THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORGOTTEN BRIDE

The first thing Emma became aware of was the sterile scent of antiseptic. Then came the sound-a faint beep, steady and rhythmic, like a metronome keeping time with the hollow ache in her skull.

Her eyes fluttered open. The world was too bright.

She blinked, once, twice. A high ceiling with ornate molding loomed above her, and soft cream curtains filtered morning light through the tall windows. The bed she lay in was impossibly large, the sheets smooth and cool against her skin. For a moment, she wondered if she was still dreaming.

"Emma?"

The voice startled her. Deep, measured. Masculine. She turned her head slowly, the motion straining something in her neck. A man sat in a chair at the edge of the room. His posture was rigid, his face calm-but his eyes were locked on her like a hawk watching prey.

He was devastatingly handsome. Chiseled cheekbones, midnight-black hair combed back neatly, and a suit that looked like it cost more than a car. Yet there was no warmth in his gaze. No softness.

Just an unsettling familiarity she couldn't place.

"Who-who are you?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, rasped from disuse.

The man's expression didn't change. "I'm Julian. Julian cran. I'm your husband."

Emma blinked at him, the words striking her like a blow. Husband?

"No," she croaked. "That... can't be right. I don't-" She tried to sit up, panic rising in her chest. A jolt of pain behind her temples made her cry out, and suddenly he was at her side, pushing her gently but firmly back against the pillows.

"You had an accident," Julian said. His voice was calm, clinical, rehearsed. "A car crash. You've been unconscious for three days."

She stared at him, the word accident repeating in her mind like a bad echo. "I don't remember anything," she whispered.

Julian's jaw tensed. "The doctors said that might happen. Temporary amnesia. They're monitoring your recovery."

"Amnesia?" The panic now clawed up her throat. "Why don't I remember you? Why don't I remember me?"

Julian looked away, just for a second. When he met her eyes again, his expression was unreadable. "Your name is Emma Crane. We've been married for a year. You live here-with me."

He gestured around the massive room. It looked more like a luxury hotel suite than a bedroom. The walls were lined with abstract art, the furniture modern and expensive. But nothing felt familiar.

Emma swallowed hard. "Where is... my family? Do I have one?"

"They've been contacted," Julian replied smoothly. "Your sister lives overseas. Your father's... no longer in the picture."

The pause before that last part made her shiver.

He stood again, adjusting the cufflinks on his sleeves. "You need rest. I've arranged for a nurse to come check on you shortly. If you need anything, press the button next to your bed."

Emma watched him as he walked toward the door, his presence filling the room even in silence. She wanted to call out, to ask a hundred questions-about their life together, about her past-but something about his demeanor warned her not to. He was composed, commanding... and utterly cold.

"Julian?" she asked quietly.

He paused at the doorway without turning back.

"Did... we love each other?"

For a moment, he didn't respond. Then, without looking at her, he said, "Once," and left the room.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Emma lay back against the pillows, her heart pounding in her chest. Nothing made sense. The name he'd given her felt foreign. The way he'd looked at her-like she was both a stranger and a burden-only deepened her confusion. Was this really her life?

Had she truly chosen to marry a man who looked at her like that?

The door clicked softly, and a kind-looking nurse stepped in, smiling gently. She moved to Emma's side, checking her vitals and asking her name, the date, and if she knew where she was.

"I don't remember anything," Emma confessed, voice cracking.

"That's okay, sweetheart," the nurse said soothingly. "Memory loss isn't uncommon after trauma. Sometimes it comes back in pieces. One moment, one image at a time."

As the nurse spoke, Emma glanced around the room again, searching for something-anything-that would ground her. A photograph, a personal item, a note. But the surfaces were spotless, impersonal. No clutter. No photos. No evidence that a real life had been lived here.

Emma's stomach turned.

When the nurse stepped out, promising a light meal soon, Emma sat up slowly despite the pounding in her head. She touched her face, her arms, trying to anchor herself in her own skin. Was this really her body? These her hands?

She shuffled to the edge of the bed and stood shakily, her legs weak. The floor was smooth marble, cold beneath her bare feet. Step by step, she approached the vanity mirror across the room.

The reflection startled her. She looked... young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Her hair was dark brown, long and tousled, and her eyes-green, wide, rimmed with uncertainty-stared back at her like those of a frightened stranger.

"This isn't me," she murmured to her reflection.

But the reflection didn't argue. It only mirrored her fear.

Something deep inside her whispered that things weren't as they seemed. She could feel it in the way Julian avoided her gaze, in the lack of warmth in the house that was supposedly her home.

Who was she before the accident?

And why did she feel like she'd been trying to run away?