Prologue(1)

ARIA- PRESENT DAY

Dear Miss De Marchi,

After our last evaluation, I think it’s in your best interest we continue your treatment program here in L.A. Therefore, I recommend that you do not return to Boston for your studies at Berklee College of Music as of yet, and your father continues to be your legal guardian.

A letter with your next schedule of appointments will be sent to you later in the week.

Yours truly,

Dr. Pelchant

Consultant Psychiatrist.

I tear the letter right down the middle, then again and again before stuffing the pieces of paper back in my purse.

The fucking words of doom are, however, etched in my mind, echoing words I never wanted to hear. Yet, I knew I would.

It’s no surprise Dr. Pelchant is recommending things stay the same. As fucked up as I feel inside, I knew this was coming. After all, I’m not getting any better.

How dare I get upset?

How dare I hope?

It was foolish, but I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, the decision would’ve been different, and I could leave the asphyxiating gilded cage my father has kept me in for the last two years.

Thankful for the cover of darkness in the booth I’ve selected, I grit my teeth and dab at the tear rolling down my cheek with the heel of my hand. Blinking rapidly, I will the rest of the tears away.

I can’t cry here like some loser. I mustn’t.

I’m in the Devil’s Claw, a swanky upscale club in Malibu. I already look like a fish out of water in my too casual skater dress, my long black hair a mess in the low hanging bun, and the scent of desperation reeking from every pore in my body.

I wish I could have gone to a bar somewhere downtown and drank myself into oblivion. At least then, I wouldn’t have to worry about drawing attention to myself.

A normal person could have done that. Since I’m not normal, I had to pick

somewhere on the approved list of places my father selected. Places he can keep an eye on me. Whether that’s to make sure I’m safe or that I don’t run away. As if I could.

I might look like I’m always on the verge of running, but I’m not stupid. I know I wouldn’t get very far.

Not with Bruno, head of my father’s security entourage watching me like a vulture ready to devour the flesh clean off a fresh carcass, and Roger his second in command guarding me like St. Peter would the gates of Heaven.

At least when I’m out like this, they keep a reasonable distance. So, tonight, Bruno is near the exit by the dance floor, and Roger is outside in the parking lot waiting in the car to take me home.

Drawing in a ragged breath, I reach for the Pina Colada, the bartender whipped up for me, and I take a sip of the sweet cocktail.

I was told this was my favorite drink before I lost my memory, so every time I come here, I drink it, hoping the taste might pierce through the block in my mind and evoke the other things I should remember.

Like who I am. Who I really am.

My name is Aria De Marchi. But I only know that because that’s what I’ve been told.

I don’t remember being her or anything about my life.

My mind feels like someone built a brick wall inside it, locking me in a confined space where I am to accept everything I’m told. That wall is so high and so wide I can’t see over or around it.

I’m trapped.

That wall and the space inside is all I’ve known since I awoke from that deep sleep that robbed me of time.

Screwing my eyes shut, I swallow the drink and rest my head against the soft leather of the booth. I then draw in a measured breath and try to calm myself.

Calm my rapid breathing, my rage, my impatience.

Things come to me when I’m calm. Sometimes it’s a flash of memory, although it’s blurry, and I can never make out the images that present themselves before me.

At other times, feelings come to me. Happiness, sadness, confusion.

I push against the barrier of the wall in my mind and try for what might be the trillionth time to remember facts of my life I know exists somewhere in the recesses of my brain. If I could just remember something, something true that wasn’t fed to me, then I know I’d have some hope of change.

Except for the burst of a fruity flavor in the back of my throat, nothing else happens.

Not a damn thing.

Not a fucking thing besides the same void of nothingness.

Defeat sinks my heart deeper into the darkness of my soul. It’s been two and a half fucking years since the accident, and I still can’t remember anything.

As long as I stay this way, everything else will remain the same. I’ll continue to live this same hellish way, where my life is not mine, and everything I do is done with my father’s approval.

I understand his worry and why he’s overly paranoid. Two and a half years ago, that horrible accident didn’t just take all my memories of my life and the people I love and care about. It also claimed my mother’s life and left me in a coma for six months.

I completely understand his worry, but it’s too much, and what irritates me more than anything is, it feels like there’s more to his paranoia than what he’s made me aware of.

