CHAPTER 1: FATHER OR SON?
JADA
I woke up with the last name of my ex fiance’s father burned into my wrist, his son—the rising hockey star’s diamond ring on my finger, and absolutely no memory of which Wallace I actually wanted.
~
“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused, you crazy bitch?”
That was the first thing he said to me.
Not are you okay. Not I was worried. Just that, delivered like a judgment while I was still lying in a hospital bed with burns up both arms and no memory of my own name.
I didn’t even know who he was yet.
I woke up to bright light stabbing through my eyelids and a woman in scrubs leaning over me. My throat felt like I’d swallowed gravel. My arms throbbed under the bandages wrapped from wrist to elbow. My blouse, ivory silk from the feel of it, was destroyed. Sleeves burned away in patches. Black streaks running across the front.
“Miss Brooks, can you hear me?”
I tried to sit up. The room tilted and I sank back down.
“You’re awake,” she said again, and I heard relief in her voice. “Try not to move too much.”
“Where am I?” My voice didn’t sound like mine.
“Hospital,” she said. “I’m Dr. Renee Harris. You were brought in last night after a fire.”
Fire.
The word didn’t unlock anything. I reached for a memory, any memory, and found nothing but white space.
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“That’s not unusual.” She pulled the curtain a little closer and checked the chart at the foot of the bed. “You were exposed to carbon monoxide for a significant period. Memory loss can happen. It may be temporary, but for now, you should assume you’ve lost memories from before the incident.”
My fingers curled slowly under the blanket. “All of it? How much?”
“Let’s start simple,” she said gently. “Do you remember your name?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
A chill moved through me, slow and cold. I tried again. My own name. The most basic thing a person can know about themselves, and I had nothing.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Don’t push yourself. Sometimes memories come back gradually. Sometimes they need help.”
“Help?” I echoed.
“Yes. Do you remember anyone close?
Colleagues? Family members? Close friends? Anyone emotionally important to you?”
Emotionally important?
That phrase stirred something faint in my chest.
I searched and came up empty.
Then I looked down.
My hospital gown was torn at the shoulder. The IV line ran into my left hand, and just above the needle, just above my pulse point, was a tattoo. A small outline of a heart, slightly faded, like it had been there for years. And inside it, written in clean black ink, was a name.
Wallace.
My pulse kicked up. “This…” I lifted my wrist toward her. “Who is this?”
Dr. Harris leaned in. “Wallace. It could be a name. Someone close to you, possibly.”
“I think,” I said. I didn’t know why I was certain, only that I was. “I think he’s important.”
“Unfortunately, when you were pulled from the fire, you didn’t have any personal belongings on you. No phone or wallet.”
My chest tightened. “Can the hospital help me find him?”
She hesitated for only a second. “We can try.”
She left. I stared at the ceiling tiles and counted them to keep my breathing even. I was wearing designer clothes, even burned ones. I had a tattoo with someone’s name on my wrist. That meant I had a life somewhere. People who knew me.
Someone had to be looking.
Twenty-five minutes later Dr. Harris came back. “We found him. Zayden Wallace. He’s on his way.”
My stomach dropped in two directions at once.
When the door swung open less than an hour later, I sat up straighter despite the pull of the bandages.
He walked in first.
Tall, six-three at least. Broad shoulders that filled the doorway. Black hoodie, dark jeans. His jaw was sharp and his hair was messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes were grey-green, the color of a lake in a storm. Unreadable.
He was beautiful in the way expensive sports cars were beautiful—impressive, polished, and entirely capable of ruining your life.
Even without knowing who he was, I could tell he was an athlete. Something about the way he moved, like he owned the space he was standing in.
Which was unfortunate, because opening his mouth immediately ruined the effect.
“So you’re awake.”
His eyes swept over the bandages wrapped around my arms.
For a split second, relief flashed across his face. Immediately, it was gone so quickly I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.
Then his expression hardened.
“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused, you crazy bitch?”
The pull I’d felt died immediately.
Behind him came a woman, smaller and softer, wearing a cashmere sweater the color of blush. Her hair fell in perfect waves. She looked like the kind of woman who never had to raise her voice to be heard.
Dr. Harris frowned. “Mr. Wallace, please keep your voice down. The patient is still recovering.”
“Recovering?” He scoffed. “She set the place on fire over a turkey.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”
His voice cracked on the last word.
For the first time, he didn’t sound angry. He sounded exhausted.
Turkey. My mind stalled.
“Zayden, it’s fine,” the woman beside him said softly. “I stepped out to buy sauce. That’s why I wasn’t hurt.”
His expression shifted immediately, softening in a way it hadn’t for me. “You were lucky. If you’d been inside, I’d never forgive her.”
The woman, Mila, touched his arm. “She’s already hurt. Maybe she just wanted you to worry a little.” She looked at me with wide eyes. “You know how she gets.”
Mila reached for my hand. I instinctively flinched.
Something flickered across her face. Hurt. Real hurt. Or a very convincing imitation of it.
Heat crawled up my neck. It was ridiculous to feel ashamed in front of strangers, but shame settled in my chest anyway. Maybe because a part of me feared they weren’t wrong about who I’d been.
“Yeah,” Zayden said. “I know exactly how she gets.”
I looked between them. They stood close together, comfortable in each other’s space, like people who belonged to one another.
“I’m sorry,” I said slowly. “Do I know you?”
