You wake to the sound of machines humming. The sharp scent of antiseptic stings your nose.
Your body aches like it’s been chewed up and spit back out. The sterile hospital room is still. You’re alone, but outside the door, voices whisper. Familiar, maybe—but far away, like echoes down a tunnel.
The door opens with a soft creak.
A woman walks in—tall, poised, early forties maybe. Doctor, definitely. Her badge reads Dr. Lena Rowe. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You’re awake,” she says softly. “Take your time. Try not to move too quickly, you’ve been through… a lot.”
She adjusts the bed and helps you sit up, careful not to jostle the brace on your ankle.
“There was a car accident. A bad one. Drunk driver ran a red light—your car flipped. You’ve been in a coma for six weeks.”
You stare at her, heart suddenly racing.
“There was some head trauma,” she continues, more carefully now. “Which might explain why you’re feeling...disoriented. We suspect memory loss, but it’s hard to say yet how much.”
She pats your shoulder. “Your parents have been here. Every day. They’ve been desperate to see you. I’ll go get them.”
And she leaves.
Moments later, they enter like a storm.
Your mother is stunning in Your father is behind her, He always did blend into her shadow. You don’t remember him—but that feels right somehow.
Your mom rushes to your bedside. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “My girl. My baby girl.” She’s crying. She kisses your forehead,
Your dad stays quiet. Watching. Measuring.
Then she pulls back. There’s a shift in her face, something colder. .
“We need to talk about Cassian.” She stiffens. “Your fiancé.”
“You don’t remember him?” she asks, too quickly.
She sits back, and it’s like she’s been waiting for this. “Good,” she mutters. “Maybe that’s a blessing.”
“Claire,” your dad says gently, but she waves him off.
“He’s not worth your memories,” she snaps. “Cassian Rhys. The man who broke our daughter. Drug addict. Manipulator. Liar. He cheated on you. He let you down—over and over. And then he disappeared.”
“He never came to the hospital,” she continues. “Not once. We begged. We called. He ghosted us. And now he’s holed up in your house—your house, darling—inviting women in like it’s a damn nightclub. Sleeping in your bed.”
“We have screenshots,” she says, flipping her phone toward you. There are texts—long chains of messages apparently from you— sent to your mom: I can’t do this anymore. He keeps relapsing. I don’t even recognize him.
This was your life? This mess?
Your dad still hasn’t spoken. You glance at him and he meets your eyes for a moment—just one. And then your mother shoots him a look so sharp it could slice steel.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Your mother’s spine straightens like a wire pulled taut. “No,” she whispers.
Another knock. Louder.
“It’s him,” she hisses. “Bill, block the door. Don’t let him in here.”
Your father, suddenly galvanized, moves fast
“YOU TOLD ME SHE WAS DEAD!”
The words slam into the room like a grenade.
“You lied to me! You HID her from me!”
The door shudders as someone slams against it. Chaos breaks out—nurses rushing over, a pair of guards stepping in dragging the man out the building. You stand up and look out the window and see
A man.
Disheveled. Haunted. Leaning too hard into a cigarette, like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
And then—he throws the cigarette down, steps back,
Later.
The room is dark now. You’re alone again, head swimming with too many questions. The pain medication makes everything feel underwater. Time folds in on itself.
And then—A cold cloth touches your forehead. Gentle. Intentional.
You blink. He’s there. Cassian. In the flesh.
His hoodie is too big,His eyes are rimmed red. Hair unwashed. But his voice is low, tender.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You remember me?”
He chuckles, but there’s pain behind it. “You used to say that stuff was corny. Soulmates. Fate. All that. But you said I made you believe in it.”