Chapter 152

Chapter 152
Nydia's POV
Ever since Tanner had shown me that news report about Vincent, he'd decided—without any real evidence—that Vincent was dead. And ever since then, he'd been insufferably pleased with himself about it.
He brought it up every chance he got.
"Such a shame, really. I actually respected Vincent. He was a worthy opponent."
"Just terrible luck, though. I never expected him to go down so easily. Honestly, a bit disappointing."
"Without Vincent around, life feels a little less interesting, you know?"
He wore this expression the whole time—this elaborate performance of grief and wistfulness that fooled absolutely no one. Every word dripped with satisfaction he was barely bothering to hide.
It made my stomach turn.
"You could always join him," I said pleasantly. "I'd visit your grave. I'd even bring flowers."
Tanner pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. "Nydia, that's cold. I actually considered it, you know. Following Vincent into the dark."
A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it. There was not a single gram of truth in that sentence.
He didn't seem bothered by my reaction. If anything, he leaned further into the performance. "But then I thought of you," he said, voice softening into something theatrical and nauseating. "You were everything Vincent cared about. He'd want me to look after you in his place." He tilted his head. "Actually—why don't I stay with you tonight? He used to keep you company. You must be lonely sleeping alone. I'd hate for you to feel neglected."
I looked at him flatly. "Try it and see what happens to you."
"I'm a little scared," Tanner admitted. "But for Vincent's sake, I'll find the courage."
I set down my fork.
"I'm done eating."
"You've barely touched anything."
"Listening to you talk tends to kill my appetite."
"Fair enough." He stood, buttoning his vest with easy, unhurried movements. "I'll get out of your way, then. Eat something—you'll need your strength tonight." He smiled at whatever expression crossed my face, then turned and headed upstairs before I could respond.
I watched him go, suspicious of the sudden consideration.
One of the maids stepped forward, quiet and attentive. "Miss Nydia, is there something else I can bring you? Something more to your taste, perhaps?"
"No, thank you." I picked up my fork again and started eating.
There was nothing wrong with the food. The cook here was genuinely talented. I'd only said I was done because I'd wanted an excuse to leave the table before I said something I'd regret. Now that Tanner was gone, there was no reason to punish myself.
And if I was going to get out of this place, I needed to keep my strength up.
I finished the meal slowly, and when the maid came to clear the dishes, I stood and began stacking plates alongside her.
She looked alarmed. "Miss Nydia, please—Mr. Tanner will have us in trouble if he sees you doing this."
"I'm bored out of my mind," I said. "Let me do something useful." I caught her eye and offered a small smile. "And if anyone asks, it was entirely my idea."
I'd been making a point of this since I'd first started thinking seriously about leaving—small gestures, easy conversation, nothing calculated enough to raise suspicion. Just enough to be remembered as someone worth helping.
She relaxed and let me assist her.
We talked while we worked. Nothing significant. Weather, cooking, the kind of small, inconsequential things that fill silence comfortably. I didn't press for anything. I never did.
---
I took a shower when I got back to my room, and when I came out, Tanner was sitting on the edge of my bed.
He was wearing a gray bathrobe. His hair was soaking wet, still dripping onto the duvet.
"Do you own a towel?" I asked.
He blinked—a flicker of surprise, quickly covered. "I expected you to throw me out the moment you saw me."
"Would you leave if I told you to?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then what would be the point." I pointed at him. "Go dry your hair. You're ruining my sheets."
"Come do it for me."
"Go do it yourself."
"Then I'll stay like this."
I let the silence stretch for a moment, pretending to think it over. When he opened his mouth to push again, I let out a slow breath.
"Fine," I said, making sure it sounded like I was doing him an enormous favor.
Something genuinely pleased crossed his face. He stood and started toward the en suite, talking as he went. "You know, you should really consider giving me a fair shot. I'm not worse than Vincent—I'm just different. And these past few days, spending time with you—" He glanced back over his shoulder. "Doesn't this almost feel domestic? Like we've been doing this for years?"
I said nothing.
The moment he stepped through the bathroom door, I pulled it shut behind him and turned the lock.
Two seconds of silence.
Then: "Nydia."
"Can't hear you," I said.
"You set me up." His voice was caught somewhere between fury and disbelief.
"Sleep on it," I said. "You'll feel clearer in the morning."
I walked back to the bed and lay down.
I wasn't staying put because I'd given up. I was staying put because escaping right now would be idiotic. The ankle monitor was still active. I had no idea where I was—what city, what country, how far from any road or port or airport. Tanner didn't trust me, which meant I was being watched even when I couldn't see it. A failed attempt wouldn't just get me caught. It would make the next attempt nearly impossible.
So I waited. I planned. I filed away every small detail I could gather.
I just didn't know when it would be enough.
I stared at the ceiling and let myself think about Vincent.
The thought came before I could stop it—what if the ocean actually took him?
I shut it down hard.
No. I wasn't going there.
Until someone showed me proof—real, undeniable proof—I was not accepting it. He was out there. He was alive. He was going to find me, or I was going to find my way back to him.
I had to believe that.
It was the only thing keeping me steady.
---
Mia's POV
The doctor administered the injections over three consecutive days.
On the fourth day, Vincent woke up.
I wasn't prepared for how quickly it happened. I'd been sitting near the window when I heard the shift in his breathing, and by the time I crossed the room to him, his eyes were already open—dark, sharp, and deeply, uncharacteristically lost.
I made myself smile. Kept it warm, kept it worried, kept it natural.
"Thank God," I said softly. "You're finally awake. I've been so scared."
He looked at me.
The intelligence was still there—I could see it working behind his eyes, slow and careful, the way it always did. But what usually came with it—the recognition, the composure, the quiet authority—was absent. He was looking at me the way a person looks at something they are absolutely certain they should know and cannot place at all.
His brow furrowed.
I held very still and waited.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The words hit me like a current running through my chest.
"You—" I let my voice fracture, just a little. "You don't recognize me?"
The furrow deepened. "Should I?" He looked around the room slowly, taking in the walls, the ceiling, the light coming through the curtains. "Where is this?"
"You don't know where you are?" I kept my tone soft, gently probing. Then, carefully: "Do you remember who you are?"
Something shifted in his expression—not quite fear, not quite confusion, but something raw that sat between the two. He seemed to reach inward for something, straining toward it—
And then he pressed both hands to the sides of his head, and the sound that came out of him was low and pained.
"It hurts—"
"Hey." I moved to him immediately, one hand on his back, steadying. "It's okay. What's wrong? Talk to me."
"My head—"
"I'm getting the doctor right now. Don't move."
The doctor came in within minutes. He met my eyes briefly across the room—a glance that carried everything and said nothing—and then turned his full attention to Vincent, speaking calmly, moving through the standard checks with practiced efficiency.
When he finished, he straightened and turned to face us both.
"Miss Mia." He paused, and I watched him select his words with appropriate gravity. "I'm sorry to tell you this." He glanced at Vincent, then back to me. "Your husband—it appears he's lost his memory."