The second thought was that my head felt wrong—heavy. Like someone had filled it with lead while I was sleeping.
Pressure throbbed behind my eyes with each breath, and when I tried to move, my body protested in ways I couldn’t quite identify.
I blinked at the ceiling, trying to remember how I got here.
Nothing.
I sat up slowly, and the room came into focus. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing a city skyline bathed in morning light. Furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine—all clean lines and deliberate placement. A massive bed with sheets that felt like silk against my skin. Everything too perfectly arranged. Too unfamiliar.
A dress was draped over a chair in the corner.
Except I didn’t remember wearing that dress. Or taking it off.
I looked down. An oversized T-shirt that definitely wasn’t mine, hanging halfway down my thighs. It smelled like cologne. Something masculine and clean and completely foreign.
Then I saw my hand.
The ring.
A massive diamond catching the morning light. Gold band that looked vintage, elegant. Sitting on my left ring finger like it had always been there.
My heart rate spiked. I grabbed it with my other hand, tried to pull it off. It didn’t budge. It fit perfectly, like it had been sized specifically for my finger.
Which didn’t make any sense because I didn’t own jewelry like this.
I stared at it, turning my hand to watch the diamond catch the light, trying to remember when I’d gotten it.
It came up completely blank.
My eyes went to the nightstand. Empty water glass, condensation still clinging to the sides like someone had filled it recently. Medical supplies scattered around it— A blood-pressure cuff that looked recently used. Evidence that someone had been taking care of me while I was unconscious.
Unconscious.
Why had I been unconscious?
I pressed my palms to my face, tried to force my brain to work. What was the last thing I remembered?
Work. I remembered being at work. The Richards account—I’d been reviewing data for the report, the one my dad needed for the board meeting. I’d been at my desk in my office. It had been tedious but important, and I’d promised him I’d have it done by end of day.
But after that?
Nothing.
Just this room and this ring and the growing panic that I’d done something catastrophically stupid and couldn’t remember any of it.
I looked around desperately for something that would explain this. A purse on a chair across the room. My phone plugged in and charging on the other nightstand. And next to it, a piece of paper that looked official.
I grabbed it with shaking hands.
Marriage certificate.
The words at the top were clear, formal, legal. Official seal in the corner that made my pulse hammer faster.
My eyes zeroed on my signature at the bottom, right there in my handwriting.
Next to another signature.
Michael Ashford.
