Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
When I finally back away, it’s slow. Careful. Like leaving the room too fast might break something sacred.
The hallway lights are harsh after the warm dimness of her room. I walk until I’m far enough away that the tightness in my chest cracks open. I lean against the wall and press my hands to my face. My mind races with everything I didn’t say. Everything I can’t say now. Everything I already know I’ll have to fight for again.
She doesn’t remember me. But that doesn’t matter. I remember her. Every damn inch.
And whoever did this—whoever hit her—they just signed their own death sentence.
Because Kelly might not know me right now, but I know exactly who she is. And that is mine.
And I will burn the world down before I let anything happen to her again.
Six
Kelly
My mind is a puzzle with a missing center piece.
* * *
The light in the hospital room is soft when I wake again, pale morning sun filtering through the blinds. It should feel comforting, warm, gentle.
It doesn’t. Everything inside me feels… wrong. Muted. Shifted half an inch to the left. Like the world knows something I don’t.
The beeping beside my bed is steady — too steady — compared to the thundering panic in my chest. I blink slowly, trying to orient myself. It takes effort, like lifting my eyelids is a job they aren’t qualified for.
Car. Truck. Pain. Dark. Fear.
The memory comes in a wave that makes my stomach heave.
I push the heel of my hand into my forehead. The pressure does nothing to ease the pounding behind my eyes.
“Hey. Easy.” The voice is deep. Gravelly. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
I turn my head too fast and a spike of pain shoots up my spine. But I ignore it, because he is there.
Standing near the door, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been guarding the room all night.
Ledger.
The name feels heavy on my tongue, like it should mean everything, and instead it means nothing. He looks tired. More than tired. Haunted.
His dark shirt is stretched across his shoulders, his cut hanging open like he threw it on without thinking. His jaw shadowed like he didn’t bother shaving.
But it’s his eyes that hit me the hardest.
Stormy. Fierce. And fixed on me like he’s terrified to look away.
My throat goes dry. “You’re still here.”
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t shift his weight, doesn’t soften. But something in his expression a flicker of warmth or relief appears for just a second.
“Yeah, sunshine,” he mutters quietly. “I’m here.”
Sunshine. Again.
The nickname rolls through me like a warm breeze over cold skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. My stomach flips, nausea and something else something unfamiliar but undeniably good mingling together.
“You should rest,” he adds, voice low and rough. “Doctors said you had a long night.”
“You didn’t have to stay.”
His jaw clenches. “I wasn’t leavin’.”
I swallow hard. “Even when I didn’t remember you?”
His eyes darken. “Especially then.”
A thickness forms in my chest. Confusion. Gratitude. Fear. Something like longing, though I don’t understand where it comes from. I don’t know this man. But my body reacts to him like it does.
A knock interrupts the moment, and a woman with a clipboard steps inside — pretty, blonde hair pulled into a neat ponytail, blue scrubs crisp.
“Morning, Kelly. I’m Dr. Salazar, the neurologist on call.”
She gives Ledger a quick glance assessing and cautious before turning her attention to me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like my head’s filled with concrete.” I admit. “It’s heavy.”
She smiles sympathetically. “That’s expected. You took a significant blow to the left side of your head. The good news is that your scans look clean. No bleeding. No swelling. Your memory loss appears to be what we call selective retrograde amnesia.”
Ledger stiffens, but stays silent.
I swallow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the memories closest to the event, sometimes emotionally charged ones as well, are temporarily inaccessible. They often return with time, rest, and reduced stress.”
Emotionally charged?
My eyes flick to Ledger. He looks away.
Oh. Oh. My chest tightens. “So I’ll remember everything in time?” I ask.
“Most likely,” she shares gently. “Amnesia caused by trauma is rarely permanent. Your brain is protecting itself. Once it feels safe again, those memories may return gradually in fragments or all at once.”
All at once sounds terrifying. Fractured pieces sounds worse.
“And until then?” I whisper.
“Until then be patient with yourself. Don’t force it. Let your instincts guide you.”
Instincts.
My gaze drifts back to Ledger. There’s a tug behind my ribs sharp, insistent like my instincts are already screaming, You know him. You trusted him once. You cared about him.
“Do I,” I hesitate, cheeks warming. “Do I have a husband?”
The doctor waits for Ledger to answer.
He doesn’t. His eyes stay locked on the floor.
“Kelly,” Dr. Salazar states gently, “relationships, responsibilities, and daily life may take a little while to come back into clarity.” She looks over my file. “Your emergency contact entered by EMS was a woman named Ally and it’s noted she’s your employer.”