Memories Slipping

Isla stood in the vast library of Damien's estate, fingers tracing absentmindedly over the leather-bound books lining the mahogany shelves. The scent of aged paper and polished wood lingered in the air, but beneath it, something else stirred—a faint fragrance, something warm and familiar.

Sandalwood.

Her fingers curled against her palm as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

A whisper of laughter. A touch at her wrist. A fleeting moment—someone brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Isla blinked, her breath hitching. The memory, if it even was one, slipped away before she could grasp it, dissolving like mist in the morning light.

"Are you going to keep staring at the bookshelf, or did you find something useful?"

Damien's voice pulled her back to the present. He stood by his desk, arms crossed, watching her with that same unreadable expression.

She exhaled slowly, gathering herself. "It's nothing. Just… thinking."

He didn't look convinced. "That's not what it looked like."

Isla turned back to the books, using the moment to steady her thoughts. "Have you ever felt like you were remembering something, but it's just out of reach? Like… it's there, but it's not yours?"

A pause. Then, "You think you're remembering us?"

The words sent a shiver down her spine. Isla turned to face him fully. "I don't know."

Damien was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pushed off the desk and walked toward her.

"There's something about you," he murmured, his gaze sharper now, searching her face. "Something I can't place. It's like I should know you."

Isla swallowed, her heartbeat a little too fast.

"Maybe because I'm your wife?" she said, forcing sarcasm into her voice.

Damien's lips quirked at the corner, but his eyes remained dark. "No, it's more than that."

She held his gaze, a strange, unsettling energy settling between them. It wasn't attraction. It wasn't simple curiosity.

It was recognition.

A recognition that neither of them should have.

Isla stepped back, needing space. "We should focus on what we do know."

Damien studied her for a moment longer, then exhaled. "Fine. But whatever this is, Isla? It's not just about a piece of paper. Someone wanted us together. And I don't think it was by accident."

His words sent a chill down her spine.

Because deep down, she was starting to believe the same thing.

Isla's heels clicked against the marble floor of Damien's estate, her grip tightening around the strap of her handbag. The weight of another dead-end sat heavily on her shoulders. She and Serena had spent hours trying to retrace her steps on the day of the wedding, scouring through every possible piece of evidence. And yet—nothing.

No receipts. No hotel records. No credit card transactions that traced back to her.

It was as if she had walked into a void that night.

But Damien—he had hired a private investigator. If anyone had answers, it would be him.

She found him in his study, leaning against the grand desk, a glass of scotch in his hand. The room was dim, lit only by the golden glow of a single lamp. His posture was relaxed, almost too casual, but there was something about the way his fingers tensed around the glass that sent a warning bell ringing in her head.

He was hiding something.

"You're back." His tone was neutral, his gray eyes watching her carefully.

"You sound surprised," Isla shot back, dropping her bag onto the couch. "Did you think I'd just give up?"

Damien exhaled through his nose, setting his glass down. "What did you find?"

"Nothing." She folded her arms. "No records, no traces. It's like I didn't exist that night."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. Isla narrowed her eyes.

"You found something, didn't you?" she accused. "What did your investigator say?"

Damien picked up a folder from the desk, his fingers tapping lightly against it. "He confirmed that a wedding happened. It was legal. The paperwork is real."

"How? We were both so out of it. How could there be a wedding and we didn't remember? Isla asked." She took a step forward, voice sharp. "What else?"

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Then, slowly, he slid the folder toward her.

Isla hesitated before opening it. Inside were photographs—grainy security footage stills. A dimly lit chapel. She, in a simple white dress, standing next to Damien. The officiant. A few blurred figures in the background.

"When did all these happen? I never remember wearing a wedding gown. And people were there. Why the blurred face?"

Damien's silence was louder than words.

"There's more." Isla's voice dropped, a whisper now. "You're not telling me everything."

Damien ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "I'm telling you what you need to know."

Her heart pounded. "Damien—"

"Ilsa." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "Leave it alone."

But how could she?

She flipped through the pictures again, and then she saw it—a detail she had missed the first time.

A shadowy figure standing in the background, their face turned away from the camera.

Something about their stance, the way their head was slightly inclined toward her, made her stomach twist.

