Chapter 59 Fractures in the Foundation
Lila/Emily's POV
The plane was smaller than the Cole family jet a utilitarian aircraft designed for discretion rather than comfort. I sat in one of the cramped seats, my hand still gripping Adrian's as medical equipment beeped softly around us.
Dr. Ashford had Adrian hooked up to portable monitors, checking his vitals every few minutes with increasing concern.
"His blood pressure is elevated," Dr. Ashford murmured to Marcus. "The stress of the escape, the physical exertion he shouldn't have been moved so soon after waking from the coma."
"We didn't have a choice," Marcus said quietly.
"I know. But he needs rest. Real rest. Not running for his life."
I looked at Adrian. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. In the harsh overhead light of the plane, I could see how pale he'd become, how much the escape had cost him.
"How long until we land?" I asked.
"Two hours," Marcus said. "The safe house is in the Scottish Highlands. Remote, secure, with medical facilities on-site. It's one of three locations the Coles maintain for extreme emergencies."
"Do James and Eleanor know where we're going?"
Marcus hesitated. "Yes. But only them. Not even Cole Enterprises' security team has this location."
"And you trust them?" I asked. "Completely?"
Marcus met my gaze. "I've worked for James and Eleanor Cole for fifteen years. They've made questionable decisions, but they've never betrayed family. Not once."
I wanted to believe him. But trust felt like a luxury I couldn't afford.
The plane suddenly hit turbulence, jolting everyone. Adrian's eyes flew open, disoriented, his hand tightening on mine in a grip that was almost painful.
"Emily?" His voice was rough, confused. "Where—"
"We're on a plane," I said quickly. "Flying to a safe house. You're okay. We're all okay."
He focused on me slowly, recognition dawning. "The facility. They attacked—"
"We got out," I assured him. "Everyone's safe."
Adrian relaxed slightly, but I could see the fear still lingering in his eyes. Not fear of the attackers fear of his own mind, his own memories, the uncertainty of what was real.
"Go back to sleep," I said gently. "You need rest."
"Can't," Adrian muttered. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that room. The white walls. The electrodes. Their voices asking questions I couldn't answer."
My heart clenched. "I'm here. I won't leave you."
"Promise?" His voice was small, vulnerable in a way I'd never heard before.
"Promise," I said.
He closed his eyes again, but his hand never loosened its grip on mine.
Dr. Morrison moved to the seat beside me. "How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.
"Fine," I said automatically.
"That's not what I asked," Dr. Morrison said. "You just fled armed attackers while seven weeks pregnant. You flew across an ocean, watched the man you care about wake from a coma and learn his memories were manipulated, and escaped a secure facility under gunfire. So I'll ask again how are you feeling?"
I looked down at my lap. "Terrified. Exhausted. Like I'm standing on ice that's cracking beneath me and I don't know which direction to run."
"That's honest," Dr. Morrison said. "And normal, given the circumstances. But Emily—" She paused. " I need to ask you some questions. About your memories. About what you think you know about yourself."
Something in her tone made my stomach drop. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that might not have easy answers," Dr. Morrison said. She pulled out her tablet. "While we were escaping, I was reviewing the files you recovered. The ones about Project Tabula Rasa. And I found something... troubling."
"What?"
Dr. Morrison turned the tablet toward me. On the screen was a document official FBI letterhead, dated four years ago.
SUBJECT: Creation of Deep Cover Identity
AGENT: \[REDACTED\]
COVER NAME: Emily Grant
ASSIGNMENT: Operation Ghost Protocol
STATUS: Identity fabrication complete. Subject deployed.
I stared at the document, my heart pounding. "I don't understand. That's my file. That's proof I was FBI—"
"Look at the date," Dr. Morrison said gently.
I looked. My blood ran cold.
The document was dated March 15th, four years ago.
Two weeks before I supposedly met Adrian at that conference.
"Emily Grant was created as a cover identity," Dr. Morrison said. "For an agent whose real name is redacted. Which means—"
"I'm not Emily Grant," I whispered. "Emily Grant never existed. She was just another identity, like Lila James. Like Sophia Chen."
"Yes," Dr. Morrison confirmed.
The plane suddenly felt too small, the air too thin. "Then who am I? Who was I before they made me Emily Grant?"
"That's what we need to figure out," Dr. Morrison said. "Because this document suggests that whoever you really are, you were already involved with the FBI four years ago. Already part of something that led to Project Tabula Rasa."
I looked at Adrian, sleeping fitfully beside me, and felt my world tilt further off its axis.
I'd told him I was Emily Grant. FBI agent. Here to save him.
But Emily Grant was a lie.
Which meant everything I'd told him everything I thought I knew about myself was built on a foundation that didn't exist.
"I need you to do something for me," I said to Dr. Morrison. "I need you to search for any record of who I was before Emily Grant. Real name, real history, anything. Because I can't help Adrian find
the truth about himself when I don't even know my own."