Chapter 2 Rainey

The SUV's cabin swallowed all outside noise. A thick partition separated us from the driver and the armed guard in the front seat. 

I leaned stiffly against the leather seat, moving my eyes from the window to the door panel. The security screen on the front dashboard showed an encrypted GPS route.

The man next to me had planned everything. If I had to escape now, I had no way out, and my throbbing left shoulder made me useless in a fight. 

"Where are we going?" I asked, breaking the unnatural silence in the car.

"Montgomery Estate," Julian answered without looking up from the tablet in his hands. "My private home. It's the safest place for you right now."

"How far from here?"

"Forty-five minutes, maybe." He didn't try to soften his voice.

I decided to test him. "How long have we been married?"

Julian swiped on his tablet screen before answering. 

"Three years."

"How did we meet?"

"At a charity event downtown. We had the same circle of friends at the time."

That was it. He gave me facts with no extra details. A normal husband would have flooded me with stories, emotions, or specific memories to jog my mind.

This lack of affection made the marriage feel even more suspicious.

"What is my job?" I asked again.

"You are an investigative journalist."

Investigative journalist, huh.

Something behind the fog of my amnesia lit up. It explained why my first reaction after waking up was to observe and ask questions.

"What was I investigating before the accident?" I asked quickly.

"Something dangerous," Julian finally looked at me, his eyes as cold as metal. "That is why your car was hit. The crash was on purpose."

"How do you know it was on purpose? Is there camera footage? Did the police confirm it?"

"There are people who want you dead, Rainey. I know because I have been handling these threats since you entered the hospital. You have to stop treating this like a normal traffic accident." He blocked my questions. He didn't show any proof, just his own confidence that I couldn't verify. 

He knew parts of my life, and he was purposely hiding them.

Slowly, the city view outside the window changed. The tall buildings disappeared, replaced by winding asphalt roads, thick trees, and rocky cliffs. 

Mountains stood tall in the distance. There were no other cars on our road. My stomach tied in knots as I realized how isolated this route was.

"Is Montgomery far from the city?"

"Yes, it’s on purpose," he answered shortly. If I decided Julian was a threat, running away from his property on foot would be impossible.

Montgomery Estate appeared a few minutes later. Shit, it looked like an intimidating modern fortress. High concrete walls surrounded the property, and security lights swept across the area. 

We passed through three layers of steel gates. Every time we stopped, guards checked the driver's ID and looked under the car. This whole process proved one thing: Julian had something—or someone—that needed extreme protection. 

And he didn't feel the need to hide his paranoia at all.

The car stopped in the main courtyard. Julian got out first, then opened my door. Because of my injured left shoulder, I had trouble moving. 

He reached out his hand, and I instantly tensed up; my body naturally rejected his touch just like at the hospital.

However, this time I noticed something strange. As he helped me stand, his movements were very careful. He didn't grab my arm roughly or press on my shoulder. He balanced my weight gently. 

This contradiction was confusing. His attitude didn't make me trust him, but his gentle movements kept me from seeing him simply as a typical bad guy.

The inside of Montgomery was huge, with shiny marble floors and expensive furniture. 

Everything was perfect. But the place felt sterile. There were no personal items lying around, nor casual signs of two people living together. 

I looked around and finally found one framed photo of myself on a console table. I was wearing a formal dress, standing alone. There were no wedding photos. Seeing my own face in that frame didn't trigger any memories, and that emotional disconnect made me feel like I was looking at a ghost.

"You will take the upstairs bedroom," Julian said. "Dr. Silas Fairchild will arrive later. He is my private doctor, and he will take over treating your injuries."

"Am I allowed to leave this place?"

"You will stay here until the outside threat is removed." He neatly avoided giving me permission.

"Where is my phone?" I demanded.

Julian reached into his pocket and handed me a phone. I turned it on. The screen was clean, with no scratches from the accident. There were no contacts, no message history, and the network was locked.

"I want to call my family or my friends. Someone must be looking for me."

"I will arrange communications when it is safe." He was deciding.

"You need to rest." His voice remained firm, but for a split second, his eyes dropped to the thick bandage on my collarbone. 

There was a tiny wrinkle at the corner of his eye. But before I could analyze it, the expression was gone.

Julian turned around and left me with two maids who took me to my upstairs room. 

As soon as the bedroom door closed and I was left alone, I didn't lie down on the bed. My investigative instincts took over immediately.

I searched the room. The drawers, the closet, the cabinets. I found rows of expensive clothes that fit me perfectly. 

Julian wasn't lying about me living here. There was perfume, jewelry, and personal items. I ignored the clothes. My biggest weakness right now wasn't just that I forgot Julian; the main problem was that I couldn't trust a version of my life told by someone else. 

As I crouched near the closet, my eyes caught something out of place. One wooden floorboard looked a bit different; its edges had thin scratches as if it had been pried open many times.

Using my strong right hand, I slipped my nails into the wooden gap and pulled it up. 

The board lifted, revealing a small hidden compartment.

Inside lay a leather-bound diary.

My heart beat fast as I pulled it out. I opened the first page. The handwriting on the paper was mine. I recognized it instinctively, even though I didn't remember a single moment of writing it. 

My hands started to shake. I turned the pages, hoping to find answers about all of this.

Then I found short entries. The sentences were written in a hurry.

I flipped the page to the very last entry available. My eyes locked onto one message written in cursive, separate from the other paragraphs.

A warning from myself.

“Julian is not my husband. Be careful.”

I read the sentence over and over until my vision blurred. My lungs felt tight.

I slumped to the floor next to the open compartment, hugging the diary with shaking hands. 

Now, I had written proof that I once believed he was lying. And I had absolutely no memory of why.