Chapter Nine
Stella
I wake up alone, in a bed that isn’t mine yet smells of me.
Morning light filters through heavy curtains, casting golden patterns across rumpled silk sheets still warm from another body.
Aleksei’s body.
My hand reaches across the empty space beside me, fingers spreading wide as if to capture the lingering warmth. For a heartbeat, panic flutters in my chest—
Where am I?
Where is he?
Then I inhale deeply, and something settles inside me. Sandalwood, expensive cologne, and something distinctly male— Aleksei’s scent. My body relaxes before my mind understands why, responding to some deep-rooted memory my consciousness can’t access.
It’s instinctive, this recognition, like my cells themselves remember the weight of his body against mine, the heat of his skin.
The tension in my shoulders melts away, replaced by a humming awareness that spreads through my limbs like warm honey.
Even as my mind struggles to make sense of where I am, where he’s gone, my traitorous body already knows— already craves— his return, as if we’ve been dancing this dance for lifetimes instead of days.
I sit up slowly, wincing at the slight soreness between my thighs— a pleasant reminder of last night’s lovemaking. The ache is delicious, my body’s way of preserving the memory of him in my flesh when my mind still struggles to process everything.
God, Stella…
I don’t know what made me do it, but yesterday, something drove me to delve deeper with him.
As if the uncertainty that had been plaguing me had to be exorcised somehow.
And the only way I knew how to do it was with sex.
Not just sex— but that raw, desperate kind that strips away pretenses and leaves you vulnerable.
I needed answers my rational mind couldn’t provide, so I sought them with my body instead, hoping the physical connection might bridge the emotional gap between us.
What I learned has left me more confused than ever.
My fingers drift to my lips, still tender from his kisses. Images flash through my mind like photographs from someone else’s album: Aleksei’s hands gripping my hips, his mouth at my breast, Russian endearments growled against my neck.
Zaychik.
Krasivaya.
He said that I am precious to him. And I understood him because I speak Russian. The intimacy of the moment had stirred up something that felt instinctively familiar. I get flashes of family meals around a dinner table, happy chatter in my mother tongue.
I’m Russian?
Strange. I don’t feel Russian. But then again, what would that feel like anyway? Perhaps I should be wearing it the way he does. Aleksei’s national pride is unmistakable in his rolling vowels and gruff mannerisms. The hard edges to him.
Me? I just feel lost.
Although now, my body remembers his touch with such clarity that the cognitive blankness surrounding it feels like a cruel joke.
How can I remember the exact pressure of his fingers against my skin but not how we met?
How can I recall the precise sensation of him moving inside me, but not when we first made love?
Maybe it doesn’t matter?
Maybe we can just… be?
Maybe I should just stop thinking about it.
It’s giving me a headache. I squeeze my eyes shut, then exhale slowly, urging the tension to ease from my neck and shoulders.
The pressure builds behind my temples, a dull throb that matches my heartbeat.
I’ve always carried stress this way— locked in my body, turning questions into physical pain.
What good is obsessing over lost memories anyway? The harder I chase them, the more they seem to evade me.
Another deep breath.
I roll my shoulders back, trying to release the knots. Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets. Right now, my body is screaming for relief from questions I can’t answer.
Get up, Stella.
It’s not like he’s coming back anytime soon.
Reluctantly, I swing my legs from the mattress, inhaling one last breath of the scent of us on the sheets.
The morning air feels cool against my bare skin as I slip from the bed.
I find a silk robe hanging in the closet—was it mine before?
— and wrap it around my swollen belly. The fabric whispers against my skin, luxurious and unfamiliar yet somehow right.
I pad into the hallway, my bare feet alternating between the cool marble of the corridor and the plush warmth of scattered rugs. Each sensation pulls me more firmly into the present moment. The manor stretches before me, grand and imposing, filled with doorways that might lead to answers.
Or to more questions.
My fingertips trail along textured wallpaper, feeling the subtle raised patterns beneath my skin.
Each door I pass becomes a potential portal to my past. I hesitate before turning each knob, heart quickening with both hope and apprehension.
What might I discover? What piece of myself might be waiting on the other side?
Most rooms reveal nothing but more luxury— guest bedrooms with untouched linens, sitting rooms with perfectly arranged furniture, a library with books whose titles blur before my eyes.
Nothing triggers recognition, nothing clicks into place.
It’s like walking through a museum dedicated to someone else’s life.
Until I reach what appears to be a study.
His study. There’s no doubt in my mind of it.
Early morning light streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the golden beams. The room smells of leather and paper, with undertones of the same sandalwood that clings to Aleksei.
A huge walnut desk dominates the room, its contents carefully ordered in rows.
Pens and notepads neatly lined up, a laptop aligned precisely with the edge of the table.
I run a fingertip over the smooth surface as I look around the room.
Bookshelves and filing cabinets take up practically all of the available wall space.
Framed photos take up the remainder: Aleksei with a group of similarly grim-faced men who appear to be business associates; Aleksei with an older version of himself, who must be the brother he mentioned; Aleksei with a woman who could only be his twin— beautiful in a cold, almost brutal way.
And finally, Aleksei holding the hand of a small boy who seems to be awkwardly seated beside him.
I frown at the picture for a moment, taking in the same determined jaw and intense eyes that they share.
Could it be…?
I shake my head, turning back to the room and taking in the rest of it.
There’s a dark leather Chesterfield sofa in a spacious sitting area in the center of the room.
