Chapter 17

I don’t know how long I walk.

The corridors stretch endlessly, every turn leading to another hallway bathed in golden candlelight, but I don’t stop moving. My breath is uneven, my mind spinning with Julian’s words—the half-truths, the careful omissions, the weight of what he refuses to say.

"I took your memories because you begged me to."

"From yourself."

"You didn’t want to remember."

I press my fingers against my temples, trying to push back the headache clawing at my skull. I don’t believe him.

I can’t.

Because if I do—**if I accept that I was the one who wanted this—**then I have to accept that the missing pieces of my past are worse than I can imagine.

That I did something terrible.

And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

My steps slow as I reach the end of the hall. A soft draft brushes against my skin, the air colder here.

I look up.

The double doors leading to the mansion’s entrance loom ahead, the moonlight spilling through the glass panels. The sight makes my chest tighten.

I could leave.

I could run.

But where would I go?

I don’t even know who I am.

A sharp creak from behind me makes me stiffen.

I turn—

And there it is.

Another letter.

Lying on the table against the wall, the same familiar parchment, the same dark, elegant handwriting.

I inhale sharply, my stomach twisting.

The first letter told me to run before it’s too late. The second shattered everything I thought I knew—you weren’t always his. The third warned me of the truth I was never meant to find—you are not who you think you are.

And now this.

I reach for it, my fingers trembling as I unfold the paper.

The words are sharp, final.

"You once begged him to kill you."

I stop breathing.

The letter shakes in my grip, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn’t—this can’t be true.

I wouldn’t.

I wouldn’t ask for something like that.

Would I?

A memory slams into me.

Pain.

Deep, unbearable pain, radiating through my body, curling in my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

Blood.

My own, pooling around me.

Hands—**his hands—**gripping my face, holding me still.

And my own voice, broken, desperate—

"Please, Julian. End this. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore."

The memory shatters, yanking me back to the present.

I stumble, gasping. My fingers curl into the parchment, crumpling the paper as my knees give out.

I begged him to kill me.

The realization sends a sharp, paralyzing terror through my veins.

What happened to me?

Why would I—why would I want that?

The air around me is too tight, too suffocating. I press a hand against my chest, trying to steady my breathing.

And then—

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

"Ana."

I jerk my head up.

Julian stands at the end of the hallway.

He sees the letter.

He sees my face.

And I watch the color drain from his.

His lips part, but no words come.

Because he knows.

He knows what I just read.

What I just remembered.

And for the first time—

I see pure fear in his eyes.