paper the only sound in the tense room. Detective Coulson closed his notepad and looked at Holt, who was standing by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, radiating barely contained fury.

"Mr. Farmer," the detective said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "No charges are being filed at this time, but I strongly advise you to give your wife some space. She is clearly traumatized, and your presence is agitating her."

Holt didn't respond. He just stared at the detective, his jaw muscle ticking.

The officers left, pulling the door shut behind them. The silence they left behind was thick and suffocating. Brenda and Dr. Finch had retreated to the hallway, leaving Diandra alone with the man who claimed to own her.

Holt turned from the window. The rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it had been banked, replaced by a cold, calculating detachment. He straightened his sweater, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sleek, silver cardholder. He extracted a single, heavy-stock business card and tossed it onto her bedside table. It landed next to her water glass with a soft click.

"That is my attorney's direct line," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I don't care if this amnesia is real or if it's just another one of your manipulative schemes. Your medical records will be independently reviewed by my legal team."

Diandra looked at the card, the bold black type blurring in her vision. She didn't say a word. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, her body aching, her mind reeling from the revelation of her marital status.

Her silence seemed to irritate him more than her tears would have. "Did you really think forging a dissociative amnesia diagnosis would be enough to invalidate the prenup?"

Prenup. Another word that should have meant something, but instead just echoed hollowly in the void of her memory. She turned her head to look at him, her expression blank.

Holt misread her confusion. A bitter, mocking laugh escaped his lips. "Oh, that's rich. You haven't forgotten the most important part, have you, Diandra? You haven't forgotten the money."

He took a step closer, his shadow falling over her bed. "I don't have time for these games. I don't have time for your bids for sympathy, your attempts to drive up the settlement. It's not going to work."

He turned his back on her, walking over to the large window that overlooked the snowy Swiss landscape. He stared out at the mountains, his reflection a dark smudge against the pristine white.

"You have one week," he said, his voice quiet and deadly. "One week to stop this circus. Either you contact my attorney and agree to the terms, or we do this in court. And I promise you, you won't like the outcome."

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't look back. He just walked out, pulling the door shut behind him. But this time, he didn't just close it. He slammed it.

The bang was like a gunshot in the quiet room. Diandra flinched, her entire body jerking against the mattress. The tremors started immediately, a violent shivering that had nothing to do with the cold.

She lay there for a long time, staring at the closed door, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Slowly, the shock began to fade, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

She looked at the business card on the table. Then she looked at her own hand, lying pale and thin on the white blanket. She didn't know this woman. She didn't know this life. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that she could not live it. Not like this. Not with him.

She reached for the phone on her bedside table. The nurse had charged it for her, and the screen glowed to life, the brightness making her squint. She opened the contacts app, her thumb hovering over the screen.

The first name on the list was "Holt." Next to it, a small red heart emoji stared back at her, a mocking symbol of a love she couldn't remember and didn't feel.

A wave of nausea washed over her. The sight of that heart, that symbol of affection for the man who had just threatened and hurt her, felt like a physical violation. She pressed and held the contact, her finger trembling.

Delete Contact.

The screen asked for confirmation. She hit Yes. Then she went to her recent calls, found his number, and blocked it.

A strange, light feeling spread through her chest. It was a small, insignificant act, but it felt monumental. She had cut the cord. She had erased him from her immediate world.

She scrolled through the rest of her contacts, a list of strangers. Names without faces, numbers without memories. She felt a profound sense of loneliness, a vast emptiness where her past should have been.

Then, her thumb stopped. "Tegan Vance." No emoji. No title. Just a name. But something about it triggered a faint, distant echo in her mind. Not a memory, exactly, but a feeling. A sense of familiarity, of a time before the pain and the cold.

Dr. Finch had said that reconnecting with her past might help her recovery. But Diandra didn't care about recovering the woman she used to be. She needed to understand her. She needed to know who she was dealing with, who she had been, and how she had ended up here.

She took a deep breath, her finger hovering over the call button. She pressed it.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Just as she was about to give up, the line clicked. A voice answered, sharp and guarded.

"Diandra? You actually have the nerve to call me?"

The hostility in the voice was like a slap. It was unexpected, stinging, and it confirmed Diandra's worst fears. Her past wasn't just a blank slate. It was a battlefield.