A coffee table in front of it holds piles of business magazines— Forbes , Times , the Wall Street Journal .
A newspaper lies carefully folded on a mahogany side table beside the sofa, opened to a feature article as if deliberately kept that way.
Something about the headline catches my eye.
“Heartfelt Evening: Charity Gala Raises Record-Breaking Funds for Sick Children.”
I move closer, drawn by an inexplicable pull. My heart nearly stops when I see the photograph beneath the headline. It’s me— undeniably me— in an elegant outfit that hugs every curve. I look confident, glamorous, my arm linked through Aleksei’s as camera flashes illuminate our faces.
The date on the publication is months ago. Meaning he must have kept this all this time? Why? To remember this moment? Perhaps it was special to us.
My fingers tremble as they trace the outline of my image. A memory flickers— the weight of glittering earrings, the taste of expensive champagne, Aleksei’s possessive hand at the small of my back as we pose for photographers. Then it’s gone almost as quickly as it emerged.
“Dammit,” I whisper, frustration knotting my shoulders. So close. I was so close to grasping something real.
I hover beside the table, the newspaper still clutched in my hands. My jaw clenches as I stare at the photo, willing it to unlock more memories. Nothing comes. Just that brief flash, that tantalizing glimpse into a life I can’t remember living.
Carefully setting the newspaper back where I found it, I leave the study and return to the hallway, making my way back to my bedroom in the opposite wing.
It doesn’t feel like home to me; I’d rather be back in his bedroom, in his bed.
But somehow, I’m not sure if I should go back there now.
Instead, I wander around my room, exploring it more closely than I did on arrival.
Like everything else, it doesn’t feel familiar.
The clothing in the dressing room tells of a woman with a taste for casual clothing, nothing like the glamorous evening wear in the paper.
Of course, most of it is maternity garb, thanks to my condition.
All the best brands, perfectly matched. There’s a yoga mat rolled in one corner and an entire section of exercise clothing.
Still, nothing feels like something I would have picked out for myself.
A drawer in the closet is slightly ajar. Without thinking, I pull it open, revealing a simple phone tucked inside among the items of lingerie. It’s not the latest model— nothing like the sleek smartphone Aleksei carries. This looks older, more basic. Curious, I turn it on.
The screen illuminates, showing several missed calls from someone named “Hannah.” The name resonates somewhere deep inside me, stirring something that feels like recognition.
Hannah. Red curls. Infectious laughter. Fierce loyalty.
The images come in disconnected flashes, gone before I can fully grasp them.
My thumb hovers over the callback button, heart racing. Who is Hannah to me? A friend? Family? Someone who might have answers?
Should I call her?
What would I even say?
I hesitate, then power down the phone and slip it into my robe pocket.
Something tells me to keep this discovery to myself— at least for now.
It feels strange to have a secret from Aleksei when he’s the only solid connection I have in this fog-filled existence, but the impulse is too strong to ignore.
Fatigue suddenly washes over me, my body reminding me of its limits.
Pregnancy and recovery demand rest, regardless of my mental turmoil.
I make my way back to my bedroom and lie down on the bed, my body sinking gratefully into the mattress.
The simple act of becoming horizontal brings immediate relief to my aching back.
I place both hands on my swollen belly, feeling the taut skin beneath my palms.
Then she moves.
Oh, my God!
My daughter shifts beneath my touch, a solid reminder that not everything is lost in the fog of my memory.
A small foot or elbow presses against my hand, and tears spring to my eyes unbidden.
This connection requires no memory; it exists purely in the present moment.
I love her with a fierceness that takes my breath away.
“Hello, little one,” I whisper, circling my thumb over the spot where I felt her movement. “At least I haven’t forgotten you.”
She responds with another kick, stronger this time, as if acknowledging my words. I smile through my tears, this simple interaction anchoring me when everything else feels adrift.
My thoughts shift to Aleksei. Despite the memory loss, my body responds to mere thoughts of him with an intensity that’s both thrilling and confusing.
I recall his gentleness last night—the careful way he washed my body, the kisses he placed on my pregnant belly, the protective arm he wrapped around me as I fell asleep.
He’s not that bad, surely?
There’s tenderness in him that seems at odds with his intimidating presence. His dark eyes soften when he looks at me, his touch becomes gentle despite the strength in his hands. He treats me like something precious, something he’s afraid of losing.
Yet beneath this attraction, this inexplicable connection, something whispers from the recesses of my subconscious.
A warning I can’t quite hear, a shadow I can’t quite see.
It’s there in the way my heart sometimes races when he moves too suddenly, in the chill that occasionally runs down my spine when his expression darkens.
What am I not remembering about him?
The question exhausts me further, and I feel my eyelids growing heavy. The phone in my pocket presses against my hip, a small weight that feels somehow significant.
Hannah.
I’ll think about her tomorrow, decide what to do. For now, sleep calls to me with irresistible force.
As consciousness begins to slip away, I keep one hand protectively spread across my belly.
My daughter kicks once more, gently this time, as if saying goodnight.
A smile curves my lips as sleep claims me, pulling me down into darkness where fragmented dreams await— dreams of evening wear and champagne, of money-filled suitcases and whispered Russian endearments, of a faceless woman named Hannah who seems to be calling my name from a great distance.
Somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking, a thought forms with strange clarity: I am safe here, protected.
But from what? And by whom?
The questions follow me into sleep, unanswered.