Chapter Ninety Seven

Chapter Ninety Seven
Athena
As the days passed, I began experiencing dreamlike flashbacks—fragmented glimpses of a life I couldn’t fully remember, like shards of glass reflecting different moments from a shattered mirror.

There was the suffocating feeling of being trapped in a marriage with a violent man—his shadow looming over me, his hands leaving bruises where love should have lived. Then, the aching contrast—the feeling of reuniting with my first love, a moment so tender it almost felt unreal. 

That ache in my chest—it wasn’t just longing. It was recognition. I remembered the happiness, the impossible joy of imagining forever with him—us, together, as if nothing could touch us again. The warmth. The peace. The sense of home.

But joy was never left untouched.

Fear crept in again. The fear of being abducted, of being stolen from that happiness, like I had no right to hold it in the first place. I remembered the sound of a gunshot—sharp, final. A brutal fight with my father, James Carter. The rage, the heartbreak, the years of pain that led to that moment.

Then… a body slumping lifelessly to the floor. A face I knew too well. Lysander. His name formed in my mind like a bitter whisper. A man I had once trusted. A man who had become a stranger. 

I saw myself walking away from that fight, my steps heavy with sorrow. I was heartbroken—not just by the violence, but by the knowledge that I had survived it all… alone.

I remembered the quiet, sacred feeling of innocent lives growing in my belly. A reminder that even in darkness, light had taken root within me. Then the car ride back to Crescent City… to someone important. Someone who had been waiting.

But I never made it there. Did I?

There was a gap in my memory. A void. Something crucial—someone—was missing. I couldn’t grasp it, no matter how hard I tried. And then came the cold. The unbearable loneliness of a dark, empty place. I had been drifting, numb and lost.

And always, in that place… a man's hand would reach for mine. Gentle, trembling, desperate. Tugging me toward warmth. Toward life. Toward light. Pleading with me—not to leave. Not yet.

I asked a nurse once, “Was I married?”

She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “You’re not now,” she said. “But someone… waited for you.”

And in that moment, something inside me cracked. Because I knew—deep down—I had forgotten someone I once called home. Someone had loved me enough to wait in the dark.
\~~~~~
Eros
In the quiet corners of Villa Isadora, I fought myself daily.

There were moments I wanted to run to her, to remind her of everything we were—every stolen glance, every argument that ended in laughter, every whisper of forever between us. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to rush her.

I didn’t want to confuse her.

But God, I still loved her—more deeply than I ever thought possible. That love hadn’t faded with time or tragedy. If anything, it had grown stronger in the silence, in the waiting, in the pain of watching her eyes pass over me like I was just some stranger with kind eyes.

She didn’t remember everything. Not me. Not the way she used to glare at me with that irresistible mix of fire and defiance when I said something smug. Not the way she’d wrinkle her nose and tease me mercilessly over the burnt toast I proudly presented every Sunday morning like it was some five-star delicacy. 

She didn’t remember the mornings filled with laughter, her feet on my lap, her voice humming through the kitchen like music. All of that vanished the day she was taken. And with her abduction, my dream of a lifetime with her—growing old together, raising our kids—crumbled right in front of me.

It nearly destroyed me.

She didn’t remember the day I held her hand right before the accident—the way her fingers wrapped tightly around mine. The way she whispered, “I’m not afraid. Not if you’re with me.”

Now, she looked at me like I was nothing more than a gentle presence in the room. A caretaker, maybe. An echo of someone she used to know.

And it shattered me.

One afternoon, I found her sitting in her wheelchair on the balcony, staring quietly at the garden below. The wind tugged gently at her hair, and her hands rested motionless on her lap. I stepped outside and joined her, the chair beside hers creaking softly as I sat down.

“Do you like it out there?” I asked, careful not to startle her.

She turned to me slowly, her voice tentative. “Did… you build this… for me?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely steady. I paused, then added, “The lilies are your favorite.”

Her eyes shimmered, her breath catching. “They are…”

A silence passed between us, delicate and fragile.

“How do you know that?” she asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.

I smiled, though it hurt like hell. “Because I never forgot anything about you.”

