Lily sat stiffly on the hospital bed, clothed in fresh jeans and a white blouse that the nurse said Damian had sent for her. The clothes fit her perfectly… too perfectly. Had he known her sizes by heart?
Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her stomach churned with nerves—not just from the memory loss but from the looming encounter with the man who was supposedly her husband.
When the door finally opened, it was without ceremony. He didn't knock.
He was tall. Commanding. Dark hair slicked back, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. A tailored black coat clung to broad shoulders, and his cold, steel-gray eyes locked onto hers like a predator assessing prey.
"Lily," he said, his voice low, accented—Russian, maybe? It rolled off his tongue like smoke and ice.
She swallowed. "Damian?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just studied her. There was no rush forward, no embrace, no warmth in his gaze. Only scrutiny. Possession.
"You're ready?" he asked curtly.
Lily's throat bobbed. "I… I guess. It's nice to meet you. Again."
He didn't smile. "We'll talk at home."
With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked out. No assistance, no affection. Just expectation that she'd follow.
Something in her chest twisted painfully. She hadn't known what to expect—maybe tears, or relief—but not this… emptiness.
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