Page 9 of Porcelain Vows

The words suck the air from my lungs. I furrow my brow, trying to process what’s happening. Who am I? The question echoes in my mind, heavy with implications I’m not ready to face.

“I’m Aleksei,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I’m the father of your baby.”

“Oh.” Relief washes across her features, but it’s not the kind of relief I want to see. It’s the relief of someone receiving good news about a stranger. “That’s good then.”

My jaw clenches. She doesn’t recognize me. The woman carrying my child, the woman I’ve moved heaven and earth to protect, looks at me like I’m nobody to her.

I give a slow nod as I process this. Must be the shock. And the medication. It’s played tricks with her mind. “You’ve been through a lot, and you’re confused,” I tell her. “It’s okay,zaychik. You’ll be better once you’ve had some rest.”

“Yes,” she says, almost blankly. Her hand is resting over her belly. Over our child. As if she’s shielding that small life from something dangerous.

From me.

Blyad.

Not only does she not know me, but she doesn’t trust me, either.

“I’ll let you rest now,” I manage to say. I lean in to kiss her temple— a gesture that somehow comes as naturally as breathing— but she flinches away from me. The rejection stings more than I care to admit.

I stand up and leave the room before I can do or say something I’ll regret.

The corridor feels too small, too confined, the walls pressing in on me. My chest burns with an emotion that feels foreign to me. I need answers, and I need them now, before I tear this fucking hospital apart.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Dr. Malhotra appears, his white coat wrinkled from what must have been a long shift. I guess that’s largely my fault. I’ve threatened his entire staff with death if anything happens to Stella or Bobik. Dark circlesshadow his eyes, and his shoulders slump with exhaustion. Not that I give a shit about his comfort right now.

“Mr. Tarasov,” he greets me, his accent still crisp despite his obvious exhaustion.

“What’s happening to her?” I demand, my voice rasping with barely controlled fury. “She doesn’t know who the fuck I am!” My fists clench at my sides. If he doesn’t give me something useful, something that will fix this nightmare, I might just put him through the wall.

He gestures toward a quiet corner, away from passing nurses and orderlies. “We’ve completed the scans and run a series of tests,” he begins, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “It appears she’s experiencing temporary amnesia. The trauma she endured has caused her brain to… protect itself, so to speak.”

“Protect itself?” I narrow my eyes on him and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Yes, well… When a person is exposed to severe stress, it can happen.” He purses his lips. “I’m assuming that the events which brought Miss Fermont to our care were… stressful?”

I gather my thoughts before answering. “Yes,” I finally say. “Stella was taken against her will by a… business rival with a grudge against me.”

“I see,” he says carefully. “And from her condition on arrival, I would assume there was violence involved. Her injuries…?”

“Yes,” I say tersely. “Her life was threatened, and she was held at gunpoint.”

“And beaten,” he adds.

My jaw sets. I do not need another reminder of how I failed her.

“Yes, Malhotra, she was kidnapped, threatened and beaten,” I grit out, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel the muscles straining beneath my skin. Because this is the world I’ve brought her into. The world I’ve ruled for most of my life with blood and power. The world where people are taken and hurt because of who they’re connected to. And there are parts of it that would implicate me in activities the good doctor doesn’t need to know about.

“Yes, this makes sense,” he says, adjusting his glasses with clinical detachment that makes me want to shake him. “A traumatic event like this can trigger memory loss. It’s actually an incredibly sophisticated defense mechanism. The brain essentially walls off traumatic memories to protect the psyche. It’s quite remarkable, really, how the mind shields itself.”

“But she doesn’t remember me at all,” I growl, my hands curling into fists at my sides. The rage I feel isn’t directed at him, but at the situation, at myself. “How is that protecting her?”

“The scan showed minor damage to her frontal lobe— the part of the brain that structures information. We expect her factual memory to be fragmented for a while.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. His clinical detachment is making my blood pressure rise with each passing second. “However, the emotional centers of her brain are intact. This means while she may not remember specific events or people, she’ll retain emotional memories, feelings, moods.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” I demand. My voice sounds low and controlled despite the storm raging inside me. My fingers flex at my sides, seeking something to grip, to ground me.

“She may not remember who you are or how you met, but she may well have the same feelings for you as before. They’re just… disconnected from their context.” Dr. Malhotra adjusts his glasses again, the gesture so maddeningly calm I have to force myself not to reach across the space between us.

I think about how she flinched away from me, the fear in those green eyes that once looked at me with desire, with something that was beginning to feel like trust. The memory cuts deeper than any blade. “And if those feelings aren’t positive?”

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