Chapter 228

LUCAS

I sprawled across my leather couch, clutching my burning stomach. Empty Macallan bottles scattered across the marble coffee table told the story of my night. The whiskey had dulled my pain earlier, but now my gut rebelled.

When the door clicked open, I knew it was Eve without looking up. Her perfume cut through the alcohol stench.

"Don't forget," I muttered, "you're Mrs. James now. Meeting Sean counts as cheating. Transaction or not."

"This whole arrangement is a gamble," she said, sitting across from me. "I'm betting your conscience isn't completely dead. Betting you still care about Sean somewhere deep down."

I laughed bitterly. "Your precious Sean won't even come beat me up. He cares that much about you. Or maybe he's just worried about his bone marrow supply."

"He'd never want to see you used as someone's weapon," Eve replied quietly.

Another wave of pain shot through me. How had Sean and I ended up here?

"Where's your medicine cabinet?" Eve asked.

"Why? Afraid I'll die before donating to your kid?" I snapped.

She ignored my comment and headed to the kitchen. Minutes later, she returned with honey water and pills. I drank reluctantly, the warm liquid stirring something—a memory of someone else bringing me honey water years ago.

"I'll keep my end of the deal," I admitted, watching Eve's shoulders relax slightly.

"My gratitude comes complimentary," she said dryly.

I noticed the bruise on her neck. "You should put Arnica on that. Bathroom cabinet, top shelf."

After she left, my phone buzzed. I locked the bedroom door before answering.

"Progress report," demanded the mechanized voice.

"Everything's on track."

"You're stalling. Use the wife. Break Winters completely."

My head pounded. "I know what I'm doing."

"Sean killed your sister. You're her brother - you gotta make him pay."

"Two days," I said. "I'll follow your plan. Sean, Eve, the boy—none survive."

I hung up and sat on the edge of the bed. Xavier's name had slipped through before the line went dead. They talked about helping me get revenge, but I knew better—they just wanted to use me.

The next day

Sean had texted asking to meet. Now here I was, rain hammering against my windshield as I sat in the parking lot of Vintage Lounge. My head was killing me. Sean was probably already inside, checking his watch. Mr. Punctual. Mr. Perfect.

I grabbed the flask from my glove compartment and knocked it back. The whiskey burned good. Numbed the constant splitting pain in my skull that hit whenever I tried to remember Rebecca.

Eve's words echoed: "Don't you find it weird you can barely remember someone you wanted to marry?"

Bullshit. I remembered Rebecca... she was... she had...

Fuck. Why couldn't I see her face?

The clock showed I was an hour late. Good. Let Sean sweat, wondering if his kid's bone marrow donor would show up at all.

I stepped into the rain without an umbrella. The water soaked through my Burberry coat as I pushed through the heavy wooden door.

The smell hit me—aged bourbon and leather. This place hadn't changed in ten years. Neither had the man in our corner booth.

Sean Winters. Crisp tailored suit. Not a wrinkle anywhere. His face hardened when he spotted me, those cold eyes tracking my every move. My stomach twisted with something I couldn't name.

"You're late," he said, not bothering to stand.

"Traffic," I muttered, sliding into the booth. A lie we both recognized.

Mike appeared with my Macallan 25.

"Mr. James," he nodded, setting down the whiskey.

"Leave the bottle."

Three shots later, the whiskey dulled the pain. Sean hadn't touched his drink, just watching me.

"What?" I snapped. "Gonna lecture me about drinking before tomorrow's procedure?"

"I didn't ask you here to fight."

"Then why am I here?" I poured another glass. "TTomorrow I save the son you had with the woman who is now my wife."

His jaw clenched. "Eve isn't really your wife."

"Marriage certificate says different." I leaned forward. "Does it kill you? Knowing I sleep next to her every night? That she's legally mine now?"

"She sleeps in the guest room," Sean answered flatly. "We both know this arrangement is temporary."

"Maybe not. Maybe I've grown attached to having Eve around. She's quite... attentive."

His hands formed fists on the table. "Don't push me, Lucas."

"What's wrong? Jealous?" The alcohol made me reckless. "Tomorrow I'm saving your kid's life. What do I get in return? Or did you just assume I'd do this out of the goodness of my heart?"

Sean's eyes darkened. "If you showed up just to talk this trash, I would've preferred you stayed home."

"Can't handle truth? You and Nathan—always thinking you're above everyone else. Everyone else just falls in line. Well, I'm not your fucking tool anymore."

"You're drunk," Sean said coldly.

"Not drunk enough." I refilled my glass. "Not enough to forget what you did to Melissa."

Something flashed across his face—almost regret—before disappearing.

"Yeah, I failed to protect my sister. My fault. All my goddamn fault." My voice cracked. "I'm the one who lost her. She made mistakes, but Jesus, why were you so brutal?"

Sean studied me. "I went too far with Melissa. I admit that. But don't take it out on Eve. She doesn't deserve it."

"Eve is my wife now. You're just the ex." The words rang hollow.

"A piece of paper doesn't make her yours." Sean's voice dropped. "You could keep her locked up forever, and she'd never look at you the way she looks at me."

His words cut deep because they were true. I'd seen how Eve looked at him—with love so raw it physically hurt to witness.

"You deserve to be alone," I spat. "Always manipulating everyone around you."

Sean reached into his jacket, pulling out a card. "This might help you."

"What is it?"

"A psychologist. Someone who can help recover tampered memories."

I stared at the card. "You think I'm crazy?"

"Someone's been messing with your head, Lucas. Altering your memories."

I laughed harshly. "So now I'm insane? Nice try."

"The headaches, the memory gaps about Rebecca—"

"Shut up about Rebecca!" I slammed my fist down. "You think I'll let you mess with my head again? Plant more false memories?"

Sean's expression hardened. "Cole's developed a drug that might help Noah. Even if you back out tomorrow, we have options. We can find another donor."

"So you don't need me after all? Why this whole show then?"

"I thought there might still be something worth saving between us." Sean stood abruptly. "I was wrong."

He threw cash on the table and walked out.

I sat alone, staring at his untouched whiskey. The conversation replayed in my head, mixing with fragmented memories that wouldn't connect.

A flash hit me—Sean standing between me and some Wall Street jackass who'd tried to tank our first major deal. The look on his face when he told that prick: "Nobody fucks with my brother."

Brother. That's what we'd been once.

Another memory—walking down a dark Manhattan alley after closing our first million-dollar deal. Young, hungry, unstoppable. Sean clapping my shoulder, saying we'd build an empire together.

And we had. Until everything fell apart.

Why couldn't I remember Rebecca clearly? Why did my head hurt every time I tried?

I stood to leave, wobbling slightly. Mike approached as I reached the door.

"Mr. James, you forgot this." He handed me Sean's card.

I stared at it. Dr. Ashley Thomas, Memory Specialist.

"Thanks," I muttered, pocketing it.

Outside, the rain had slowed. I didn't bother with my umbrella, letting the cold drops hit my face as I walked to my car.

Sitting behind the wheel, I pulled out the card again. A memory fragment flashed—a woman asking about wedding shoes, her face blurry but her voice familiar.

Rebecca? Was that Rebecca?

I stared at the name card. Something wasn't right. These headaches, these gaps in my memory...

I started the engine, decision made. Maybe Sean was right. Maybe someone had been messing with my head.

I had to find out who was behind this—what kind of organization I was really dealing with.