The room tilts sideways. My vision tunnels, and the edges start going dark. The clicker slips from my hand and hits the table.
I know him. I know him. How do I know him?
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I can’t breathe. My panic is rising fast, crushing my chest, and I’m reaching for my bag with shaking hands. My medication. Where’s my medication? My fingers close around the pill bottle, but I can’t get the cap off. My hands won’t work right.
“Ms. Castellanos?” The voice sounds far away. “Are you alright?”
No. I’m not alright. I’m dying. I’m having a heart attack or a stroke or something, because why do I know this man’s face?
“Everyone out.” His voice cuts through the panic in a familiar way that makes my stomach drop. “Now.”
“Sir, the presentation?—”
“Out.”
Chairs scrape. Footsteps shuffle. The executives file out like they’ve been dismissed by a king, and within thirty seconds, it’s just me and him. The door clicks shut.
I finally get the pill bottle open and shake one into my palm and swallow it dry. It sticks in my throat.
“Savannah.”
I look up at him. He’s closer now, just a few feet away, and those eyes. Steel blue. I know those eyes.
“How do you know my name?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“How do I—” He stops. Studies my face. “You really don’t remember.”
“Remember what? I don’t know you. I’ve never—” But that’s not true. I do know him. His face is burned into my brain somewhere, hiding behind a wall I can’t break through.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Sets it on the table between us.
I stare at it. “What is that?”
“Look at it.”
I unfold the paper.
It’s a marriage certificate.
My name is on it. Savannah Castellanos. The handwriting is mine, messy and drunk-looking, but definitely mine.
Next to it: Ledger Volkov.
I read it three times. Four. The words don’t make sense.
“This is a joke.” I look up at him. “This is some kind of?—”
“It’s not a joke.” He sits down across from me, movements careful, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “We got married three weeks ago in Las Vegas. We were drinking, so maybe that’s why you don’t remember?
The room is spinning again. “I don’t—I didn’t?—”
“You did.” His voice is gentler now. “We met on a plane. You were running from a bad day. I was flying commercial because my jet was being serviced. We talked for hours. Then we ran into each other at a club, and we decided to get married.”
Fragments flash through my mind. A plane. Tequila shots. Lights. Music. Silver hair.
Princess.
Someone calling me princess.
