A chill settled deep in Elara’s bones. Not from the evening air, but from the unsettling truth she’d uncovered.
The weather reports lay splayed on her desk. Clear skies, calm winds, zero precipitation. A stark contrast to the “adverse weather conditions” cited in the initial police report.
Someone had lied.
Someone had deliberately obscured the truth about Adrian’s accident. Her hands trembled, pushing the papers away as the implications pressed in.
Was his amnesia also part of their plan? Or was it merely a convenient side effect? The thought made her stomach churn.
Adrian found her in the study, a book open on her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in minutes. He leaned against the doorframe, a casual posture that didn’t quite mask the new intensity in his eyes.
“Busy researching our past again?” he asked, a faint, almost imperceptible edge to his voice.
Her heart skipped. “Just… rereading some of your old poetry. It’s beautiful.”
He pushed off the frame, stepping further into the room. His gaze swept over the desk, lingering for a fraction too long on the scattered printouts before returning to her.
“Poetry, right.” Adrian walked to the window, staring out at the manicured garden. “I was thinking today.”
Her breath hitched. This was it. She knew it.
“My head still feels… empty,” he continued, his voice low. “Like there’s a crucial piece missing from a puzzle I’m supposed to remember.”
Elara swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “It takes time, Adrian. The doctors said as much.”
He turned, his eyes locking onto hers. They were sharp, searching. “But what if there’s a way to speed it up? What if talking about it, really talking, helps?”
“Of course,” she managed, forcing a small smile. Her fingers dug into the armrests of her chair. “Anything. What do you want to talk about?”
Adrian moved closer, settling onto the edge of the desk facing her. The proximity felt suffocating. He picked up a small framed photo – a picture of them laughing, taken years ago at a beach.
“This place,” he said, tracing the sand with his thumb. “Where was this? I can almost feel the sun, but I can’t place it.”
Panic flared. She’d chosen that photo for its generic background – blue sky, golden sand. It could be anywhere. “Oh, that was our anniversary trip. To the Maldives. You loved the snorkeling there.”
“The Maldives,” he repeated, testing the word. “Did we go often?”
“A few times,” she lied smoothly, recalling a travel magazine she’d flipped through once. “You always said it was your favorite escape.”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes never left her face, dissecting her reaction. “And what about our first date? Where did I take you?”
This was harder. She’d rehearsed a version of this, based on a novel she’d once read. “A small Italian place downtown. You ordered too much pasta and kept making me laugh.”
Adrian’s lips twitched, a shadow of a smile. “Sounds like me. What was it called?”
“La Bella Luna,” she answered instantly, relieved she remembered the fictional name. “It’s closed now, sadly.”
“Pity,” he murmured, though his expression remained unreadable. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Tell me, what was the most romantic thing I ever did for you?”
Her mind raced. She couldn’t pull another detail from a book. It had to be personal, believable. Something universal. “You… you filled our apartment with candles one night. And cooked my favorite meal. Just because.”
He watched her, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name in his gaze. Disappointment? Skepticism? Or was it hope?
“And what was my favorite meal to cook?” he pressed, leaning forward slightly.
She hesitated, a microsecond too long. “Risotto. You always perfected it.”
Adrian leaned back again, his expression carefully neutral. “You seem to remember these things with such… clarity. While I’m struggling with even the simplest of emotions connected to them.”
His words were a soft accusation. Her palms grew sweaty. He was seeing through her, piece by piece.
“It’s natural,” she insisted, her voice a little too high. “I’m trying to help you remember. I’m living them again, telling you.”
He rose from the desk, circling the room slowly, his movements deliberate. He stopped before the fireplace, picking up a silver frame holding another picture of them – at a formal gala.
“We look happy,” he observed, his tone flat. “Did we go to many of these events?”
“All the time,” she said, remembering the news articles about his social life. “You were always in demand.”
He set the frame down. His gaze was piercing, searching for a truth she was desperate to hide. “Tell me, what was our favourite place?”