Chapter Eleven: Whispers in Her Chest

Eliana awoke with a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, she didn't remember where she was. The sheets were too soft, the room too large. A soft breeze rustled the curtains, carrying in the scent of roses from the garden below. Slowly, the haze cleared—and she remembered.

The Blackwood estate. Her supposed home. Her supposed husband.

Damon.

Her gaze shifted toward the bedside table. A sleek black box sat atop it—velvet, elegant. She opened it.

A necklace.

Silver. A crescent moon nestled against a tiny star. The chain gleamed softly under the early morning light.

There was no note, but she didn't need one.

It was from him.

She hesitated, then clasped it around her neck. The cool metal kissed her skin.

It felt… right.

But that only confused her more.

---

Later that morning, over breakfast, Damon noticed the necklace immediately. His eyes lingered on it for a second longer than they should have, his mouth twitching into a soft smile.

"You remembered it," he said.

Eliana blinked. "No… not exactly."

"You picked it out yourself. Said it reminded you of something from childhood," he said, tone light. "I had it custom-made for your birthday last year."

She touched the pendant unconsciously. "It's beautiful."

He reached for his coffee. "So are you."

The compliment slipped out so naturally, she almost didn't notice it. But her heart did. It stumbled, skittering in her chest like a startled bird.

She looked away, pretending to focus on the fruit on her plate.

And her body kept responding.

That terrified her.

---

Eliana wandered the garden alone after breakfast. The sun was warm, the sky an unbroken blue. Everything around her was perfect. Manicured, tailored, exquisite.

Too perfect.

That was what unsettled her most.

She didn't remember planting these flowers, yet Mira said she'd designed the layout herself. She didn't remember the cat lounging on the stone path, yet the staff said it never left her side before.

And Damon… he was the worst puzzle of all.

Her fingers drifted to her lips. She didn't remember kissing him, yet her body reacted when he stood too close.

She wanted to pull away.

She wanted to lean in.

Which one was real?

---

Later that day, while flipping through a coffee table book in the living room, Eliana glanced up and saw him standing at the doorway, watching her.

"You always curl your toes when you're confused," he said casually.

She blinked. "I do?"

He smiled, stepping in. "You do it when you're reading, too. Right before you underline something."

She looked down at her bare feet. Her toes were, in fact, curled tightly into the plush rug.

He sat beside her, careful not to touch.

"You're remembering things," he said gently.

Eliana stared at the book without seeing it. "I don't know if they're real memories or just… suggestions."

"They're real," Damon said softly. "This place, this life—it was yours long before the accident."

She turned to look at him. "And you? Were you mine too?"

He didn't hesitate. "I still am."

Something in his voice made her heart ache—and she didn't know why.

---

That evening, she stood in front of the mirror, turning the pendant between her fingers.

She didn't remember Damon Blackwood.

But she was beginning to feel him.

In the way his presence warmed a room.

In the way his voice calmed the storms inside her.

In the way her body leaned—subtly, almost against her will—whenever he was near.

But it didn't make sense.

Attraction without memory felt like betrayal. Of what, she didn't know. Herself? Her past?

What kind of woman falls for a man she doesn't remember?

What if she'd once loved someone else?

What if Damon was lying?

But then again, what if he wasn't?

She traced the star on the necklace and whispered into the silence, "Why do I want to believe you?"

There was no answer.

Just the quiet hum of her heart, confused and aching.

A soft knock came at the door. Damon's voice followed, smooth and composed.

"Eliana? Are you up for a drive?"

She sat up, brushing hair from her face. "A drive?"

"I thought we could go out. Somewhere familiar. The place you used to love." He paused. "The lakeside café. By the cliffs."

She hesitated. "I don't remember that."

His voice lowered, almost wistful. "You always said it made you feel like the world paused when you were there. Said it helped you breathe."

Something about that tugged at her chest. Even if it was a lie, it was a beautiful one.

"I'll be ready in fifteen," she said.

---

The drive was quiet at first.

Damon kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. The car glided over the road like it knew the way without being told. Trees blurred past them, their shadows flickering over Eliana's face like fingers trying to remind her of something she couldn't reach.

She snuck a glance at him.

He looked… careful. As though any wrong move might shatter whatever fragile peace they were holding between them.

"I've been meaning to ask," she began, trying to keep her tone light, "how long were we… married before the accident?"

He didn't flinch. "Three months."

"Not very long," she murmured.

"It was long enough to matter," he replied.

She looked out the window again. "Strange. You speak about us like we were happy."

His grip on the wheel tightened, just a fraction. "We had… our challenges. But we were finding our rhythm."

Finding our rhythm. Not found. Not steady.

Vague enough to be true. Or to be a lie.

---

The lakeside café stood on a quiet cliffside, all glass and stone with sprawling views of the water below. Wind tousled Eliana's hair as they stepped out of the car, the scent of coffee and salt air weaving together in a gentle caress.

The moment her feet touched the wooden deck, she froze.

A flicker.

An image—herself, standing by the railing. A cup of cocoa in hand. Laughter echoing around her.

And then it was gone.

"Do you remember?" Damon asked, standing behind her.

"No. Just… a feeling. Like I've stood here before."

His eyes lingered on her face. "That's how it begins."

They took a table by the window. Damon ordered for both of them—black coffee for him, hazelnut latte and lemon tart for her.

"You said this was your comfort combo," he explained with a soft smile. "After rough mornings."

She took a sip. The flavor was good. Familiar, even.

But it didn't feel like a memory. It felt like a guess. Like he was nudging her toward something.

Still, she smiled back. "You remember a lot of little things."

"I paid attention," he said simply.

She tapped a finger against the ceramic cup. "Did I?"

His eyes darkened for a second. "Sometimes."

There was something guarded in his tone now. She let it go.