Chapter 1 - The Morning After
Lia Evans jerked upright in a stranger’s bed and shouted:
“Where am I?”
Dante Moretti stepped beside the bed and placed a black leather document folder on the nightstand.
A gold date was stamped beneath her signature:
“October 17 — 11:47 P.M.”
Lia looked at the ring on her finger.
This wasn’t a mistake.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
For several seconds, she could hear nothing except her own breathing.
The man standing beside the bed did not move.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed as though he had already been awake for hours. His white dress shirt was open at the collar. Black trousers fell in sharp lines over polished shoes. A silver watch caught the morning sunlight.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
Lia pulled the white sheet higher against her chest.
“Who are you?”
“Dante Moretti.”
The name meant nothing to her.
That frightened her more.
“Where’s my phone?”
“Safe.”
“My shoes?”
“Also safe.”
“Give them to me.”
Dante’s eyes remained on hers.
“When you're ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
“No. You’re terrified.”
“Of course I’m terrified!”
It was the first time his expression changed.
Barely.
A tightening near his eyes.
Not anger.
Something closer to regret.
Lia looked down.
A diamond ring surrounded by smaller stones glittered on her left hand.
She grabbed it.
“What is this?”
Dante said nothing.
She pulled.
The ring moved slightly but caught against her knuckle.
“Take it off.”
“You can take it off whenever you want.”
“Then why am I wearing it?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because you put it there.”
Lia stopped pulling.
“No.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“Lia—”
“Don’t say my name.”
Dante fell silent.
Her stomach turned.
She remembered fragments from the night before.
Twenty-one candles.
Her roommate Sophie laughing.
A crowded rooftop bar.
A stranger sending champagne.
Music.
Her phone vibrating.
Then—
Nothing.
There should have been more.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Nothing came.
“What happened to me?”
“You drank something you shouldn't have.”
Her eyes snapped open.
“You drugged me?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“That is one of the questions I’m trying to answer.”
Lia stared at him.
“Trying?”
Dante nodded toward the leather folder.
“Open it.”
“I don’t want to touch anything you give me.”
“Fair.”
He stepped backward.
The movement mattered.
He was giving her space.
Lia hated that she noticed.
She reached toward the folder.
Inside was a marriage certificate.
Her eyes jumped over the words.
Dante Moretti.
Lia Marie Evans.
Her birthday.
A courthouse license number.
Two witness signatures.
And hers.
She knew her own handwriting.
That was her signature.
“No.”
She flipped the page.
Another document.
Then another.
A photograph slid out.
Lia picked it up.
She was standing beside Dante.
Her blonde hair was curled over one shoulder. She wore the black dress Sophie had convinced her to buy for her birthday. Dante wore a dark suit.
Lia was holding the marriage certificate.
And smiling.
Her fingers began shaking.
“This is fake.”
“It isn’t.”
“I don't remember this.”
“I know.”
“You expect me to believe I married a stranger?”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“We weren't strangers last night.”
Cold moved through her.
“What does that mean?”
“You knew who I was.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
Lia threw the photograph at him.
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You're hiding something.”
“Yes.”
The honesty stopped her.
Dante picked up the photograph.
“Why?”
“Because if I tell you everything before we know who altered your memory, I may contaminate what you can recover naturally.”
Lia stared.
“You sound like a doctor.”
“My doctor told me what to say.”
“You have a doctor?”
“He’s downstairs.”
“Why?”
“To examine you.”
“No.”
“He won’t touch you without permission.”
“I’m leaving.”
She climbed out of bed.
The oversized white shirt she wore fell almost to her knees.
Lia froze.
She looked at Dante.
“Whose shirt is this?”
“Mine.”
Her face drained.
Dante understood immediately.
“Nothing happened between us.”
“How do I know?”
“You don't.”
The answer was brutal.
But it was the first answer that did not sound designed to comfort her.
“You slept alone,” he continued. “I was in the study.”
“Then why did I wake up in your bed?”
“Because you collapsed.”
“From what?”
“We don't know.”
Lia backed toward the bathroom.
Dante did not follow.
She locked herself inside.
Her reflection made everything worse.
Messy blonde hair.
Smudged mascara.
Pale face.
No visible injuries.
She checked her arms.
Nothing.
Her neck.
Nothing.
Then she saw a tiny red mark inside her left elbow.
A needle mark.
Lia stopped breathing.
She unlocked the door.
“What is this?”
Dante saw where she was pointing.
His expression hardened instantly.
“That wasn't there last night.”
The room changed.
The calm disappeared from him.
He crossed to the nightstand and picked up his phone.
“Marco.”
A pause.
“Lock the building.”
Lia stared.
“What?”
“Every exit. Nobody leaves.”
He ended the call.
“You’re locking me in?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“You can leave.”
“Then open the elevator.”
“I will.”
Dante picked up her clothes from a chair and placed them near the bathroom without coming closer.
“But whoever did that to your arm may still be in this building.”
Lia looked again at the mark.
Fear crawled over her skin.
