The early Saturday morning air filtered through the open window of Hôpital Saint-Louis as Elara Moreau prepared to leave. Her discharge papers were signed, her few belongings—a small bag and a mysterious locked box engraved with "E.M."—packed into the trunk of a black car waiting outside.
She felt weak, her body still aching from the accident, her mind still foggy. The nurses' words about her "amnesia and how bad it was" echoed in her ears as she stepped into the car, driven by an impassive man in a black suit.
Elara's hazel eyes traced the passing streets of Paris, searching for something familiar that never came. The weight of Lucian Duval's presence from the day before lingered, his words replaying in her mind as the car sped toward his estate on the outskirts of the city.
By late morning, the car pulled up to a stunning modern mansion, its white marble walls shining bright in the sunlight, surrounded by perfectly trimmed gardens and a distant view of the Eiffel Tower.
The mansion screamed money—sharp, clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, and big double doors that swung open right on time.
Elara stepped out, nearly choking at how insanely fancy it all was, but a weird, uneasy feeling hit her too. This place felt foreign, yet… not entirely. Lucian was waiting at the entrance, tall and striking in a gray suit that fitted him perfectly, his dark brown hair glinting in the sun. Before he could speak, Elara stopped in the grand foyer, her heart racing as the weight of her lost identity crashed over her.
"Who am I? Why does this place feel awfully familiar?" Elara whispered, her voice shaky, hazel eyes darting around the marble hall.
"Elara Moreau. My Secretary and Personal Assistant," he said sharply. Lucian Duval stepped closer, his dark brown eyes cold, hiding a storm.
"I don't remember… anything. And Adrian—he says he's my fiancé?" she asked, her heart racing.
Lucian's gaze darkened, his voice a low growl. "Forget him. All you have to do now is focus on yourself and remember that you belong under my care."
His words sounded possessive but stayed calm and business-like—not too personal, more like he was in charge, still giving Elara a little shiver down her spine. She stared at him, feeling confused, but exhaustion silenced any protest. Lucian's face looked cold, his jaw stiff, though a tiny bit of worry showed for a second before he turned and nodded at her to follow. "Come on. You need rest."
He led her through the mansion, its structure a blend of modern luxury and quiet elegance. The main floor held a large living area with plush sofas, a dining hall with large pine table, and a library lined with books. A wide staircase curved upward to the second floor, where the private quarters were. Lucian's room, the master suite with its own balcony, was at the far end of the hall, while Elara's was just three doors down—a spacious guest suite with a garden view.
The estate was occupied with a small, efficient staff: a housekeeper, a chef, two assistants who managed Lucian's schedule, and the driver who'd brought her. They moved like shadows, professional and discreet, their presence a reminder of Lucian's wealth and control. Elara wondered about his family—where were they?
Unknown to her, Lucian's parents, Charles and Geneviève Duval, lived in a chateau in the Loire Valley, retired but still influential, while his powerful politician uncle resided in central Paris, a key ally in his business empire.
Lucian showed her to her suite, its cream walls and soft furnishings a sharp contrast to the hospital's sterility. "You'll stay here until you're well," he said, his tone authoritative. "Don't wander—rest is key."
He opened a wardrobe, revealing a collection of new clothes: blouses, flowing skirts, hoodies, thin lingerie and casual dresses, all in her size. "You're starting over," he added, his voice firm. "It's better if you don't go back to your family's home for now."
Elara nodded, grateful but puzzled. Why was he so invested?
As she reached for a hanger, her foot caught the rug's edge, and she stumbled a bit. A piece of thin lingerie—shiny black and lacy—slipped off a shelf and landed on her face, hanging there like a flimsy mask. Lucian's eyes widened in shock, and he quickly snatched it off her, tossing it across the room like it burned him, his cool composure cracking for a split second.
Elara raised her head, staring at him in shock.
"What, you tryna dress me up in that now?" she murmured, as she looked away.
Lucian caught the lamp she'd nearly toppled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I heard that. The people who stocked this thing just threw in all kinds of stuff. I didn't pick it," he said as he walked towards the door.
****
The next morning, Sunday, arrived with a golden glow filtering through Elara's window. She woke early, her body adjusting to the absence of hospital machines. After a quick stretch, she entered the en-suite bathroom, its marble tiles cool under her feet. The shower was a godsend, the hot water melting away the last of her muscle aches.
As she stood under the shower, she caught her reflection in the glass—hazel eyes, long brown hair, a face she didn't fully recognize. "Who are you, Elara Moreau?" she whispered, the steam fogging her image.
She dressed in a soft sweater and jeans from the wardrobe after the shower and headed downstairs, her stomach rumbling. Lucian was already in the kitchen, a cup of black coffee in hand, his dark brown eyes scanning a tablet. Their rooms' proximity meant they would often cross paths in the hall, and this morning was no exception.
As Elara descended the stairs, their eyes met—his gaze as cold as ever. She spoke first; her voice hesitant but polite. "Good morning, Mr. Duval," she said, opting for a formal title that felt more fitting for her supposed boss than the casual "Lucian." His brow lifted slightly, a faint hint of approval in his expression. "Good morning, Miss Moreau," he replied as he gestured to the breakfast spread on the counter. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
They spent the day in quiet moments that tested Lucian's usual cool vibe. In the library, Elara sipped tea while flipping through a book, only to spill some on her sweater. She dabbed at it with a napkin and accidentally knocked a book off the table with a loud thud. "Oh, for fu*k's sake!" she said, her words coming out fast.
Lucian, sitting across from her, pressed his lips together, his dark brown eyes showing a bit of amusement. Deep down, he felt a tug—her messiness, her nonstop sass, it was so damn her, the Elara he remembered before the crash. He pushed the feeling away, staying calm, though a small smirk hung in the corner of his lips.
Afterwards, Elara wandered into the garden, drawn by the sunset's warmth. She sat on a stone bench, fidgeting with a pencil she'd found in her room, her mind restless. Lucian joined her uninvited, his presence a quiet weight beside her. She looked up, "Mr. Duval… why do I feel like there's more you're not telling me?"
He tensed. "You were my assistant," he said, his voice steady but strained. "That's all you need to know for now." The lie hung between them, his gaze lingering too long, intense and conflicted, with only the slightest hint of warmth buried deep within.
Elara frowned, sensing the unspoken truth, but let it drop, her heart heavy with questions. "You start your work officially tomorrow, might as well sleep early now," Lucian said as he stood up and walked away from the garden leaving Elara's questions unanswered.
Back in her room that night, Elara rummaged through her hospital bag, her fingers brushing against the small locked box. She shook it, hearing a faint rattle—something was inside. No key. A shiver ran through her as she stared at the engraved initials, "E.M." Elara Moreau? She tucked it under her pillow, her mind racing as she prepared for her first day at work on Monday.