Chapter 145 The Drunken Stumble

Ethan’s POV

The documents waited on my desk as I studied Amanda. Her blue eyes met mine with a directness that unsettled me deeply. A strange familiarity radiated from her presence, one I couldn't place yet couldn't ignore.

"These are the Sterling partnership documents. Take them to Robert Sterling," I said. Confusion appeared on her face momentarily. "Sterling specifically requested you."

Her eyebrow rose slightly. Questions formed behind those eyes but remained unspoken. The thought bothered me more than it should have. Why would Sterling ask for her?

"Interesting that someone knows Sterling personally," I said, the words carrying more accusation than intended. A persistent sensation nagged at my awareness. This woman possessed knowledge about me—things absent from my own memory. The gaps pulsed whenever she stood near me.

She gathered the documents, preparing to leave. Words rushed out before I could stop them. This woman held pieces of my past I couldn't remember. The gaps in my memory burned whenever she was near.

Her suggestion about my father made me angry. Absurd idea. Even with my broken memory, I knew some things without doubt. My father wasn't that type of man. Neither was she. Yet how could I be so certain about someone I barely knew?

Her body language closed off immediately. She was hiding something. She knew things about me she wouldn't share.

My mother's sudden return from New York bothered me. Her connection to this woman seemed deliberate. Too many coincidences. Too many patterns I couldn't understand. I was missing something important.

I needed to know what my mother said to her. The answer felt crucial - a key to unlock my scattered memories.

Her brief explanation wasn't the whole truth. I saw it in her eyes when they darted away. She was keeping secrets. But I couldn't force answers from her now. Another chance for clarity slipped away, leaving me with more questions than before.

"Just small talk. I saved her life once, so we chatted briefly." Too simple an answer. Her eyes darted away momentarily.

She departed with the documents, closing the door quietly. The office immediately felt emptier. Colder. Her perfume remained—subtle, hauntingly familiar.

Evening found me drinking alone after a client dinner. A nameless heaviness settled in my chest that alcohol couldn't dissolve. Each glass pushed me deeper into confusion rather than numbness.

Since waking up at The Plaza Hotel, my memory resembled a jigsaw with critical pieces missing. The doctors called it a side effect of the Belladonna. They assured me memories would gradually return. But each attempt to remember sent daggers through my temples. The pain effectively locked away whatever—or whoever—had been erased.

My fingers traced the scar on my shoulder—a bullet wound with no story attached to it. Another missing piece.

The alcohol lowered barriers between consciousness and whatever lay buried beneath. A name formed on my lips without permission: "Amanda..."

Her face appeared behind my closed eyelids. Those eyes that seemed to recognize parts of me I no longer knew existed. The sensation of drowning overtook me as darkness closed in.

Hands supported me, guiding my unsteady body. Pride made me straighten, unwilling to burden whoever helped me. A familiar scent drifted through the alcohol haze—something that triggered recognition on a cellular level.

In the elevator, my body acted without conscious direction. Leaning toward her, lips brushing against her ear: "Amanda..."

"I'm here." Her voice—soft, gentle—cut through the fog surrounding my thoughts.

My body gravitated toward hers instinctively. Muscle memory recognized what my mind couldn't recall. In the car, my head found her shoulder as if it belonged there. Though my eyes remained closed, consciousness slowly returned. The strange peace her presence brought kept me silent, unwilling to shatter this moment.

Their conversation floated around me:

"How has he been this past month?"

Mike's voice responded: "After waking at The Plaza, he dealt with the Grace situation. The Belladonna's side effect made him forget only you. He seemed aware something important was missing. Locked himself away, wouldn't speak for days. Kevin Walsh treated him, warned against forcing memories—said it could cause memory confusion. Nobody mentioned you around him. Since you've been nearby, he's shown signs of recognition. Asked me if you'd worked with him before. Said you seemed familiar."

Her sigh carried resignation: "These side effects are severe—no wonder Weill Cornell banned it. Even with the antidote, recovery takes months. Being close helps. Eventually, he'll remember."

Mike's voice softened: "I prefer seeing you beside him. He's carried Blackwood's burden since childhood. The pressure shows. His coldness is professional necessity, not natural disposition. Corporate leadership isn't glamorous. When he first took over, the board resisted someone so young. His strict approach earned respect but cost him emotionally. His expressions diminished over time—until he met you."

Their words stirred something profound inside me. The relationship they described explained the emptiness I'd been feeling. What I'd forgotten wasn't something—but someone. Her.

At my apartment, Mike helped me inside. "Mr. Blackwood doesn't like people in his room. I'll leave you to care for him."

She helped me upstairs, then prepared a sobering drink. After forcing it down my throat, she began removing my clothes. When her hands reached for my pants, awareness suddenly rushed back. I grabbed her wrist, eyes half-open.

"What are you doing?"

"You're drunk. I'm helping you undress so you can sleep."

Confusion clouded my thoughts. Suspicion flared through the alcoholic haze. "Who sent you? What do you want from me?"

"Nobody sent me. Let me help you out of these pants so you can sleep."

"Just another woman trying to get into my bed," I muttered bitterly. "Don't get any ideas."

Her patience remained unbroken. "You're right. You might need to get up early tomorrow. Sleep now."

Still clutching my pants defensively, I mumbled: "Only my wife can take off my pants. I have standards..."

Consciousness slipped away again. In that hazy space between waking and dreaming, her name escaped once more: "Amanda..."

Through the fog, her voice reached me, speaking softly: "Baby, daddy will remember us soon. Then I'll introduce you properly, okay?"

The words didn't fully register, but something instinctual made me reach for her, pulling her onto the bed beside me. She struggled briefly, trying to reason with me:

"Mr. Blackwood, I need to get up. Please let go."

"Ethan, let me go."

"Don't go." I heard her voice through the haze, frowning as my arm tightened around her waist. My body pulled her completely against me.

The steady beat of her heart against my chest felt right. Some part of me recognized her.

Her familiar scent surrounded me. Every detail of her presence awakened something buried deep. My body remembered what my mind couldn't.

She stopped resisting. Her breathing slowed as she settled against me. We drifted into sleep together.