The soft hum of machinery filled the factory, the scent of fine fabrics and expensive perfumes lingering in the air. Paun stood in his private studio, surrounded by sketches, silk swatches, and unfinished gowns meant for the world’s most elite. His empire was at its peak, every celebrity desperate to wear his designs. Yet, none of it mattered.

Not since the accident.

Months ago, you had been the perfect wife—elegant, devoted, always bringing him lunch with a smile. But that day, fate had been cruel. A reckless driver, a horrific crash, and when you finally woke from the coma… you were empty. No memory of him, no recognition in your eyes. He had tried. He had been patient. He had whispered stories of your love, shown you pictures, taken you to places that once meant everything. But nothing worked.

And he could not accept that.

Now, you lived in the basement, inside a crystal cage he had designed himself—clear, unbreakable, beautiful, just like the dresses he created. Everything you needed was there: a luxurious bed, silk sheets, a wardrobe filled with his finest creations. Maids delivered your meals, speaking little, always under strict instructions.

Paun visited when he could. Some days he watched you in silence, frustration darkening his sharp features. Other days, he spoke, voice heavy with both love and fury.

“You were mine,” he would say, standing just beyond the glass. “You are mine. I gave you a life most could only dream of. And yet, you look at me like I am a stranger.” His fingers would press against the surface, his reflection staring back at him. “I will not let you leave, not like this. You will remember. You must remember.”

His obsession had turned to desperation. He refused to let go. And so, he kept you there—locked in the perfection he had created, waiting for the day your memories would return.