Chapter Five
Stella
I trace my fingers over the yellowing bruise on my forearm, a mark from something I can’t remember.
Days have passed since I opened my eyes in this hospital bed, greeted by strangers in white coats and a mind wiped clean.
“Textbook recovery,” Dr. Malhotra said this morning, checking my chart. “Your body is healing nicely.”
He’s right. I no longer need to grip the wall when I shuffle to the bathroom, and the ice pick behind my eyes has dulled to an occasional throb.
And there’s more. Yesterday, I lay on crinkly paper while cold gel spread across my abdomen. The ultrasound technician pointed to the monitor, her voice bright with routine joy.
“There’s your daughter— see those tiny fingers?”
I nodded, watching the grainy shadow pulse and move.
A baby girl. Growing inside me. Perfect and healthy.
I should have wept or laughed or felt something profound.
Instead, I stared at the screen like a tourist viewing someone else’s family video, wondering when the real mother would step in and claim this life that supposedly belongs to me.
Each afternoon finds me tracing the garden’s perimeter. My legs are steadier now but mind is still adrift. Today, I pause beneath a flowering dogwood to watch a middle-aged couple share sandwiches with their recovering son, memorizing how they interact, as if their normalcy might teach me my own.
The gardeners have created a sanctuary here— roses climbing trellises, jasmine spilling over stone walls, creating pockets of sweetness in the sterile hospital air.
I’ve claimed a bench beneath the largest oak, where I sit with eyes squeezed shut, lungs full of fragrant air, waiting for the scents to unlock a birthday, a holiday, a single memory of before.
Nothing comes but the distant laughter of families who remember.
The doctors run test after test— MRIs, CT scans, neurological examinations. They’re thorough, I’ll give them that. Every result comes back normal, except for one: my memory.
That remains stubbornly, terrifyingly blank.
What’s strange is that while I can’t remember facts or events, feelings linger like ghosts.
Feelings…
I glance over at the flowers at my bedside, the sweet scent of roses lingering.
The man who calls himself Aleksei visits daily with small gifts and speaks to me in that low, careful voice.
Asking me about my day. Telling me stories about things that I’m supposed to connect with…
but don’t. It sounds like someone else’s world. Someone else’s stories.
But the feelings are always there.
My body responds to his presence in confusing ways— my heart rate quickens around him, my skin prickles with awareness.
There’s definitely attraction there, a gut-wrenching pull I can’t deny.
He’s undeniably handsome, with those dark eyes and broad shoulders, and the way he looks at me…
like I’m something precious he’s afraid of losing.
Am I precious to him?
It’s a question I can’t help asking because beneath that attraction lurks something darker.
Sometimes when he’s near, a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with desire.
It’s like my body remembers something my mind won’t let me access— something about him that should make me wary.
Occasionally, when he mentions certain things or makes specific gestures, I get flashes of…
not memories exactly, but emotions. Grief.
Fear. Anger. They’re connected to him somehow.
Why?
Why does he make me feel anger?
Or fear?
He tells me he’s the father of my baby, and I believe him— there’s no way he could lie about that.
But it’s frustrating not remembering how we met, or when we fell in love— did we fall in love?
— or even the moment we created this child growing inside me.
How can I not remember making love to him? The intimacy we must have shared?
I try to piece things together, but it’s like trying to complete a puzzle when most of the pieces are missing, and the few I have don’t seem to fit. Every time I think I’m close to remembering something, it slips away like smoke through my fingers.
Now, lying on my hospital bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to make sense of it all. The door opens, and Dr. Malhotra enters, tablet in hand.
“Good news, Miss Fermont,” he says. “All your tests have come back clear. Apart from the memory loss and some residual effects from the concussion, you’re perfectly healthy. We can discharge you today.”
I sit up slowly. “But my memory…”
“May return with time,” he says gently. “The brain is remarkably resilient. The important thing is not to force it. Memories often return naturally when the mind feels safe enough to process them.”
“So, I’ll need to feel safe?” I ask. How will I feel safe if I don’t know where I’m going, or recognize the people I’ll be with?
“You’ll settle in soon, dear. And then it will only be a matter of time.
Temporary retrograde amnesia,” Dr. Malhotra says, tapping his pen against the chart, “is your mind’s way of erecting barriers against trauma.
” He gestures toward his temple. “Memories could be triggered when you face familiar circumstances or emotions. That’s not going to happen here.