“Who are you?”
Dante looked at her for a long moment.
“You really don't remember.”
“Remember what?”
He turned toward the windows.
New York stretched beneath them.
From this height, the city looked harmless.
Then Lia noticed something on the street.
Three black SUVs.
Men standing near them.
Not chauffeurs.
Security.
She looked back at Dante.
“What do you do?”
Dante did not answer immediately.
“Several things.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“My family owns shipping companies, hotels, construction firms, private security companies.”
“And?”
His gaze settled on her.
“And businesses that don't appear on annual reports.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Are you a criminal?”
“I’m Dante Moretti.”
“That still means nothing to me.”
“It will.”
He walked to the door.
Lia followed several feet behind.
Outside was not a hotel corridor.
It was a private residence.
Men in dark suits stood at both ends of the hall.
One lowered his eyes when Dante appeared.
“Boss.”
Lia stopped.
Boss.
Dante noticed.
“Stay near me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't know which person in this building betrayed me.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“It wasn't meant to be.”
They entered a massive living room.
A gray-haired man carrying a medical case waited near the windows.
“Miss Evans,” he said. “Dr. Adrian Keller. I’d like to take blood, if you consent.”
“Why?”
“To determine whether you were given a sedative or memory-disrupting substance.”
Lia looked at Dante.
“Leave.”
Dante immediately walked out.
That surprised her.
The doctor drew blood while Lia asked question after question.
Was she injured?
No.
Was there evidence of sexual assault?
Nothing from the preliminary examination performed after she collapsed, but the doctor emphasized she could request an independent hospital examination.
Could whatever she had been given erase memories?
Certain substances could interfere with memory formation.
“How long?”
“Hours, sometimes.”
“Can memories come back?”
“Possibly.”
When the doctor finished, Lia dressed.
Her phone appeared on the table outside.
So did her shoes.
Dante was keeping his word.
She turned the phone on.
Forty-three missed calls.
Most were from Sophie.
Lia called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Dante watched her expression.
“Your roommate?”
“How do you know Sophie?”
“You told me about her.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where is she?”
“We're looking.”
Lia lowered the phone.
“What do you mean, looking?”
“She left the rooftop bar at 10:18.”
“So?”
“She never went home.”
Lia's blood turned cold.
“You're lying.”
Dante handed her another phone.
Security footage played.
Sophie exited the bar.
A man approached.
She appeared to recognize him.
They walked toward a black sedan.
“Who is that?”
“We don't know.”
Lia looked closer.
Then stopped.
The man's face was partly hidden.
But she knew the jacket.
Brown leather.
A distinctive white scar crossed the back of his right hand.
Lia whispered:
“Evan.”
Dante's expression changed.
“Who?”
“My brother.”
“You told me you didn't have a brother.”
“I don't.”
Dante stared at her.
Lia swallowed.
“Not anymore.”
Her older brother, Evan Evans, had disappeared five years earlier.
Police had found his abandoned car near the Hudson.
Blood in the trunk.
No body.
Her mother had spent two years waiting for him to walk through the door.
He never did.
Lia took the phone.
“That can't be him.”
Dante said nothing.
She enlarged the image.
The scar was unmistakable.
Evan had gotten it pulling Lia away from a broken window when she was eleven.
She would know that hand anywhere.
“He’s alive.”
“Maybe.”
“Why would he take Sophie?”
Dante's phone rang.
Marco spoke from the other end.
Dante's face went still.
“Send it.”
A message arrived.
One photograph.
Sophie sat tied to a chair.
Alive.
Terrified.
Beside her was a handwritten card.
Dante handed the phone to Lia.
She read the message.
BRING DANTE MORETTI’S WIFE.
COME ALONE.
Lia looked up.
“They know.”
“Yes.”
“Know what?”
“That we married.”
“But that happened only last night.”
Dante’s expression darkened.
“Exactly.”
Lia stared again at the photograph.
Then she noticed something behind Sophie.
A wall.
A faded blue wall.
And on it, half-hidden in shadow, hung a framed family photograph.
Lia knew that photograph.
It had once hung in her childhood home.
Her mother.
Her father.
Evan.
And six-year-old Lia.
Her hands went numb.
“That picture was destroyed years ago.”
Dante stepped closer.
“Where?”
“In the fire.”
“What fire?”
Lia looked at him.
“The fire that killed my father.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Marco appeared carrying a small evidence bag.
Inside was a key.
Old brass.
Blackened by fire.
Lia recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to her father.
Marco placed another object on the table.
A sealed envelope.
Written across the front in handwriting Lia had not seen since she was sixteen were four words:
FOR LIA ON HER 21ST.
Her father's handwriting.
Lia reached for the envelope.
Dante caught her wrist.
“Wait.”
“Why?”
Marco looked toward the hallway.
His hand moved beneath his jacket.
Someone had just entered the penthouse.
A woman's voice called Lia's name.
Lia froze.
She knew that voice.
May you like
Her mother was supposed to be three hundred miles away.
And she was crying.
