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Shards of porcelain reflected slanted sunlight across the drawing room, turning the Persian rug into a killing field of glittering debris. Serena stood at the epicenter of it all—breathing hard, dress torn at the neckline, sweat dampening the hollows of her throat and the curves of her collarbones. Her hands trembled around the cold iron of a fire poker, knuckles bleached against the dark glow of her skin. Scattered at her feet: books ripped from their spines, a lamp beheaded, cushions gutted, the remains of a marble chess set embedded in the baseboard. The air tasted of dust, ozone, and the faintest afterimage of Chanel.

 

Hazel eyes, molten and wild, darted across the chaos. Behind every blink, memories flickered like the severed frames of a silent film: a baby's laugh, a man's palm on her shoulder, an old glass bottle filled with sand. The vision stuttered; she clamped down on it. Not here. Not now.

 

At the edge of the room, two staff members hovered by the arched double doors, faces pinched and pale above their immaculate uniforms. The older man—she remembered his face, not his name—held his hands open in a gesture of peace. The younger woman, hair slicked back in an austere bun, clutched the cordless phone so tightly it looked ready to snap in half. Both regarded Serena as if she were a wounded wolf, beautiful and utterly unpredictable.

 

Sunlight sliced through a nearby window, igniting dust motes in the air and casting a golden halo around Serena's form. She straightened her spine. The poker grew heavier, as if the weight of everything she'd ever lost condensed itself in the metal. She could not—would not—drop it.

 

A metallic clang echoed from the hallway. Serena’s heart jackhammered against her ribs. She braced herself, every muscle coiled, as Chad Owens stormed into the room. The sight of him—tall, imposing, rage shimmering off him in palpable waves—sent the staff scurrying for the corridor. The only witnesses left were the security guards, both rooted at the threshold, their eyes wide and hands twitching near their holsters, but not moving.

 

Chad's blonde hair, normally shellacked into position, hung in sweaty ropes across his forehead. His white shirt clung to his chest, splotched at the collar with red—wine, maybe, or blood. "What the hell have you done?" His accent made it sound almost formal, a sentence meant for a firing squad.

 

Serena’s voice shredded as it left her throat. "Get back." She staggered a step, positioning herself between Chad and the shattered tableau.

 

Chad’s gaze flicked over the wreckage. He seemed to tally each object with accountant precision—her destruction itemized in real time. "You're out of control," he hissed. "Do you even remember what happened last time?"

 

Last time. Another flash: sterile blue light, handcuffs, screaming that did not belong to her. Serena gritted her teeth, refusing to let the memory surface.

 

"Put it down." Chad took a deliberate step forward. "You’re making this worse for yourself."

 

"Stay away," she said, voice wavering. "I’m warning you." She raised the poker, and for a split second, it trembled in her grip.

 

Chad laughed—a cruel, soft sound. "Are you threatening me, Lana?" He stepped closer, each movement heavy with certainty, as if he’d done this dance a hundred times before.

 

She wanted to scream that her name wasn't Lana. But the certainty with which he said it, the way it wrapped around her like a too-tight scarf, choked the protest at birth. Instead, Serena gripped the poker with both hands and swung at him, aiming for the arc of his cheekbone.

 

He ducked, moved with reptilian speed. Her momentum spun her off-balance. Chad closed the gap, and before she could recover, his hand came up and slapped her across the face. The world tilted; Serena stumbled backwards, landing hard against the stone lip of the fireplace. Her temple collided with the corner. Pain detonated through her skull—sharp, then hot, then spreading in a sticky wave. The poker clattered to the ground, rolling away like a spent bullet.

 

For a moment, Serena heard everything in slow motion: the gasp of the maid in the hallway, the thud of Chad’s shoes on the floor, the liquid sound of her own blood as it started to drip down her brow. The room shrank at the edges, colors leaking out until only red and white remained.

 

She pressed a hand to her head. It came away slick and glistening. In the fading light, she saw Chad’s face above her—not angry, now, but cold. Calculating.

 

"You can’t keep doing this," he said, voice distant, muffled. "You’re mine. You belong to me."

 

She tried to form a retort, but her jaw wouldn’t move the way she wanted. Her vision buckled, folding in on itself like a ruined dress. Serena’s body slumped to the floor, knees catching under her as her head sagged forward. The world narrowed to a tunnel, then to a pinprick, then nothing at all.

 

The last thing she saw was Chad’s shoes, perfectly polished, framed by a sunbeam and a spatter of her own blood.

 

 

Hours later.

 

White light—searing and absolute—was the first thing she knew. Not the kind that bled through curtains in the morning, but a harsh, clinical purity that banished all shadow. Serena blinked against it, eyes watering, unable to tell if she was floating or falling.

 

The ceiling stretched above her, an endless grid of immaculate tiles. She turned her head—slowly, so as not to dislodge the ache thudding behind her left temple—and stared at the sharp lines of the hospital room. Not just any hospital: the sort with windows bigger than some bedrooms, the glass so clean it gave back her face in unsettling high-definition. Pristine sheets, pressed and tucked. Walls a polite, anonymous gray. Medical equipment nested at her side, humming quietly, a constellation of blinking lights.