” He smiles gently as if to take the edge off.
“What about my family?” I ask. “Surely I must have parents, siblings, friends?”
He consults his tablet. “Your primary contact is listed as Aleksei Tarasov.”
“Just him?” The question comes out small, vulnerable.
“Yes.” He looks at me sympathetically. “Would you like me to try contacting anyone else?”
I shake my head, not knowing who to suggest. The reality hits me hard— I’m about to leave this safe, sterile environment and go… where? With whom? I have no memory of any place feeling like home.
As if on cue, Aleksei appears in the doorway.
He’s wearing a tailored suit that molds to the lean, hard lines of his shoulders and chest, the dark fabric accentuating his imposing frame.
Every inch of him radiates that unnerving power, but there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he looks at me, a softness around his eyes I haven’t noticed before.
“Ready to go home?” he asks softly, his deep voice carrying that distinctive Russian lilt.
Home.
The word feels foreign to me, hollow and uncertain. What does home even mean when you can’t remember having one? My stomach knots with anxiety.
“Sure,” I say, pressing my lips together in the semblance of a smile, hoping he can’t see how my hands tremble slightly at my sides. I have no choice but to trust this stranger who claims to know me.
The discharge process passes in a blur of paperwork and instructions. A nurse rattles off care guidelines while I nod mechanically, barely processing her words. Something about watching for signs of infection, taking prescribed medications, following up with a neurologist.
I try not to fidget as Aleksei takes control of the situation, briskly flipping through forms and signing them with a flourish. I find myself captivated by those hands, imagining them touching my skin, exploring me.
Cut it out, Stella!
That unsettling tightening in my core is happening again. How the hell can this man turn me on at the same time as he scares me?
God, what if I’m some kind of sexual freak?
You’re not.
Get a grip.
It’s not my fault that my thoughts are racing.
The fluorescent hospital lights seem too harsh, making everything appear slightly unreal, as though I’m watching this scene unfold from somewhere outside my body.
I should be asking questions, but my mind feels wrapped in cotton, still struggling to connect the fragments of my shattered memory.
“Take care, Miss Fermont,” Dr. Malhotra says as he scribbles his signature across the forms. “I’ll see you at your follow-up.”
I nod mutely. My brain feels far away, struggling to process anything beyond the immediate moment.
Before I know it, I’m sitting in Aleksei’s luxury car— a sleek black Bentley with butter-soft leather seats that seem to envelop me— watching unfamiliar landscapes scroll past the window.
Palm trees and modern buildings blend together in a disorienting parade of shapes and colors, none triggering even the faintest hint of recognition.
My fingers anxiously trace the stitching on the seat as I try to ground myself in this strange reality.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to recognize anything in the passing scenery.
“To the manor,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“The manor?” I repeat.
We live in a freaking manor?
He glances at me, his expression gentle. “It’s our home, zaychik . In Los Angeles.”
“Our home?” My voice cracks slightly. “I… I don’t remember.”
Surely the thought of home should switch something on in my brain?
He reaches over and takes my hand, his touch warm and somehow familiar despite my memory loss.
“It’s okay, Stella. You’ve been through a lot. The doctor said your thoughts might be foggy for a while.”
Foggy?
Yeah, right.
The word almost makes me laugh. Foggy suggests something you can see through if you try hard enough. This isn’t fog— it’s a complete blackout.
Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.
“Hey,” Aleksei says softly, squeezing my hand. “You’re safe now, and that’s what matters. We’ll take it slow, yes?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. His words should be comforting, but something about them sends a chill down my spine. Safe now? Safe from what? From whom? Was I not safe before?
As we drive on in silence, I rest my free hand on my swollen belly, feeling the baby move within me. At least this still feels real— this connection to the life growing inside me. Everything else might be blank, but this, I know.
I’m going to be a mother.
What I don’t know is whether I should be afraid of the father.
The rational part of my mind says no— he’s been nothing but gentle and concerned since I woke up in the hospital. But there’s another part of me, something deeper and more instinctive, that whispers warnings I can’t quite hear. Like my body remembers something my mind won’t let me see…
I look at our joined hands resting on the console between us. His is so much larger than mine, strong and capable, with expensive rings glinting on his fingers. A hand that I sense could protect or destroy with equal ease.
Which has it done to me?
I wish I knew.