Chapter Two: Stranger to the Night
She didn't know who she was.
But she knew she wasn't his.
Elara ran.
The hospital door slammed shut behind her, the metallic clunk echoing like a final severed thread. Cold night air wrapped around her like a slap, sharp, bitter, real. She stumbled over the uneven pavement of the alley behind the facility, her breath puffing in frantic clouds, her heartbeat thundering louder than her footsteps.
Everything in her body screamed to keep moving. Don't stop. Don't think. Just run.
She had no phone. No ID. No memory of how the world worked. But instinct, raw and primal, was all she needed.
She ducked behind a dumpster as headlights swept across the alley.
An orderly stepped out, scanning the darkness with a flashlight. Elara! he called, voice clipped. Come on. We know you're out here. Let's not make this worse.
She held her breath, heart jackhammering in her chest. Her fingers dug into the brick wall behind her, nails scraping against stone. The light passed, slowly, then moved on.
She waited ten full seconds, then bolted down the side street.
The city hit her like a wall. Neon signs, honking taxis, the smell of grease and gasoline. But she kept her head down and moved with the current of the sidewalk crowd until the white coats and security doors were far behind.
She didn't know where she was going. She only knew she had to get as far away from Damian Wolfe as humanly possible.
And then, something surfaced.
A name.
A voice.
Investigative journalist Jaxon Reed is not backing down from claims that Elara Sinclair's disappearance was more than a family tragedy…
The memory struck like lightning. The voice from a television somewhere. A headline. A man with sharp eyes and louder questions. A man who said her name when the rest of the world had forgotten it.
Jaxon Reed.
Her fingers clenched around the hoodie she wore. She didn't know why, but she felt it, he could help her. He knew something.
She scanned the street and spotted a rundown diner across the avenue. The windows were fogged, the neon Open sign flickering.
Inside, it was quiet. Just a few night owls nursing coffee, a waitress with heavy eyes, and an old payphone tucked into the corner near the bathrooms.
Elara slid into the booth nearest to it and pulled the scrap of paper from the pocket of her hoodie. The nurse had slipped it in without a word. On it, barely legible, was a phone number.
Jaxon Reed
917-555-0199
She approached the phone, her hands trembling. She picked up the receiver, slipped in the coin the nurse had also provided, and dialed.
Two rings.
Three.
Click.
A man's voice, cautious. Yeah?
She took a breath. I think… I think I'm Elara Sinclair.
Silence.
Then a sharp inhale. Where are you?
She looked up at the stained menu board. Broadway Diner. Corner of 58th and Lexington.
I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't talk to anyone. Don't move.
The line went dead.
She returned to her booth, her fingers still clutching the phone cord like it might anchor her.
Minutes crawled by. She stared at her reflection in the window, trying to recognize the girl behind the glass. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. A stranger.
The bell above the door finally jingled.
A man stepped in, tall, lean, with a weathered face and a camera bag slung over one shoulder. His gaze swept the room before landing on her.
He crossed the room without hesitation and slid into the seat across from her.
Elara, he said.
I don't remember you, she whispered. But I remember your name.
He studied her face, not unkindly. You look different. Thinner. Scared.
I feel all of those things.
He leaned in. How'd you get out?
A nurse, she said. She told me I wasn't safe. That the man claiming to be my husband… wasn't.
Jaxon's face darkened. Damian Wolfe. I've been watching him for over a year. He's not your husband. He was your father's lawyer. And right-hand enforcer.
Elara's stomach flipped. My… father?
Jaxon nodded. Victor Sinclair. Billionaire. Founder of Sinclair Enterprises. Died in a car crash six months before you disappeared. Official story was an accident. I never bought it.
I don't remember him, she admitted. Or me. Or anything.
Jaxon reached into his bag and pulled out a slim tablet. He tapped it on and slid it across to her. The screen showed an article. Her face, slightly younger, smiled from a glossy photo. Elara Sinclair, Missing Heiress: Foul Play or Family Tragedy?
That's you, he said. The last time you were seen was the night before your father's memorial. You vanished from your condo. No witnesses. No security footage. Nothing.
Elara stared at the screen, as if it might give her answers her brain could not.
Why would someone erase me? she asked.
Money, Jaxon said. And power. After your father died, your uncle Harrison took over Sinclair Enterprises. But rumor was… you were named successor.
She swallowed hard. I don't remember that. I don't even remember having a family.
They wanted you gone, he said. But they couldn't kill you, not without losing the legal claim you represented. So they hid you. Broke you. Tried to make you forget who you were.
Elara pressed her hand to her temple. A sharp pain bloomed there. Then why did Damian keep me alive?
I don't know, Jaxon admitted. But I know where we can start looking.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flash drive.
Someone mailed this to my office a month ago. No return address. Just your initials carved on the side.
What's on it? she asked.
I haven't opened it yet. I was waiting for you.
Elara blinked. But I don't know what any of this means.
Jaxon met her eyes. Then let's find out together.