Chapter 19 #19

Chapter 19 #19


Chapter 19
~ Shailyn ~

I stood there, frozen in the foyer, Monica's venomous words still hanging in the air like toxic smoke. My vision blurred as tears threatened to spill over, and I blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. I didn't want to cry in front of these people who clearly despised me.

I was just so tired. So overwhelmingly, bone-deep exhausted. My head was pounding again, a dull throb that matched the rhythm of my racing heart. Everything was too much: the hospital, the memory loss, Hannah's cryptic talks, and now this very hostile reception in the manor.

Why was everyone acting like I was some kind of intruder? What had I done to deserve this much hatred?

Before the situation could deteriorate further, I heard the distinctive sound of wheelchair wheels against marble flooring. Tyler appeared from one of the side corridors, his face set in stern lines as he took in the scene before him.

"What," he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "is going on here?"

Monica opened her mouth, probably to spew more venom, but Tyler held up one hand to silence her.

"Monica Belmar," he continued, his tone brooking no argument, "I will not tolerate this behavior in my home. Shailyn is family. She is Dante's wife. She has just been released from the hospital with a serious injury, and you think this is an appropriate way to welcome her?"

"But Father…" Monica started.

"No." Tyler's voice was sharp enough to make her flinch. "I don't want to hear excuses. Your behavior is disgraceful. Apologize to Shailyn immediately, or remove yourself from this house until you can conduct yourself with basic human decency."

Monica's face flushed an ugly red. For a moment, I thought she might actually explode with rage. But instead, she just pressed her lips into a thin line, shot me one more venomous glare, and turned on her designer heel.

"Fine," she spat. "I'll leave. But don't come crying to me when this all blows up in your face."

She stormed out without another word, her footsteps echoing angrily through the manor until we heard a door slam somewhere in the distance.

Cynthia watched her daughter's dramatic exit with an expression of cool indifference, then turned her attention back to Tyler. "Really, darling, was that necessary? You know Monica has always been... passionate."

"What's necessary," Tyler replied, his voice still stern, "is treating family members with respect. Something both you and our daughter seem to have forgotten."

Cynthia's lips thinned, but she didn't argue. Instead, she simply inclined her head in what might have been acknowledgement or dismissal, I couldn't tell which, and glided away in the opposite direction Monica had taken.

The silence that followed their departure was somehow worse than the confrontation had been.

Tyler turned to me, and his expression softened considerably. "I apologize for that, Shailyn. You deserve better, especially given your condition. Please, don't let their behavior upset you. You focus on resting and recovering."

I managed a weak nod, not trusting my voice.

"Thank you, Father," Dante said, and I could hear the genuine gratitude in his tone.

Tyler wheeled himself closer and reached out to pat my hand gently. "Welcome home, my dear. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Then he too departed, leaving Dante and me alone in the vast, echoing foyer.

I immediately turned into Dante's chest, pressing my face against his shirt, finally letting a few tears escape now that we were alone. I felt him wrap his arms around me, one hand coming up to stroke my hair soothingly.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I don't want to be a bother. "

"You're not a bother," Dante said firmly. "Never think that. And don't worry about them. They'll come around eventually."

But even as he said it, I could hear the doubt in his voice.
I wonder if this has always been the word of encouragement. 

After a moment, he pulled back slightly and looked down at me. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs. You need to rest."

He guided me through the manor and up the grand staircase, his arm steady around my waist. I tried to recognize things as we walked, paintings on the walls, furniture arrangements, the layout of the corridors — but nothing felt familiar. It was like walking through a stranger's home. A lot must have really changed in the past 4 years.

We arrived at a door near the end of one hallway, and Dante opened it to reveal a beautiful bedroom suite. It was elegantly decorated in soft creams and blues, with a massive four-poster bed dominating the center of the room.

"This is... our room?" I asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Dante said, though something flickered across his face as he said it. "We'll be staying here in the manor for a while."

I noticed he didn't sound happy about that arrangement. There was tension in his shoulders that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.

"How long?" I asked. 

"Uhm, till you feel better. With more people around if you need help, that sort of thing."

That made sense, I supposed. But it didn't explain the unhappiness in Dante's voice.

"Father’s orders," he added with a slight grimace, as if that explained everything.

I looked around the room, taking in the details. There was a sitting area by the windows, an en-suite bathroom visible through an open door, and I noticed with relief a large wardrobe already stocked with clothes.

"Your things have been sorted," Dante said, following my gaze. "Everything you'll need should be in there."

I moved toward the wardrobe, suddenly curious. Maybe seeing my clothes, my belongings, would trigger something. Would help me remember this life I couldn't recall.

I opened the wardrobe doors and started looking through the hangers. The clothes were beautiful, expensive designer pieces, elegant dresses, perfectly tailored outfits. The kind of wardrobe I'd only ever dreamed about having back when I was a poor scholarship student.

But looking at them now, I felt... nothing. No connection. No sense of "yes, these are mine, I remember buying this." Just a strange, hollow detachment.

For some reason, I didn't feel like wearing these clothes again. I couldn't explain it, couldn't articulate why looking at these beautiful, expensive things made something in my chest tighten uncomfortably. I just knew, with sudden certainty, that I didn't want to put them on.

Whatever I was feeling, I didn't understand it. The emotions were confusing, contradictory. I just wanted to wear something that felt like me instead of like a costume I was expected to perform in.

I started pulling some of the clothes out, setting them aside on the bed, trying to sort through what felt overwhelming and what felt tolerable. 

As I worked, my eyes caught on something. A black dress, laid out carefully on the far corner of the bed. It was different from the other clothes, simpler, more understated. The kind of dress you might wear to a party where you didn't want to stand out too much.

I stared at it, and something stirred in the back of my mind, like a memory trying to surface.

I reached out and touched the fabric, and suddenly…

~ Flash. ~

I could see myself going into a party, I was wearing the black dress, and in my hands was a mask. An elegant masquerade mask, black and decorated with subtle silver filigree.

There was music in the background. Loud, pulsing club music. And I could feel the weight of some decision pressing down on me. 

Something that felt both terrifying and liberating.

"SHIT!"

Pain exploded through my skull like a lightning strike, so sudden and intense I actually cried out. My hands flew to my head, the black dress falling forgotten to the floor as I doubled over.

It felt like my brain was being torn apart from the inside. Like something was trying to break through some memory, some truth but my injured mind couldn't handle the strain.

"Shailyn!" Dante was beside me instantly, his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. "What's wrong? What happened?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms against my temples, trying to will the agony to stop.

The memory if that's what it was hovered just out of reach, tantalizing and terrifying. The black dress. The mask. The sense of doing something forbidden.

What had I been doing?

"Breathe," Dante was saying, his voice urgent. "Just breathe through it. Should I call the doctor? Do you need your medication?"

I opened my eyes, blinking away tears, and found Dante's face inches from mine, etched with concern.

"I'm okay," I managed to whisper, though I wasn't sure it was true. 

Something that, judging by the tension in Dante's shoulders and the guarded expression in his eyes, he desperately didn't want me to remember.

Dante went out and not long after, I heard a knock.