And that was the truth. Every tiny detail of her was etched into me like scripture—sacred, irreplaceable.

Her therapist was teaching her how to grip a cup again. Every twitch of her fingers, every soft grunt of effort—it became a moment of triumph. 

I watched from the doorway sometimes, unseen, as she struggled through motions that once came effortlessly to her. 

And every single time she succeeded, even in the smallest way, it felt like witnessing a miracle.

That evening, she managed to say, “My name is Athena Madrigal,” in one breath. The nurse clapped for her like it was the first step toward a new beginning.

But it wasn’t until she turned to look at me—really looked at me—and whispered, “And I think… you’re part of my story,” that something inside me finally cracked open.

Hope.

Hope that she wasn’t just recovering physically.

Hope that she wasn’t just rebuilding herself…but remembering me.

Piece by piece.

Memory by memory.

And maybe, just maybe—finding her way back to us.

Two days later
Athena and I sat together on the balcony, watching the sunset in companionable silence. The air was warm, laced with the scent of blooming lilies below. She placed a gentle touch on my arm, her fingers trembling slightly. I turned to her, surprised but alert.

Her therapist had advised her to engage her muscles daily—relearning the movements she used to take for granted. Lately, she’d taken to reaching out and touching me before speaking, as if to ground herself.

"Yes?" I said softly. "Are you tired?"

"No." Her voice was steadier than the day before, her eyes fixed on the fading light. “I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“I was…” she hesitated, swallowing. “I was pregnant before, right? What happened? Did anything happen to my baby?”

My heart swelled. The question—her awareness of what she’d lost, what she’d left behind—hit me like a surge of lightning. Overcome with emotion, I leaned forward and kissed her. A full, grateful, overwhelming kiss.

She blinked at me. “Um… what was that for?” she asked with a faint frown.

“Sorry,” I chuckled. “I’m just… so damn happy. You remembered. And no—nothing happened to our babies.”

“Babies?” Her eyes widened.

“A boy and a girl,” I said, smiling. “They were born early but they’re fighters. Just like you. They’ve been waiting to meet you. Do you want to see them?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “I don’t think… Did we come up with names?”

“You did,” I said. “Rhea and Rhys. I didn’t change them.”

“Okay.” She nodded quickly, almost anxiously.

“I have to warn you though,” I said with a grin, “they’re a handful.”

Athena smiled softly. “I don’t care.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I rose from my chair, heart racing. Eight years. That’s how long they’d waited to see their mother. I’d told them stories, shown them pictures, played her voice in recordings—just so they wouldn’t forget. But nothing could prepare them for this.

I found them in the library, where they’d been working on a puzzle with their tutor. Both of them looked up as I stepped inside.

“Hey,” I said gently, crouching down to their level. “Do you remember how I told you Mommy was getting better?”

They nodded, eyes wide and expectant.

“Well…” I smiled, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. “She wants to see you now. Right now.”

Rhys shot up so fast his chair screeched. “She remembers us?”

“She remembers you were born. She remembers naming you. She’s still piecing things together,” I said, brushing a hand through his dark hair, “but she asked about you. That means she’s ready.”

Rhea stood more slowly, her voice quieter. “Is she scared?”

I blinked. “A little,” I admitted. “But I think she’s more excited than scared. Just like you are.”

They followed me through the hallway, hand in hand. When we reached the balcony, Athena was still sitting in her wheelchair, her gaze fixed on the garden—but when she heard the door open, she turned.

And froze.

I stepped aside.

The twins hesitated for only a second before Rhys broke into a run.

“Mom!”

Athena gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as Rhys crashed into her arms. She embraced him instinctively, tears already spilling down her cheeks.

Rhea came next, slower, more cautious, her eyes scanning Athena’s face like she was searching for something familiar.

“I missed you,” Athena whispered, one arm still wrapped around Rhys as she reached for Rhea with the other. “So much. I missed both of you.”

“You remember us?” Rhea asked, her voice trembling.

“Not everything,” Athena said through her tears, “but I remember what it felt like to love you before I even met you. And I promise, I’m going to remember the rest.”

They huddled around her, a family reunited in a golden halo of fading sunlight.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself believe.

We were going to be whole again.