Chapter Three:The Longest Walk

Samara's POV

I push the door open.

The room is quiet except for the steady beeping of machines. White walls. White sheets. White light filtering through the blinds. Everything is clean and sterile and cold.

And there he is.

Josh lies propped against pillows, his face pale beneath his dark hair. A bandage wraps around his head, covering the wound on his temple. Another bandage is taped to his chest beneath his hospital gown. His eyes are open.

Storm-gray eyes. Eyes I have looked into a thousand times.

But they are different now. They do not soften when they land on me. They do not fill with warmth or recognition. They are flat. Watchful. Distant.

Like I am a stranger.

He looks at me. Just looks. No smile. No relief. No love.

My heart shatters into a thousand pieces.

"Samara," he says. His voice is calm. Clinical. "The doctor told me you were here."

I step closer. My legs are shaking. I grip the edge of the bed to steady myself.

"Josh." My voice cracks. "You are awake. You are"

"I am fine." He says it like he is reassuring a nervous employee. "The doctors say I will make a full recovery."

I want to collapse. I want to throw myself into his arms and hold him. I want to feel his heartbeat against my chest and hear him whisper that everything will be okay. But I cannot move. His eyes hold me in place, cold and unfamiliar.

"The doctor says you have amnesia," I manage.

He nods. "Retrograde amnesia. The last two years are... blank. I remember the company. I remember my family. I remember signing a contract." His gaze flickers, something unreadable in his expression. "I remember agreeing to a marriage arrangement."

A marriage arrangement. Not a love story. Not a promise. Just a contract.

I feel the words like a slap.

"Josh," I whisper. "Do you remember me?"

He studies me. His eyes trace my face my hair, my eyes, my lips. There is no recognition. No spark of memory.

"I know you are my wife," he says slowly. "I know we signed a contract. I know you are an architect. I have been told you are kind and loyal." He pauses. "But I do not remember you, Samara. I do not remember us."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stagger back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a sob.

He does not remember.

He does not remember the night we met. He does not remember the way he laughed when I made a sarcastic joke. He does not remember the first time he kissed me, soft and hesitant, like he was afraid I would disappear. He does not remember holding me in the dark, whispering promises that felt like forever.

All of it. Gone.

"I am sorry," he says. And the apology sounds genuine, but it comes from a place of politeness, not grief. He is sorry I am upset. He is not sorry he forgot. He does not know what he lost.

I cannot breathe. The room feels too small. The walls are closing in. I turn and stumble toward the door.

"Samara."

His voice stops me. I freeze, my hand on the doorframe.

"Are you alright?"

Are you alright. He is asking if I am okay. He is the one lying in a hospital bed with a bullet wound and a head injury, and he is asking if I am okay.

I cannot answer. If I open my mouth, I will fall apart.

I push through the door and walk into the hallway. My legs carry me to the bathroom. I lock the door and slide down the wall, my back against the cold tile, and I cry.

I cry for the man who kissed me goodbye. I cry for the love he has lost. I cry for the future I do not know how to rebuild. I cry until there are no tears left, and then I sit in silence, staring at the white ceiling, wondering how I am supposed to walk back into that room and face the stranger wearing my husband's face.

But I will. Because he is still Josh. The man I married. The man I promised to love.

Even if he does not remember.

Josh's POV

She leaves the room in a hurry. The door swings shut behind her, and I am alone with the beeping machines and the white walls.

I watch her go. Her dark hair bounces against her back as she disappears into the hallway. I remember the way she looked at me. Her eyes were full of pain. Hope. Desperation. Like I was the answer to a question she was terrified to ask.

I do not know how to feel about that.

I do not remember her. She is a stranger to me. But there is something about her that makes my chest ache. A pull I cannot explain. When she walked into the room, my body reacted before my mind could catch up. My pulse quickened. My palms grew warm. For a moment, I felt something that felt like recognition.

But my mind is blank. Two years of my life, gone.

The doctors say I was shot. They say I hit my head on the pavement. They say the trauma caused this memory loss. It is a medical condition. A clinical explanation for a clinical problem.

Then why does it feel like I have lost something precious?

I close my eyes and try to remember. I focus on her face her brown eyes, her gentle smile, the way her hands trembled when she reached for me. But there is nothing. Just a void where memories should be.

The door opens again. I open my eyes and expect to see her. Instead, a nurse walks in, checking my vitals.

"Your wife is waiting outside," she says softly. "She seems very worried about you."

"She is my wife," I repeat. The words taste strange in my mouth. "But I do not remember her."

The nurse gives me a sympathetic look. "The doctor explained. Memory loss is difficult. It will take time."

Time. How much time? A day? A week? A lifetime?

I want to remember her. Not because I am supposed to. Not because she is my wife on paper. But because of the way she looked at me. Like I was her whole world. Like losing me would destroy her.

