Chapter 2

Seraphina Shaw POV

When I pushed open the apartment door, the European-style grandfather clock hanging on the wall chimed precisely three times for three in the afternoon.

Inside the vast, empty living room, sunlight slanted through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the tiny specks of dust suspended in the air with piercing clarity.

The leftover red wine we had shared the night before still sat on the table. The fleece blanket on the sofa even retained the deep creases from where we had curled up together.

Everything felt so real—so vivid that for a fleeting moment, I almost believed that everything which had happened this morning was nothing more than an absurd nightmare.

Slipping out of my coat, I collapsed heavily onto the cushions. I curled my body tight, pulling my knees to my chest, and closed my eyes.

In the darkness, the floodgates of my memory burst open, carrying me back to that stormy night seven years ago.

It had also been late autumn. A relentless downpour had pushed the city’s drainage system to the brink of collapse.

At twenty, I had just secured a full-scholarship exchange spot in the Department of Architecture at Politecnico di Milano. I had just walked out of my professor’s office, clutching my precious design blueprints tightly against my chest as I braved the howling wind and rain to rush back to my rented room.

It was at that pitch-black, muddy intersection that the sharp, metallic stench of blood caught my breath.

Under the ghastly glare of a distant flash of lightning, I caught sight of a black sedan, crushed and horribly mangled against a bridge pier.

The car door was ajar. A man lay sprawled in the muddy water, drenched in blood.

I could have called the police and walked away, but when I shone my flashlight and caught sight of his face, my footsteps froze.

It was a striking face, though pale as paper. His fingers clawed desperately into the dirt, mud and blood caked beneath his nails, his lips parted in a faint, ragged gasp.

"Save... me..."

He didn't open his eyes. Operating purely on instinct, he reached out and seized my ankle.

That night, small and frail as I was, I had no idea where I found the strength to drag this man—who stood a whole head taller than me—step by grueling step back to my cramped, tiny rented room of just barely over a hundred square feet.

I dared not take him to a hospital. There were obvious knife wounds on his body, and before falling unconscious, he had muttered over and over, "No hospital... please..."

The three years that followed were the hardest of my life, yet also the sweetest.

When he woke, he remembered nothing. He had forgotten his name, his identity, even how to operate a smartphone. His mind was like a hard drive that had been forcibly wiped clean.

I gave him a name: Dylan. Because he told me he always felt his true home was somewhere far, far away.

To treat Dylan’s injuries and buy those exorbitant medications, I gritted my teeth and gave up my exchange student spot. By day, I drafted blueprints at construction sites; by night, I waited tables at restaurants; and on weekends, I even tutored middle school kids.

For those three years, we were cooped up in that dark, damp room. There was no air conditioning in the summer, just a creaking old fan; there was no heat in the winter, so we huddled together, sharing body heat to keep warm.

I still remembered the first time Dylan ran a high fever—his skin had burned scorchingly hot. Trapped in some terrible nightmare, he thrashed violently on the bed in agony. I stayed by his side for three days and three nights, cooling him down with cold compresses over and over, holding his hand through the endless dark.

The morning the fever finally broke, Dylan opened his eyes. Looking at me, fast asleep from exhaustion against the edge of the bed, tears slipped silently down his cheeks.

He reached out, his hand gently brushing my cheek, his voice hoarse yet unwavering: "Seraphina, once I find out who I am, I will give you my entire life."

Back then, I truly believed I had become this man's whole world.

I was the first light he saw when he woke from the dark and the mud—his one and only light.

Until three years later, when a fleet of black Rolls-Royces shattered the silence.

Bodyguards in tailored black suits pushed open the rickety wooden door of the apartment. Facing Dylan, who was cooking a meal for me, they bowed deeply: "Mr. Julian Vance, please return home immediately to take charge of the company."

In that single instant, the look in Dylan’s eyes underwent a seismic shift. The confusion and gentle warmth vanished, replaced by an icy, piercing sharpness I had never seen before.

I knew his memories had returned.

He remembered that he was Julian Vance. He remembered that he was the sole heir to a sprawling corporate empire.

I thought our story ended there. In reality, the fairy tale of Cinderella and the prince usually closed with the prince returning to his castle. Quietly, I packed my things, preparing to walk away.

Julian didn’t let me leave.

Right there in front of all his bodyguards, he dropped to one knee on the floor of that dilapidated rental, holding a diamond ring he had bought who-knew-when, its brilliance dazzling and sharp.

"Seraphina," he said, looking up at me, his gaze deep and relentlessly stubborn, "my name is Julian Vance. I’ve found myself, and now, I’m going to keep my promise. Marry me. Be my one and only Mrs. Vance."

I wept. I thought all our bitter days had finally turned sweet. I thought that even after reclaiming his throne at the top of the pyramid, he still held me in the softest, most tender corner of his heart.

We went through the marriage registry process swiftly, moving into this downtown penthouse.

For two years, Julian indulged me in practically everything. He kept track of my monthly cycle, using his large, calloused hands to massage my stomach when cramps hit. After exhausting cross-border meetings, he would fly through the night just to have afternoon tea with me at my favorite spot.

He sheltered me behind an impenetrable wall, never letting me meet anyone from the Vance family. He would say, "The Vance family is too complicated. I don't want you tainted by that filth. All you need to do is stay safe and be my princess."

I believed him.

I had believed him with every fiber of my being.

Now, my eyes snapped wide open.

Once the rosy filter of memory was ripped away, every single detail from our past began to expose its monstrous cracks.

Had he kept me away from the Vance family truly to protect me?

Or was it to hide the existence of another woman?

The "marriage registration" he had taken me through, the duplicate marriage certificate ruined in the wash—had it all been an elaborate charade?

Then what did these past two years amount to?

A man I sacrificed my future to save, pouring everything I had into his recovery, had used the most noble-sounding excuses to turn me into a kept mistress hidden in the shadows?

What sent the deepest chill down my spine was Julian's near-arrogant greed.

He had regained his memory. He had known full well he had a legal wife. Yet, he still returned to that rundown apartment to propose to me.

He wanted the family alliances and wealth Clara Brooks brought him, yet he couldn't bring himself to let go of the pure, untainted love I had given him over those three years.

He thought he was God, capable of slotting two women neatly into different parallel realities, running them side by side without interference, convinced the truth would never bleed through.

"Urgh—"

A dry heave tore through me again. With nothing left in my stomach, I coughed up mouthfuls of bitter, acidic bile.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I twisted the faucet open and splashed freezing water relentlessly over my face.

In the mirror, the woman staring back was as pale as a ghost, her eyes mapped with broken red vessels. At twenty-seven, the countless late nights spent drafting plans and the lingering ailments from that damp room had already etched faint lines at the corners of my eyes.

I had sacrificed my seven finest years—all my youth, my talent, and my love—as an offering to a monster.

No. I couldn't let it end like this.

I stared dead into my own reflection. My nails dug deep into my palms, the sharp pain dragging my mind back to clarity.

If Clara Brooks was his wife, then what part did she play in this sick farce? Did she even know I existed?

Julian Vance, you think you can pull the wool over everyone's eyes? Then I am going to peel off your skin, layer by agonizing layer.

Drying my face, I turned and walked toward the desk tucked in the corner of the living room. My computer, the one I usually used for design work, sat there.

I had to find out who this woman named "Clara Brooks" really was.