Chapter 2 The Cold husband

The next morning came with more silence than answers.

Emma awoke to the sound of soft footsteps and the scent of fresh lilies. A housekeeper, middle-aged with a neat bun and lowered gaze, was placing a vase of flowers on the side table. When she realized Emma was awake, she froze mid-motion.

"You're awake, ma'am," she said, bowing her head quickly. "Good morning."

Emma pushed herself upright slowly. "Good morning," she replied, her voice still raw. "What's your name?"

The woman blinked, then hesitated. "Lucinda, ma'am."

Lucinda. It sounded vaguely familiar, but no images came. Emma offered a hesitant smile. "Have we... known each other long?"

Lucinda nodded. "I've worked for you and Mr. Crane for nearly a year. Since your wedding."

Emma tried to search the woman's face for clues-for warmth, familiarity, anything-but Lucinda kept her eyes trained somewhere near Emma's shoulder, as if eye contact were forbidden.

"I'm still trying to remember everything," Emma said softly. "It feels like I'm living someone else's life."

Lucinda pressed her lips together and quickly set down a tray with breakfast-cut fruit, toast, and tea. "If you need anything, you can ring the bell." Then she turned and left without waiting for a response.

Emma stared after her. Was it fear she sensed in the woman's body language... or respect? The line between the two felt blurred in this strange mansion.

Later that morning, another stranger entered her room. This one wore a white coat and a warm smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crane," the man greeted. "I'm Dr. Harold Nunez. I've been overseeing your recovery since the accident."

Emma tried to match his name to a memory, but came up blank. "Please... just Emma," she said.

He nodded, taking a seat beside her bed and pulling out a tablet. "Understandable. I know you're experiencing some confusion, but I want to reassure you that your memory loss is a known effect of trauma-specifically, you suffered a concussion during the crash. The impact caused some swelling in your brain. It's resolving, but it's possible the memory gaps could last for weeks. Maybe longer."

"Do you know what caused the crash?" she asked, trying to remain calm.

"The police said the road was slick. Your vehicle hit a tree. It wasn't sabotage or anything malicious," he added quickly, as if anticipating her question. "No sign of foul play."

That didn't comfort her.

"And Julian-my husband-he was in the car?"

Dr. Nunez hesitated. "No. You were alone."

The tightness in her chest intensified. "Where was I going?"

"That, I can't say. The GPS in your car had been wiped. Mr. Blackwood said he wasn't aware you'd left the house until he received the call from emergency services."

The way he said it felt rehearsed. Defensive. Emma filed that away quietly.

"I don't feel like I belong here," she confessed. "Everyone acts like I'm some kind of queen-or prisoner."

Dr. Nunez offered a sympathetic smile. "That's not uncommon for trauma survivors. You're disoriented, Emma. Try not to overanalyze your surroundings for now. Focus on healing. Your memory may return gradually."

He gave her a few pamphlets on memory loss, left instructions for the nurse, and then exited with the same practiced calm as everyone else in the mansion.

Later, Emma forced herself out of bed. Lucinda had laid out a deep emerald dress with long sleeves-too formal for lounging, yet oddly familiar. She dressed, noting how perfectly it fit her. Almost like it had been custom-made.

She ventured into the hallways of the house, her bare feet sinking into thick carpets. The silence stretched like fog through the mansion. No laughter, no voices-just the occasional flicker of movement from uniformed staff, all of whom bowed their heads and averted their eyes as she passed.

Every painting, every piece of furniture felt like part of a museum-expensive but lifeless. She descended the grand staircase and wandered into a marble-floored sitting room, where Julian stood by a wide window, a crystal tumbler in hand.

She paused in the doorway. His back was straight, his suit perfect as ever. When he turned to face her, his gaze swept over her, unreadable.

"You're walking," he said simply.

"Should I not be?"

His mouth twitched, a semblance of a smile-or perhaps just acknowledgment. "You look better today."

"I feel... like I'm in someone else's life."

Julian walked toward her, slow and deliberate. "You've always hated feeling powerless. It's in your nature to try and take back control."

"Is that what I was like? Before?"

He stopped just a foot away from her. "Strong. Stubborn. Unforgiving. Brilliant."

There was something in the way he said unforgiving that made the hairs on her arms rise.

"I spoke to the doctor," Emma said, trying to maintain her composure. "He said I was alone in the car. He said no one knows where I was going."

Julian didn't blink. "You left in the middle of the night. No word. No note. You were upset. I assumed you needed space."

"Why was I upset?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then turned away, walking toward the bar at the corner of the room. "You don't remember... yet."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed, pouring himself a drink. "But it's the only one I'm giving right now."

The coldness in his tone sent a chill through her. "Did we love each other?" she asked again.

Julian downed the drink in one smooth motion and turned back to her. "What is love, Emma? Is it passion? Obsession? Sacrifice?" He stepped closer again, eyes locking with hers. "Or is it remembering the worst parts of a person and choosing them anyway?"

Emma took a step back. "You're avoiding the question."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm saving you from remembering things you once begged to forget."

He left her in the silence again, the air crackling with secrets.