All I know is I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t. Dad’s controlling hand feels like a noose around my neck, suffocating the life out of me.

Soon there will be nothing left of me.

When the club music changes to something more upbeat, my eyes snap open, and another tear slides down my cheek. The lively music bounces off the walls in an exaggerated fashion, purposely done to make it sound cooler. The people dancing below on the dancefloor go wild over it and wilder when the DJ cranks the volume.

I lean forward onto my elbows, and that’s when I feel the intense sensation of eyes watching me.

The feeling is so potent it forces me to look up to the balcony on the third floor. In the flashing club lights, I pick out a face against the sea of people standing there.

It’s a man who's the sort of handsome that gives new meaning to the word breathtaking. I’d be compelled to describe him as beautiful if not for the rugged Viking warrior edge in his presence. It tamps down anything that resembles beauty.

Those razor-sharp angles in his chiseled face, his unruly dark shoulder-length hair, and that neatly trimmed but scruffy beard keep the warrior edge going and alludes to something dangerous. They all seem to be a warning not to be fooled by the fairytale prince features in his looks.

It’s also clear from the bulk of muscle in his powerful shoulders and biceps that what you should pay attention to is everything else about him that cautions of danger.

Men don’t get that kind of muscle by just going to the gym to work out. There’s more to gaining it than wanting to achieve that look.

I know that much from seeing how my father’s bodyguards look.

My handsome stranger fixes his gaze on me like he wants me to know he’s watching me and doesn’t plan to look away.

I get looks of admiration from men all the time. It’s usually my double D’s that catch their attention first before seeing the rest of me. But this guy is looking at my face, not my body. And the way he’s watching me, so fixed and unwavering, has my attention in more ways than I’d like.

His immovable stare holds an interest that shifts the air around me and commands my body to react. And react I do as heat streaks through me, pulsing desire through the surface of my skin straight to my core.

A crackle of energy seems to pass through the vast space between us, raw and carnal. It stirs an unexpected sexual hunger in me that catches me off guard.

The sudden flush of arousal paralyzes me, and as it works its way through my body, I realize there’s something familiar about the feeling.

And… him.

My God, do I know him?

Is that what this is? Does he know me?

The longer we stare at each other, the more powerful the sensation becomes, and I think it must be true—the familiarity. I only feel this way when I come in contact with something or someone I should remember but can’t.

With him, though, it’s different. The feeling is stronger, and there’s an unmistakable desire pulsing through my veins, luring me into an enchantment where I wouldn’t be able to look away even if I wanted to.

That isn’t because the man watching me is drop-dead gorgeous. It’s something else.

Something I need to check out, especially since no one else has managed to produce such a strong response to my mind. Not my father, my supposed friends I heard talking shit about me behind my back, and not the thing I was told was my only love in life—music.

I played the violin in my previous life, and played so well that I got a scholarship to Berklee. I was told I was so good I had jobs lined up for me when I graduated. But I can’t remember holding a violin, much less playing one.

If that accident hadn’t happened, I would have completed my final year and graduated two years ago. That girl I was told I was, had the world at her fingertips for the talents she possessed.

I straighten up at the same time my handsome stranger does, and my gaze follows him as he moves away from the balcony. His eyes, however, don’t leave me.

Adrenaline spikes my nerves when he raises his hand and crooks his finger, beckoning me to come to him.

His finger lingers in the air for a few moments, and the beginning of a smile tips the corners of his lips but doesn’t quite come to fruition.

As we share this silent conversation, I wonder if I should go to him. What if my feelings were just stupid and I’m wrong?

Maybe I’m just attracted to him, and this is a standard prelude to a hook-up I can’t have.

Or could I?

I glance down to the dancefloor where Bruno is supposed to be, and I’m surprised when I don’t see him.

I look around frantically, but he’s not anywhere. That’s never happened before. He’s always, always within my line of sight. I’ve heard Dad telling him to be precisely that.

I must never be out of Bruno’s view, and he isn’t supposed to be out of mine either.

Not seeing him gives me a surge of freedom. An opening I haven’t had since I first opened my eyes to this world where my mind was a blank slate.

I return my gaze to my handsome stranger, and again he beckons for me to go to him. The enchantment that seizes me now is fueled by the knowledge that if I can’t see Bruno, he won’t be able to see me either.