 

She reached up. Fingers grazed coarse gauze taped above her eyebrow, then traced a fresh, burning scar beneath it. She pressed gently; the world tilted and threatened to spiral, so she dropped her hand and focused on her breathing. She did not know how she’d gotten here. Or, for that matter, where “here” was, or what was supposed to happen next.

 

Footsteps approached—soft, measured, expensive. A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. Serena twisted, tension spiking, and saw a man seated by the bedside. His suit was charcoal, crisp and unyielding, and his blond hair was styled so immaculately it could’ve been carved from wax. He watched her with pale, appraising eyes. A newspaper lay folded in his lap; his phone, facedown, on the table beside him.

 

“Welcome back,” he said, voice low and intimate, as if she’d always belonged to this place.

 

Serena’s lips moved, but sound refused to follow. She tried again, summoning moisture to her mouth. “Where am I?” Her voice was ragged, smaller than she remembered.

 

A flicker of something—relief? amusement?—crossed his face. “You’re in London. Private ward. Harley Street, of course. You gave us quite a scare, Lana.”

 

Lana. The name skittered across her skin like static. It felt wrong, but she was in no position to argue.

 

She probed her mind for details, but it was like combing a beach at low tide: the occasional relic, but mostly blank expanse. She remembered bright lights, a stage, maybe—a vague image of herself walking down a runway in some engineered state of grace. A flash of cameras, applause muffled as if underwater. Nothing before. Nothing after.

 

“Lana,” he said again, softer now, “you’ve been unconscious for almost a day. I was beginning to think—” He stopped himself, shifting in the chair, and smoothed the line of his tie with practiced fingers. “They say you suffered a… temporary disruption. The doctors think it’s concussion. Retrograde amnesia. It should pass, given time.”

 

She opened her mouth to respond, but all that came out was a whimper.

 

He leaned closer, placing his hand over hers. It was a careful gesture, just heavy enough to signal possession without tipping into threat. “You’re safe. I’m right here. It’s me—Chad.” His thumb brushed the back of her hand in small, rhythmic arcs.

 

The intimacy of the touch—its certainty—made Serena’s skin crawl. But she forced herself to nod, because he seemed to want it, and right now wanting was the only currency she had.

 

“You don’t remember me,” Chad said, voice gentling as if to a child. “That’s all right. You hit your head. I blame myself—I should’ve come home earlier, but the closing ran over, and—” He released her hand, ran both palms over his face, and exhaled. “None of that matters now. What matters is that you’re alive, and you’re still… you.”

 

Still you. She looked down at her arms—brown, unscarred except for the new wound—and then past them to the sterile bedding, the neatly arranged fruit basket at the end table, the stack of fashion magazines by the window. The covers screamed with color and hunger and perfection. She did not know if she liked them or not.

 

“What happened?” she whispered.

 

Chad took a deep, theatrical breath. “You slipped. In the foyer. Hit your head on the marble.” He smiled, quick and controlled. “I suppose even models can’t out walk physics. You’re lucky the security was on duty.”

 

Model. The word sparked a ripple of recognition—a thousand runway memories, all artificial and silent, and none of them anchored to a real place or time. “I’m a model?” she said, as if asking for permission.

 

He let himself look almost relieved. “The best. At least, until this little episode.” His eyes bored into hers. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure, Lana. But I promise, everything’s going to be better now. We can start over. Just like we planned.”

 

There was a knock at the door, then a nurse appeared—tall, competent, her face composed into a mask of compassion. She glanced at Chad, then at Serena, and kept her gaze fixed on the chart as she checked the monitors and vitals. “Welcome back, Miss Hartfield,” she murmured, reading the name off the file. “You’re doing very well. A little dehydration, but that’s to be expected.” She pressed a thermometer under Serena’s tongue, then began to change the IV, hands methodical and gentle.

 

Serena studied the nurse’s movements. She seemed to avoid looking Serena in the eye, even as she adjusted the bedding or smoothed Serena’s hair away from her face. When she finished, the nurse replaced the chart and spoke quietly to Chad. “You can have a few more minutes,” she said. “Just don’t let her exert herself.”

 

Chad nodded, then waited until the nurse had left before returning his attention to Serena. “She’s one of the best,” he said. “Discreet, too. No need to worry about gossip.”

 

Serena tried to piece together what was happening, but the edges of her mind frayed every time she reached for clarity. “Do I have… family?” she asked, uncertain whether she wanted the answer.

 

Chad’s face hardened, just for a second. “No one here. Not anymore. I’m all you’ve got.” He softened the words with another smile, then brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “But that’s okay. I’m all you need, right?”

 

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

 

“I should let you rest.” He stood, straightened his jacket, and kissed her gently on the forehead, just above the bandaged scar. “I’ll be back in the morning. With coffee and pastries. Your favorite.” The word favorite echoed in the space after him, as if it were a joke only he understood.

 

When the door closed behind him, Serena let her head sink into the pillow. The room was still, except for the faint whir of a monitor. She pressed her palm against the bandage, hoping for pain, or clarity, or anything at all.

 

Nothing came.

 

She stared at the ceiling until she felt herself slipping under again, this time into a sleep so white and absolute that she couldn’t tell where the dream began and the waking world ended.