CHAPTER 11 – DEEPENING BONDS
Daisy
I’m standing at the stove in Hunter’s kitchen, splattered with flecks of oil and clinging to a spatula like it’s a talisman. I don’t even remember how I got here, just that a minute ago I was in bed, and now I’m cracking eggs into a bowl the color of robins’ eggs.
The kitchen is gleaming white and very expensive.
The sun coming through the floor-to-ceiling glass dazzles the eyes, but also makes the space weirdly peaceful, like I’m the only person alive in a world made for me.
I drop butter into a pan, watch it fizz and melt, and try not to cry because it smells absolutely heavenly.
The fridge is still a wonder: every shelf lined with perfectly organized cartons, jars, tiny glass bottles of expensive milk.
I pull out a packet of smoked bacon, and line the slices on the griddle.
I don’t remember ever cooking in my old life, but somehow my hands know what to do.
It’s muscle memory, maybe, or just something ancient and female buried in my bones.
When the bacon starts to curl, I grab a glass bottle of maple syrup from the fridge, pop the cap, and inhale. It’s so rich and sweet it’s almost floral, and for a second I want to tip the bottle straight into my mouth. Instead, I set it on the counter and go back to the eggs.
The yolks are golden, the color of a yellow dress I might have owned once. I whisk egg, salt, pepper, and milk together, and pour the mixture into the buttery pan. The eggs sizzle. The whole place smells like a storybook morning, which is so impossibly normal that it almost breaks me.
I move to the coffee machine, because Hunter likes his joe, and I want to have it ready for him.
The machine is industrial, with more dials and levers than a spaceship, but I figure it out—grind, tamp, click, and suddenly the whole room is alive with the sound of the espresso shot hitting the cup.
The smell is dark and sharp, almost enough to cut through the fog in my head.
I’m flipping the pancakes (yes, pancakes—Hunter’s housekeeper left a pre-mixed batter in the fridge, bless her), when it happens.
I look up and the kitchen is gone.
Instead, I’m somewhere else—a smaller, darker room, with yellow curtains over the windows and a chipped blue mixing bowl on the counter.
The walls are a strange brown, and there are magnets shaped like cows all over the fridge.
There’s a girl at the table—me, but not me, younger and angry, yelling at a man who stands in the doorway.
His face is in shadow. He’s saying something I can’t hear, but his hand gestures are angry, and he holds a mug with a cartoon cat on it.
I try to speak, but the whole scene flashes and I’m back in the penthouse, pancakes burning and the spatula on the floor.
What was that? My hands are shaking. My knees are weak.
I stare at the eggs, which have solidified into a yellow mat, then at the bacon, which is now curling to a crisp.
I want to scream, or maybe cry, but the memory’s already slipping away, like someone’s yanked it back behind a wall.
I stand there, trying to breathe, when I hear footsteps from the hall.
It’s Hunter.
He’s in sweats, navy blue, and a black T-shirt with the word “STATE” in neat white block letters. His dark hair is still wet, curling in front, and he smells like expensive soap and warm man. He rubs one eye, sees me, and stops mid-stride.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice still gravelly.
“I made breakfast,” I manage. I try to smile, but my lips just quiver. “I mean, I tried.”
Hunter comes closer, glances at the pan, then at my face. He’s holding his phone in one hand, and even though I know he’s been up for all of sixty seconds, he looks hesitant.
“You okay?” he says, setting the phone on the island. “You look—”
“Fine,” I say, too fast. “Just a little dizzy. The sun’s really bright in here.”
He studies me for a beat, then goes to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and hands it over. I clutch it, cold sweating against my palm.
He takes a deep breath, then pours himself a coffee. He drinks it black, no sugar, which is far too strong for me. But the alpha male sits on a stool at the island, scrolls his phone, and pauses. He glances at me to keep an eye on things.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel, try to gather the pancakes and bacon onto a plate, but the memory flash has left me weak and weirdly hollow.
Hunter’s phone vibrates, and this time he really looks at the screen. His face goes hard, then pale.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice soft.
He shakes his head, doesn’t answer at first. He sets the phone on the counter, but his hand stays clenched around it, the knuckles white.
“It’s nothing,” he growls, but I know that look. It means he’s determined. He wants something - and as a predator, he’s going to get it.
