Chapter 146 Freeze!
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GRANDE ESTATE
After the maids serve dinner, I sit across from Hermes and watch him cut his steak in silence. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak — just moves the knife and fork with that same calm precision he’s always had.
I can’t tell if he remembers anything. The way he sits there, so composed, it’s impossible to know what’s behind those cold brooding eyes. Does he remember this morning? Does he remember her?
I pray he hasn’t told June about his condition. That would ruin everything.
"Is the steak good?" I ask, forcing warmth into my voice, my lips curving into something that feels like a smile but isn’t.
He nods once, then — to my surprise — slides his own plate across to me, taking mine in exchange.
My hand freezes halfway to my fork. He’s never done that before. Not even when we were still… something.
For a fleeting second, I wonder if he thinks I’m her. Maybe he’s confusing faces now, or maybe this is how short-term memory lapses work. I make a mental note to study it later. But first, I need to be sure.
I need to test him.
"Urm—Hermes," I start carefully, taking a slow bite, "did you get the wine my father asked you to get last night?"
He pauses mid-cut, brows furrowing slightly, eyes flicking down as if chasing a fading thought.
"Wine?" he murmurs.
"Yes," I say lightly, pretending to focus on my plate. "You remember, don’t you?"
A beat passes. Then he sighs. "Shit, I must’ve forgotten. Thanks for reminding me, Nat."
The knife slips slightly in my grip.
Nat.
He hasn’t called me that in years. Not since before June. Not since before he stopped loving me.
If he were himself — the real Hermes — he’d never thank me, never sit here eating dinner with me, never act this… gentle. Especially not after what I did this morning — slapping his little intern and tightening the noose of her blackmail.
But he doesn’t remember. He truly doesn’t.
Ted was right.
He’s forgetting.
Now for the final test — the one that would tell me everything I need to know.
"You don’t need to worry, honey," I say softly, letting the word honey linger on my tongue, "I told my friend June to grab it from the store for me."
Hermes nods slowly, cutting another piece of steak — and then, suddenly, his hand stills. My pulse spikes. This is it. The moment.
He lifts his head, a faint crease forming between his brows. "June? When did you have a friend named June? You could’ve asked Charlotte — she’s good at selecting fine wines."
For a second, I nearly drop my fork. My throat tightens with a mix of shock and bubbling delight.
He doesn’t remember her.
He doesn’t remember June Alexander.
It takes everything in me not to laugh, not to leap from my chair and celebrate. Inside, I’m screaming — pure, silent victory tearing through my chest.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Now I only need to make sure he stays that way.
I rise from my seat slowly, every step planned as I circle the table and slide onto his lap. He tenses —not in anger, but confusion — and that alone tells me all I need to know.
My fingers weave through his hair, gentle, coaxing. "Hermes, honey," I purr, tracing the edge of his jaw with my thumb, "remember you said we were going on a date tomorrow?"
He blinks up at me, eyes distant, searching — trying to place a memory that isn’t there.
And I smile, because that’s exactly what I wanted.
Hermes looks up at me, eyes clearing a little, and says, almost too smoothly, "Of course I remember. I already prepared everything."
Before I can respond, he shifts — standing up so suddenly that I nearly slip off his lap.
"Oh—" I gasp, catching myself against the table.
He glances back at me with that calm, unreadable face. "Sorry. I have to go."
"Go? Where?" I ask quickly, searching his expression for a trace of memory.
"To meet with the boys," he says simply, already buttoning his jacket.
For a moment, I want to stop him — to pull him back down, to keep him near so I can study him longer, make sure he doesn’t remember more than he’s letting on. But then I remember my father’s call, the file, the secret I’m supposed to steal tonight.
Hermes being gone… that’s exactly what I need.
So I paste on my sweetest smile. "Alright, darling. Drive safe, okay? Call me when you get there."
He nods, distracted, and leaves through the glass doors into the night.
The moment the sound of his car fades down the driveway, I’m on my feet. "Maria," I call out sharply. The maids hurry in, startled. "Clear the table. I’m heading upstairs."
As they move to gather the plates, I slip out of the dining room, my heart pounding.
Upstairs, the house is silent, that type of quiet that makes you second-guess your own footsteps. I pull out my phone, open my father’s message, and stare at the image he sent: a black folder with a silver emblem stamped in the corner. That’s the one.
Uncle Lucien’s study looms at the end of the hall. I punch in the code with shaking fingers. The light blinks green.
The door unlocks.
Inside, the study smells of old books and wood polish, dim light filtering through half-drawn curtains. My pulse thrums as I begin searching — through drawers, shelves, stacks of documents.
Minutes pass. My palms are damp. Then—
There. I see it. The exact file from the photo, tucked neatly behind a pile of financial reports. I exhale shakily, relief flooding my chest, and reach for it. I pull it out and flip it open, scanning the contents.
Shares transfer agreement.
A low, satisfied smile curls on my lips. This is exactly what my father wanted. With this, they can maneuver on the board, quietly take control, and no one will suspect a thing.
I tuck the folder under my arm, feeling the weight of it — both literal and figurative. This is power.
As I'm about to move, I freeze, hearing footsteps. Heavy, steady… coming closer. Right outside the door.