She had the strangest feeling that whoever this person was… they knew her.

And worse—she had the distinct feeling that they had wanted her to forget. 

Is that why she has been having some flashes in her head? Who are they and what do they want?

The rain hadn't stopped all evening, Isla sat curled up in the corner of the couch, a thick blanket draped over her legs, her laptop balanced on her knees, the glow from the screen illuminated her face as she absentmindedly scrolled through the emails she had no motivation to respond.

The house was quiet, except for the occasional flicker of fire in the grand fireplace. She was getting used to living with Damien, they had tried looking for more conspiracy in their marriage but things were not adding up. It was as if someone knew they were looking into it and decided to hide all the clues. She closed her laptop and decided to watch TV. Then she heard footsteps coming from the stairs. She knew who it was but kept her gaze on the TV. These past few days, she felt familiarity with Damien as if they had known each other for a very long time and were bound. Whenever she sees him, it brings some flashes back to her head. A man touching her but she had no idea who it was. No man has ever touched her except Julian. Speaking of Julian, she hasn't heard of him ever since their last fight. She wonders how he's doing. 

Damien came down in grey sweatpants and was shirtless, showing his physique. He had a great body and he knew. His hands were in his pocket and his hair was disheveled, not his usual bossy hair. 

"Are you enjoying that TV show?"

Isla was forced to remove her gaze from the TV to look at him. "Why asking? Is it bothering you?"

"Nope, I never took you for the show type. You said you liked drama."

Isla's heart raced. He remembered. Julian never does.

She looked away. Her cheek reddened. "I didn't think you would remember that."

"You technically called Victoria a witch."

"Well, she was, The mean and calculating witch just like you."

Damien leaned on the counter, his lips forming a smirk. "Mean?'

"Well, you're cold and calculating. You've got this aura around you. No one dares messes with you."

"And they don't know better than not to. Isla you and I both run companies even if yours is a firm. They are enemies everywhere, trying to take over them. Sitting in the dark. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

"Well, not mine. I lost my parent when I was young. My brother disappeared and the firm was lawfully given to me, so I don't think I have enemies who want to take it from me."

"You are smart in law but you are not smart in the business ways."

"Did you just insult me?"

"Anyway you wish to take it, wifey."

"I like you this way. You are not in your bossy form and it's cool talking to you right now."

"I'm not cool to talk to."

"Well you are, with me now, and I'm the only one who sees it. I don't know, it'sexcitingg."

Damien didn't respond and walked towards the kitchen. Isla wondering what he was planning to do stood up and followed him. She stood by the kitchen counter, watching Damien bring out a pan from the cupboard.

"Did you eat?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" she blinked looking surprised

"Dinner. Did you eat?

Isla paused for a while. Had she? She wasn't sure.

"I don't know if..." her stomach grumbled leaving Isla looking embarrassed. She looked away not wanting to see Damien's mocking face.

 He chuckled. "Seems your stomach had other things to say."

"It's just a normal reaction."

Damien nodded before turning away from her. She could have sworn she saw Damien smile. He stood by the stove, a pan sizzling in front of him. He moved efficiently, but there was ease in his movements like he'd done this a hundred times.

"You're cooking?" she blurted.

He didn't look at her. "You sound surprised."

"I am."

"And why is that?'

"Because you don't seem like the type to step into the kitchen unless it's to fire chef."

That earned her a short, amused glance. " I grew up cooking for myself," he said simply. "Old habits die hard."

Something about that made her pause. The statement hinted at something else, something past the polished image he always projected.

She leaned against the counter, watching him. "This is nice. The husband cooks for his wife."

He glanced up at her again. "You're enjoying this."

"Can't lie. I am enjoying this so much. Maybe living with you is so not bad after all."

'Don't be delusional."

"That's harsh," she frowned a little but brightened up when she saw him putting pasta into the boiling water. "What are you preparing?"

"Homemade pasta with rice sauce, steak with sautéed green."

"Sound yummy. Can't wait."

They kept on talking feeling more comfortable with each other like it was natural and was meant to be. Her heart was beginning to sway little by little without her realizing it.

The office was quiet except for the occasional rustle of papers and the soft hum of Serena's laptop. Isla sat at her desk, eyes scanning the documents spread before her, trying to piece together fragments of a past she couldn't remember. Across from her, Serena was similarly engrossed, flipping through another file.