I bring the plate of food to the island and seat myself next to that huge male form. I nudge his arm with my elbow, a joke that used to work on boys back when I went to high school. He doesn’t laugh, but he does smile slightly, the movement a shadow on his mobile lips.
“Eat,” I say. “I made the bacon extra crispy. Like you like it.”
He forks a piece, chews, then sets it down. “You had another one, didn’t you?”
I freeze, bacon halfway to my lips. “What do you mean? Another what?”
He holds my eyes. “A memory.”
I look down at the plate, pick at the edge of a pancake, syrup pooling on my finger. “Yeah,” I say, so quiet I barely hear myself. “It was… I don’t know. It felt real. Like a movie I was inside of. There was a kitchen. Yellow curtains. A blue bowl.”
Hunter’s eyes flick to the side, as if he’s running through a file in his brain.
“Did anything else come back?” he asks. He sounds gentle, but there’s a tension under the words, like he’s measuring every one.
I shake my head. “Just flashes. Nothing sticks.”
He takes a long breath, then slides his phone across the counter so I can see the screen.
It’s an email, open to the body text. The first line says: UPDATE – RE: SUBJECT “DAISY”. The rest is a wall of text, but my eyes snag on the words “dissociative fugue” and “trauma-induced amnesia.”
I don’t want to read it, but I do.
…Subject continues to display evidence of classic dissociative fugue; the new identity is stable, but signs of stress or trauma (including but not limited to sudden changes in environment, accidental reminders, or re-exposure to water/immersion) may act as triggers for memory recall.
In clinical experience, water is both a trauma cue and a comfort object for the subject.
Recommend minimizing high-stimulus triggers unless under controlled circumstances…
I stare at the screen, then up at Hunter. He’s looking at me with an odd mix of worry and hunger, like he wants to both fix and devour me at once.
“Is this about me?” I ask, dazed.
Hunter nods. “I talked to a psychologist, and asked them to do a quick rundown. They know your name is Daisy, but they think it’s code for someone else. Anyways as you can see, they think you have this illness called dissociative fugue.”
My throat is tight. “So I’m broken.”
He’s quick, fierce. “You’re not broken. You’re just rebuilding your memories, that’s all.” His fingers reach for mine, and I let him. His hand is warm, big, callused in all the right ways. “You’re safe here, Daisy. For as long as you want to be.”
I smile weakly. “Thanks, but you saw the email. Maybe I should stay away from the pool for a while, otherwise I’ll totally combust.”
Hunter smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or maybe,” he says, “we should try something different today. Like a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Fresh air. Less white space,” he says, looking around the kitchen as if it’s part of the problem. “There’s a place I used to go as a kid. Lake Harriet. It’s beautiful, even in winter. You ever been?”
I search my memory. Nothing.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
His smile is brighter this time. “You’ll love it. And if you want to talk more, we can. Or we can just walk and watch the geese be assholes to each other.”
That makes me laugh, and the weird heaviness in my chest loosens a little.
“Okay,” I say. “A walk. Let me just—” I look down at the bacon grease on my shirt, the flour dust on my thighs. “Let me get dressed first.”
“Take your time,” Hunter says. “I’ll clean up.”
I leave him in the kitchen, my heart a confused tangle of relief and fear and something I’m scared to name. After all, what will happen when I figure out who I really am? Am I married? Do I have a worried husband or boyfriend to go back to? Oh my god, what if I have kids waiting at home?
But then, I remember that’s impossible because I’m a virgin. Yet sadness permeates my frame because I’ll almost definitely have to leave Hunter to return to my former life. I’ll have to go back to being the old me, although I don’t even know who she is.
Distressed, I go to the closet, peel off my shirt, stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The girl there is a stranger and not a stranger: hair wild, cheeks flushed, blue eyes huge and haunted. For a second, I see her in the yellow kitchen, older, angry, but then the image slips away.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, grab a sweater, and pull it over my head.
When I go back to the kitchen, the counters are spotless, the air thick with coffee and the faintest whiff of maple.
Hunter is waiting, phone back in his pocket, keys in his hand.
“You ready?” he says, and there’s a tenderness in his voice that makes me want to cry.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
We leave the penthouse together, and the whole way to the elevator, Hunter keeps his hand at the small of my back. Not pushing, not guiding. Just there. Like a reminder that, even if I fall apart again, there’s someone who knows how to hold the pieces together.
Because he’s the only person who truly knows me now.