The penthouse is too quiet.
That’s not unusual. It has been all morning, mainly because I can’t bring myself to turn the television on. Oh, I tried. Nothing caught my attention. I was too busy thinking about things that I know I should leave alone, but I can’t.
I just…can’t.
Dallas left early. Thatwasunusual. Since I first came to live here, we have had the habit of having breakfast around eight so that he’s out the door by nine. This morning he barely touched the food he ordered up to the penthouse before he kissed my forehead like he always does now, telling me that I can use my phone to place an order for lunch in case he’s not back in time to eat with me.
Then he left, and the silence settled back in.
My phone doesn’t do much. He admits it was a cheap model he grabbed just so I had something, but if I need anything better, he’ll get me one. I told him not to bother. He’s the only one I ever call, and even that’s rare. So the phone he gave me is slow, doesn’t have any date, and barely connects to the Fortress’s wi-fi. In a pinch, I can get in touch with Dallas, and the app connected to the Fortress’s kitchen works so I’m able to order whatever I want and they leave it outside the penthouse in a no-contact delivery. I’m good.
At least, for the first few weeks that I’ve been living with Dallas, I was good. Lately? I can’t stop thinking, and I know better than to admit that to my husband. When I showed signs of frustration that my sessions with Dr. Brannigan weren’t going anywhere, he gave me the choice of doubling them up or scaling them back. I chose the second option. Now I’m scheduled to talk to the special every other week, and while that seemed like a good idea at the time, after what happened the other day when Dallas lost his temper… I’m wondering if that was a mistake.
There’s so much I don’t remember. So much I wish Idid. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that Dallas is a member of a secret society. How does that really affect me? And, like, it’s supposed to be asecret, right? But the way he reacted when I told him how Haven mentioned the Order of the Owed to me… how he lost it when I slipped and used his name instead of his nickname… I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something so much bigger than a membership to some silly boys club.
Alone again, I sit on the couch in the living room, holding a mug of coffee long after it’s gone cold.
Dallas says I shouldn’t push my mind too hard. Dr. Brannigan says that the fleeting glimpses I get of my past is a good sign, that my memories will come back when they’re ready. Everyone keeps telling me to be patient, but patience is really fucking hard to hold onto when every day feels like I’m living someone else’s life.
The penthouse is beautiful with it’s massive windows, dark hardwood floors, furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine. I have a husband who dotes on me, who could belong on the cover of another magazine, who fucks like a god withoutworrying that he’ll cheat on me. What happened with that other girl was miscommunication to the nth degree—something I understand now that he’s explained the Order of the Owed and their tendency to arrange marriages… thank God I didn’t have one ofthose—but nothing he’s said or done since makes me doubt his loyalty to me.
His honesty, though? That’s a different matter entirely.
What makes it worse is that none of this… none of it feels like mine. Dallas wants me to have it, and I’ve been taking everything he offers me, but there’s that lingering feeling inside of me that something’s not right. That this is too good to be true, and that when Idofinally regain my memories, it’ll all come crashing down.
I know I shouldn’t want that to happen. But as time goes by, it feels like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head. Wouldn’t it just be better if I knew and I could get the heartbreak over with? Because, one way or another, I know I’m going to break my own heart. Maybe if we hadn’t been estranged when I had my accident, I’d believe in happy-ever-afters, but if we fell out once before, who’s to say that won’t happen again when I’m back to being the Lucy Wright who couldn’t make it worth with Dallas in the first place?
I stand up abruptly, cradling my mug.
The silence is suffocating, the loneliness too much to bear all of a sudden. You know what? Maybe… maybe I just need a change of scenery. I’m feeling claustrophobic being cooped up here with only my thoughts for company, and it’s not like Ican’tleave the penthouse.
A couple of days ago, Dallas mentioned that I could move around the building if I wanted to, if I needed to stretch my legs. He still doesn’t want me to go outside, but I wouldn’t need to. The Samuel E. Reynolds building isn’t just offices. It’s practically its own little world, with offices, business, restaurants, andstores. If I want something, Dallas—as the owner of the penthouse and, I guess, a member of this society—has a tab going. He’ll pay for it later. All I have to do is use his name.
I’ve been hesitant to do that. It felt like taking too much, and when I started to get the sinking feeling that he was hiding me up here, I remembered how quickly he was able to run after me after I bolted into the rain. He finally admitted that he showed my picture to the head of security in the building, letting them know his wife was living in the penthouse with him, and that she’d been in an accident that left her in a vulnerable cognitive state.
Translation:I don’t know who the fuck I am, where I’m going, and they better keep an eye on me before I get into trouble.
I didn’t like the idea of having countless babysitters looking out for me so I… I just never left the penthouse. I didn’t need to. It has everything I could ever want—except, perhaps for answers about who exactly Dallas is.
He finally confessed that he has an office in the Fortress. I don’t know what he does for the society—he was quick to brush aside any my questions about that—but I know he inherited space other than the penthouse after his father died.
Maybe I should go see if I can find it. And if Dallas is at the office instead of down at the garage, I can get him to show me around. And if he’s out… well, maybe I can entertain myself by looking around the space where he works here. After all, he’s worked so hard to keep any sign of his personality out of the penthouse, with the exception of his bedroom. I’d love to see his work space and see if I can learn more about my husband.
The elevator ride down feels oddly thrilling, like I’m doing something slightly forbidden. Since I have no idea where to begin my search, I decide to go to the lobby. Not because Iplan on leaving the Fortress. I don’t. I’m just hoping there’s a directory down there.
The doors to the elevator slide open onto the hustling, bustling crowd of people coming and going. I think about going to one of the three receptionists sat behind a large, half-circle counter, but they all look too busy. I don’t want to distract them or, well, draw attention to me. Instead, I move to the center of the lobby, whirling around, looking for a screen or a sign or a posting that shows the building’s directory.
When a blond man in a dark suit approaches me, I wonder if it’s obvious that I don’t belong. Then I notice the gun at his hip and the earpiece he’s wearing, and I’m like:shit.
No. It’s more likebusted.
“Ms. Wright,” he murmurs in a deep voice that fits his bodybuilder frame. “Can I help you?”
I blink. He knows who I am. Of course he knows who I am.
And I know who he is, too.
Security.