No one has ever looked at me like that.

I shift in the bed, wincing as pain shoots through my chest. The bullet wound. I have been shot. Someone tried to kill me. The police are investigating. The company is in chaos. My family is circling like wolves.

And I am lying in a hospital bed with a wife I do not remember and a life that feels like it belongs to someone else.

I want to go home. I want to stand in my penthouse and look at photographs and see if anything feels familiar. I want to look at Samara in natural light, without the harsh glow of fluorescent bulbs, and see if her face stirs anything in my memory.

I want to know who I was. Who I loved. Why I signed that contract.

A part of me a small, stubborn part does not believe that contract was just business. If it was just business, why did my heart race when she walked into the room?

Samara's POV

I return to the waiting room. Norah is sitting in a chair, her hands folded in her lap. Isaac is pacing. Joe is on the phone, his voice low and urgent. Noah stands by the window, his back to everyone.

Vivian is gone. I do not know when she left. I do not care.

"Samara." Isaac stops pacing and crosses to me. "How is he?"

I take a shaky breath. "He is awake. He is coherent. He remembers the company, his family, the contract." I pause. "He does not remember me."

Isaac's face falls. "Samara, I am so sorry."

"He looked at me like I was a stranger," I whisper. "He asked if I was alright. He sounded like he was asking an employee about their day."

Norah stands and takes my hands. "Child, listen to me. Josh is still in there. The man you love did not vanish. The memories are hidden, not destroyed. They can come back."

"What if they do not?" I ask, my voice breaking. "What if he never remembers?"

"Then you will build new ones." Norah's grip tightens. "Love is not just memory. It is action. It is choice. You chose Josh before, and he chose you. That choice can exist again."

I want to believe her. I want to believe that love can survive this. But right now, all I feel is grief.

"Your phone is buzzing," I hear Joe say.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. It is the same unknown number.

My blood runs cold.

I turn away from the others and press the phone to my ear. "Who is this?"

A voice answers. It is calm. Controlled. Familiar.

"Mrs. Bennett. I see your husband survived. How unfortunate."

My heart stops. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"You have something I need," the voice says. "A design. A blueprint. You do not even know you have it. But I do. And I will destroy everything you love to get it."

I am frozen. The voice is like ice water in my veins.

"Josh nearly died," I hiss. "You tried to kill him."

"He was a warning," the voice says. "The next time, he will not survive. Give me what I want, and I will leave you both alone."

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"Think about it." There is a pause. "And think carefully about who you trust. Not everyone who smiles at you is your friend."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone. My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding.

Whoever attacked Josh is not finished. They know who I am. They know what I carry. And they are willing to kill to get it.

I look up. The waiting room is full of people Norah, Isaac, Joe, Noah. My allies. My friends.

But the voice's words echo in my head.

Not everyone who smiles at you is your friend.

Who can I trust? Who is hiding behind a friendly face?

I do not know.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

The door to the hospital room opens. A nurse steps out and approaches the waiting room.

"Mr. Bennett is asking to see his wife."

I freeze. He wants to see me. After everything, he is asking for me.

I take a breath. I square my shoulders. I walk past the nurse and into the hallway.

The walk to his room feels impossibly long. Each step takes me further from the life I knew and closer to the stranger waiting inside. My heart pounds. My palms sweat. I think about the kiss before the gala. The way his lips lingered on mine. The promise in his eyes.

He is still Josh. He is still the man I love.

I push open the door.

He is sitting up in bed, his eyes fixed on the door. When he sees me, something flickers in his expression. Not recognition. But something close.

"Samara," he says. "I have a question."

I step closer. "What is it?"

He studies me. The storm-gray eyes are unreadable.

"When I look at you," he says slowly, "I feel something. A pull. Like my body remembers what my mind does not." He pauses. "Tell me the truth. Our marriage was it just a contract? Or was it something more?"

I swallow. My throat is tight. The answer hangs on my lips, desperate to be spoken.

I can feel it on the tip of my tongue. The confession. The truth.

But then I remember the voice on the phone. The threat. The warning.

Give me what I want, and I will leave you both alone.

If I tell him the truth about our marriage, he will demand answers about the contract. About my past. About the danger I have brought into his life. And that danger will find him again.

I cannot let that happen. Not when he is still healing. Not when he is still vulnerable.

"It was a contract," I say. "That is all."

The lie burns on my tongue. I watch his face close off. The flicker of something warm vanishes, replaced by cold distance.

"I see," he says. "Thank you for your honesty."

He turns away. He is done with me.

My heart shatters. Again.

But I hold my head high. I walk to the chair beside his bed and sit down. I am his wife. I will stay. I will protect him. Even if he never knows.

Even if he never remembers.