Chapter 43 The Beginning of Revenge
It had been eight months since the accident.
Elizabeth woke to a world she didn't remember. Her memories were gone… and so was the woman she used to be.
Before, she had been cool, poised, and alluring in a way that drew people in without effort. Now she burned with restless energy, sharp as a spark and impossible to ignore.
"Mabel, are you going out?"
Mabel had moved in with Elizabeth after the accident, unwilling to leave her alone. When Elizabeth first opened her eyes in the hospital, she hadn't recognized Mabel. She hadn't recognized Quinton either. These days, Mabel watched her with mixed emotions—Elizabeth was a stranger now, but at least she had forgotten the pain.
Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, her right foot braced against the floor as she bent to tie a thin red string around her ankle. She wore a black strapless top that revealed her narrow waist, paired with a skirt so short it barely covered her. Long, toned legs stretched out like a promise.
"Mabel, I might be late tonight. Don't wait up."
Her once-luxurious hair had been shaved after the accident. Months later, it had grown into a short, edgy cut that suited her new self.
Mabel leaned against the doorway, curious. "Where are you going?"
Elizabeth's mood was bright tonight. She studied herself in the mirror, reapplied her lipstick, pressed her lips together, and said, "To see Armando."
Mabel watched her leave, powerless to stop her.
A red sports car waited at the curb. Elizabeth took the keys from Indigo, her bodyguard, but waved him off. She preferred to drive alone now. The car roared onto the road, wind slapping against her face, music pounding in her ears. She hummed along, voice low and languid.
Halfway across the highway bridge, the car broke down. Cursing under her breath, she pulled over, checked the tires, and frowned. She was already late. Pulling out her phone, she called someone to pick her up and deal with the car. Hitchhiking wasn't an option—too many risks.
Traffic streamed past. A few men glanced at her, their eyes lingering. Then a black sedan slowed behind her, horn tapping. The window rolled down to reveal a handsome, rakish face.
"Ms. Penrose?" His tone was amused, almost disbelieving. He wouldn't have recognized her if not for the way she stood there, legs bare, posture defiant.
Elizabeth stepped closer, studying him. "And you are?"
Matthew's smile faltered. Of course—she had no memory.
"Matthew Sutter. I once delivered food to you… remember?"
What he really wanted to ask was whether she remembered Timothy.
Her brow lifted. "Why would you deliver food to me? Were you trying to impress me?"
"Not exactly. I was asked to."
Truth was, he had wanted to pursue her, but Timothy's woman was off limits.
Elizabeth didn't press. "Mr. Sutter, can you give me a ride?"
"Sure. Get in."
She smiled. "Thanks." Pulling open the rear door, she froze. Timothy was inside.
He sat back in a white shirt, eyes closed, posture radiating quiet dominance. She hesitated, then slid in beside him, legs pressed together.
Matthew glanced at her in the mirror. "Where to, Ms. Penrose?"
"The Johnson Group. Thank you."
Matthew risked a glance at Timothy, who remained still. Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably; the air conditioning was too cold against her bare skin.
Tugging at her strapless top, she muttered, "It's freezing in here."
A deep, rough voice broke the silence. "Too cold?"
Matthew adjusted the temperature, heat prickling along his neck. He looked in the mirror, but Timothy's expression was unreadable. Elizabeth turned her head, meeting Timothy's gaze.
His eyes were dark, detached, yet unflinching as they swept from her face to her legs. She pressed her knees tighter together. He closed his eyes again.
The ride fell silent. Elizabeth glanced at her phone, sending a quick message to the person she had arranged to meet. Timothy's cologne—clean, sharp—lingered in the air. She shifted in her seat.
The car stopped outside the Johnson Group. Elizabeth thanked Matthew, stepped out, and walked toward the entrance, hips swaying. Timothy watched her go, his jaw tightening as he loosened the top buttons of his shirt.
"Let's go," he said.
Matthew cleared his throat. "I heard Mr. Manuel Robinson wants to arrange a fiancée for you?"
Timothy's gaze lifted, lazy but edged. "Curious?"
Matthew's skin prickled. "Not at all."
Inside, Elizabeth approached the front desk. "Which floor is Mr. Johnson's office?"
The receptionist, Xyla, had known the old Elizabeth, but this woman was different—short hair, provocative clothes. "Do you have an appointment?"
Elizabeth smiled. "I'm his ex-wife. I need to see him."
Recognition flickered in Xyla's eyes. "Mr. Johnson's office is on the twentieth floor, Ms. Penrose."
"Thanks. Call me Elizabeth."
Xyla watched her leave, realizing she must have lost her memory. Still, she called Armando's secretary to let him know.
On the twentieth floor, Tom stood by the elevator. "Ms. Penrose," he greeted, surprised at her transformation. He had visited her in the hospital, though she hadn't remembered him.
"Mr. Davis."
"Mr. Johnson is expecting you." He knocked, opened the door, and let her in.
Armando stood by the window, back to the light, eyes fixed on her. His gaze was deep, searching.
Elizabeth smiled, heels clicking across the floor. "Armando, we were supposed to have dinner tonight."
Her voice was warm, almost too bright. Armando's wedding to Sherry had been postponed—Elizabeth's accident had been followed days later by Bronte's death. The ceremony would wait until Sherry had given birth.
Elizabeth's smile held joy, but beneath it, her heart was cold with hate.