Chapter 5

My fingers trembled as I broke the crimson wax seal.

Conrad lunged forward, his face flushed with rage. "That is private household correspondence! Whatever hysterical nonsense you wrote to yourself, I have a right to see it!"

One of the clinic attendants stepped firmly into Conrad's path, blocking him with an immovable shoulder.

I stepped back against the cool hallway wall, my chest tight. I unfolded the thick linen paper.

My own neat, deliberate handwriting filled the single page. But looking at the ink, a wave of dizzying disorientation washed over me.

Did I really write this? Was my life truly this broken yesterday?

My pulse hammered in my throat as my eyes scanned the three razor-sharp instructions:

1. Do not remain alone in any room with the man named Conrad Vance.

2. Do not accept any apology, explanation, or gift he offers.

3. Leave this penthouse immediately. It was never your home -- it was the cage where he trained you to be his obedient fiancée.

For a terrifying second, my mind scrambled. A blank slate was a dangerous thing; without memories, a person had no anchor. Conrad's frantic voice beat against my ears, tempting me to doubt myself.

"Maeve, look at me!" Conrad shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "You are disoriented! You do not know what you are doing! Who is going to take care of you? Who will manage your therapies, your life? You cannot survive out there alone!"

His words sounded so reasonable, so protective. That was the trap.

I swallowed the bitter lump of fear rising in my throat. I looked from Conrad's sweating face back down to the steady, unyielding strokes of my own pen.

I didn't know the world outside this door. But I chose to trust the woman who had written this letter over the man yelling at me.

I turned to the building property manager standing near the elevator.

"I am vacating this unit effective immediately," I said, my voice slightly strained, but clear. "Please revoke my cohabitation residency pass and remove my name from all building registries."

The manager nodded quickly, tapping his screen. "Understood, Ms. Vance. Your name has been removed."

I walked over to the coat closet. Beside the door sat a single overnight duffel bag, packed from the night before.

I picked it up, my fingers gripping the strap until my knuckles were pale, and walked straight toward the waiting elevator.

"Maeve, stop!" Conrad broke past the attendant, grabbing my wrist with desperate force. "We are supposed to get married in three months! You love me! Every single morning for three years, you chose me!"

I froze. The physical contact sent a jolt of primal repulsion through my nerves.

I pulled my wrist from his grip, stepping behind Dr. Hayes into the elevator cab.

"I am sorry," I whispered, my breath shallow. "I have no reason to know you."

The heavy doors slid closed, cutting off Conrad's shouting face.

Inside the elevator, I leaned heavily against the metal handrail, my knees shaking as the terrifying reality set in. I had no home, no memories, and no past.

Upstairs in the penthouse, Conrad kicked open the door to my private corner studio.

Behind a stack of blank canvases, his boot caught on a loose floorboard. Conrad dropped to his knees, ripping up the wood to find an old leather portfolio.

Inside was a single glossy photograph of me -- vibrant, fiercely confident, standing before a towering art installation of shattered mirrors and blooming lilies.

Attached to it was an official gallery invitation:

Solo Debut Exhibition: The Awakened. Artist: Maeve Vance.

Beneath the invitation lay a folded legal document from the Metropolitan Contemporary Pavilion: an Official Exhibition Cancellation Form, dated three days after my crash.

At the bottom was his signature, and beside it, the box he had checked in his own handwriting:

Reason for Cancellation: Permanent Cognitive Destruction. Artist will never create again. Close all files.

Beneath the cancellation form was a second line, written in Conrad's rushed, aggressive hand:

"Make sure she never asks for the studio key again."

Conrad stared at the ink, a cold, sickening dread sliding down his spine.

The car crash had never destroyed my career.

He had.