"This makes no sense," Serena muttered, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "You're telling me you and Damien married, you were in a wedding gown. Few people were there but you don't recognize any, yet there's barely any documentation? No wedding pictures, no records of a ceremony—just a marriage that popped out of nowhere."

Isla sighed, rubbing her temples. "I know. It's frustrating."

Serena frowned, tapping a finger against the paper in front of her. "There has to be something. No way a marriage—especially to someone like Damien Calloway—could be this… invisible."

Isla opened her mouth to respond, but her phone buzzed on the desk. She glanced at the screen. Damien.

Serena smirked. "Speak of the devil."

Rolling her eyes at Serena, Isla picked up the call with a blush. "What do you want?"

"Nice to hear your voice too, wife." His smooth, amused tone sent butterflies to her stomach and made her heart race.

She ignored it. "I'm busy, Damien."

"Well, not anymore. We have an event tonight."

Isla frowned, glancing at Serena, who raised a curious brow. "What event?"

"A fundraiser. Business elites, politicians, media—people who need to see us together."

"Damien, I don't have time for—"

"You do now," he cut in smoothly. "I'll send the details. 7 PM sharp. Don't be late."

She clenched her jaw. "You can't just dictate my schedule like this."

"Sure, I can," he replied, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. "See you tonight, Isla."

The call ended before she could argue further.

Isla groaned, dropping her phone onto the desk.

Serena tilted her head, grinning. "Sounds like someone's got a date."

"It's not a date," Isla muttered, rubbing her forehead.

"Uh-huh. You know, for a mystery marriage, your husband sure acts like he's in charge."

Isla exhaled, standing up. "I need a dress."

Serena smirked. "Now that's the spirit."

 ****

The event was in full swing—chatter, clinking glasses, and the smooth hum of music filled the air. Isla stood beside Damien, her posture flawless, her expression composed, but he had noticed the shift. The subtle weight shifts from one foot to another. The faint crease between her brows. The way she curled her toes slightly as if searching for relief within the confines of her heels.

She was in pain.

Damien didn't say anything at first, simply watching her. Isla was stubborn, the kind of woman who wouldn't complain even if she was hurting. But he didn't like seeing her like this.

"Stay here," he murmured, his voice low.

She blinked up at him. "What? Where are you going?"

But Damien was already stepping away, leaving her confused as he disappeared into the crowd. Isla sighed, adjusting the strap of her purse over her shoulder, shifting her weight again.

Minutes passed. She was just about to look for him when she felt a presence beside her. She turned—and there he was, holding a bag in one hand, his other reaching out to her.

"Come with me," he said.

She hesitated but placed her hand in his anyway, letting him guide her out of the ballroom, and down a quieter corridor. Once they were alone, he crouched down in front of her and opened the bag, pulling out a pair of white sneakers.

Isla stared. "Are those…?"

"Your size," Damien said, matter-of-fact. Then, glancing up at her, his voice softened. "Sit."

She hesitated again, but there was something about the way he was looking at her—no impatience, no mockery, just quiet care. Slowly, she sat on the bench against the wall.

Damien reached for her ankle. Isla tensed, her breath catching as his fingers brushed her skin, his touch surprisingly gentle. He removed her heels one by one, his brows furrowing slightly as he took in the faint red marks on her feet.

"You should've said something," he murmured.

She looked away. "It wasn't that bad."

Damien didn't respond, but his actions spoke for him. He slipped the sneakers onto her feet, tying the laces with practiced ease. When he was done, he looked up at her.

"Better?"

Isla flexed her foot, and relief washed over her. She sighed, a soft smile forming before she could stop it.

"Yeah," she admitted. "Much better."

He stood, towering over her again. "Good," he said like it was final. Like he had decided that she wouldn't have to endure discomfort if he could help it.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and something warm spread through her chest.

"Thank you, Damien," she said softly.

His eyes flickered to hers, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he cleared his throat, looking away.

"Let's go back," he said, his voice quieter now.

And as they walked side by side, Isla in her new sneakers, realized something—she felt lighter. Not just because her feet no longer hurt, but because of him.