CHAPTER 5

Breakfast ends in a tense silence that only Claire seems not to feel. She chatters animatedly about her plans for the day, oblivious to the silent storm brewing between me and Declan. Every time our eyes meet, I feel the weight of the promise he whispered in the dark: “I’m going to fuck you until you lose your voice.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I try to focus on Claire’s melodious voice, but Declan’s presence beside me is suffocating. His hand still rests possessively on my thigh, a constant reminder that there is no escape.

“Can I show Mommy my room now?” Claire asks, jumping from her chair with infectious energy.

Declan wipes his mouth with his napkin, his movements deliberately slow. “Of course, Princess. But afterwards, your mother and I need to talk.”

The word “talk” sounds like a veiled threat.

Claire pulls me by the hand, and I let myself be led upstairs. Each step takes me temporarily away from Declan, but I can feel his eyes burning into my back.

Claire’s room is a universe apart from the rest of the somber house. Walls covered in glow-in-the-dark stars, shelves crammed with books and stuffed animals, and an entire wall dedicated to drawings taped up with adhesive tape.

“This is the mural,” she announces proudly, pulling me toward the wall. “Each drawing is a day I waited for you to come back.”

My heart stops.

There are hundreds of drawings. Childish strokes showing a dark-haired woman, a tattooed man, and a little blonde girl between them. In some we’re at a beach, in others at a park; many show this very house that I barely know.

“This one was when I turned ten." She points to a drawing of a cake with crooked candles. “I asked for you as a present. Daddy said I was just like you, that I kept insisting until I got what I wanted.”

Tears burn my eyes. How can I not remember her?

“Claire…” my voice breaks. “I don’t remember any of this. And it hurts me—not because you’re not important, but because something erased everything from my mind.”

She looks at me with a seriousness beyond her years. “Daddy explained," He said that sometimes, when we suffer a lot, our mind hides things so we don’t break. She takes my hand. “But I’ll help you remember. I know all our stories.”

Before I can respond, someone clears their throat at the door.

“May I come in, Princesses?"

It’s the calm blonde from the plane—Luka. Up close, he seems even more dangerous precisely because he doesn’t appear threatening. Light eyes, an easy smile, and the posture of someone who is always watching.

“Luka!” Claire runs to him, and he lifts her into the air, making her laugh.

“How is our favorite artist doing?” he asks, squeezing her nose affectionately.

“Showing the mural to Mommy.”

Luka’s gaze slides to me. It’s not raw like Declan’s, but analytical, as if he’s studying my every reaction.

“It’s good to finally meet you awake, Evie,” he says with a smile that should be comforting but sends chills through me.

“She doesn’t remember,” Claire corrects immediately. “You have to call her Beatrice for now.”

Luka tilts his head. “Beatrice, then. Declan asked me to let you know he needs to step out for a few hours. Work.” He pauses meaningfully. “He said you can stay with Claire, but no… strolls around the city.”

The message is clear: don’t try to run.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I lie, because I have no choice.

Luka studies me for another second, as if he could read my thoughts. “Good girl. If you need anything, I’ll be in the office.”

---

The next few hours pass in a strange blur.

Claire guides me through the house, showing me every “safe” corner—her art studio, the library where I supposedly read to her, the garden she calls “our secret universe.” In every place there are traces of a life I don’t recognize: a book with notes in the margins, a mug with the name “Sirius” on it, a coat forgotten on a chair.

It’s like walking through a museum of my own lost existence.

By late afternoon, Claire curls up in my lap on the living room sofa, exhausted from so much talking. “You used to stroke my hair like this until I fell asleep,” she murmurs drowsily. “Always.”

My hands, by their own instinct, begin the movement—fingers sliding through the blonde strands, soft and rhythmic.

And then it happens.

The image appears out of nowhere: the same sofa, a smaller Claire with a pacifier, my fingers in her hair while I softly hum a melody I don’t know the origin of. The room lit only by a lamp. The smell of rain through the half-open window. And a large shadow in the doorway, watching with devotion.

Declan.

The glimpse is as quick as lightning, but strong enough to steal my breath.

I remember.

Not everything. But that moment. That feeling of belonging, of love, of… home.

My heart races, confused and terrified. If I continue down this path, what else will I remember? And worse—will it destroy the hatred I need to feel toward Declan in order to have the strength to escape?

Claire falls asleep within minutes. I remain motionless, my hand lost in her hair, while the house breathes around us.

That’s when I feel him.

I don’t hear footsteps. I just know.

When I lift my eyes, Declan is at the entrance to the living room. Dark suit, loosened tie, hair damp from the rain. He looks like a storm contained in human form.

His eyes take in the scene: Claire sleeping in my lap, my hand stroking her hair, exactly as before.

Something lights up in his face. It’s not the cruel smile of triumph. It’s something more dangerous because it’s genuine.

Hope.

He approaches in silence and kneels beside the sofa, bringing himself to my eye level.

“You remembered something,” he says softly. It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

I could deny it. But the gleam in his eyes tells me he already knows.

“A fragment,” I admit in a whisper. “Nothing important.”

To him, it seems to be the entire world.

Declan’s hand rises slowly until it touches my wrist—the same one resting on Claire’s head. The contact is warm, firm. A circle closes: father, mother, daughter.

“That’s enough for today,” he replies, and for the first time his voice doesn’t sound like an order. It sounds like gratitude. “Thank you for not running.”

“I didn’t stay for you,” I retort automatically. “I stayed for her.”

“I know.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a tired half-smile. “It was always for her that you did the right things. Even when you hated me.”

He leans in and kisses Claire’s forehead with reverence. Then his eyes find my lips for a second that lasts far too long. I hold my breath, waiting for another invasion.

But he does nothing. He simply stands and slides his arms beneath Claire’s body to lift her, without breaking our eye contact.

“Come,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument, but doesn’t sound like an immediate threat either. “Time to put our princess to bed. Afterwards…” His eyes darken. “We’re going to talk.”

I know that “talk” rarely means just words in his language.

Even so, I stand. Because for the first time since I woke up in this nightmare, a tiny, curious part of me wants to know what else my mind is hiding.

And if remembering is the only weapon I have against the man who claims to be my husband… then perhaps I need to walk into the beast’s mouth to find the way out.

But as I climb the stairs behind him, carrying sleeping Claire, I cannot ignore the terrible truth forming in my chest:

Each memory that returns doesn’t set me free.

It binds me even tighter.