Page 37 of Sinful Obsession
The three men exchanged knowing glances, their smirks fading, and stepped back, yielding to his threat.
Cassian’s hand closed around mine, his grip bruising but protective as he pulled me into him—guiding me through the crowd like I belonged to no one else..
Their eyes followed, sharp and hungry, as we moved toward the exit, the penthouse’s opulence closing in like a gilded cage.
“I don’t remember any of it,” I blurted, struggling to breathe as we exited the building.
“That much is obvious,” he muttered, unlocking the bike parked outside.
When we both straddled the seat, I clutched his jacket and whispered, “Can you take me to a doctor? Please... I need to know what’s wrong with me.”
He didn’t answer, straddling the bike and starting the engine with a roar.
I climbed on, my arms wrapping around his waist instinctively—the heat of his body igniting that familiar, conflicting pull.
He didn’t speak, just drove, eventually steering us into the underground garage of a private hospital.
We entered through a side entrance, and soon we were in a white, sterile office. The doctor, a tall man in his forties with sharp eyes and expensive taste, stood up the moment we entered.
“Mr. Moretti,” he nodded. “And Miss...”
“Moretti,” Cassian cut in coldly, his hand tightening around my waist as we sat. He said it like it was law—like our divorce never happened. Like I still belonged to him.
“She was in an accident. Severe amnesia.”
The doctor leaned in, eyes scanning me carefully. He was professional, but I saw something in his gaze. Sympathy, maybe. Or dread.
I said quietly, “I remember most of my past... but the last three years are just gone. It’s like someone cut them out with a scalpel. I need to know what’s wrong with me—and how to get them back.”
The doctor gave a measured nod, his eyes scanning the chart before meeting mine. “Memory loss of this nature could be due to several causes—traumatic brain injury, severe psychological trauma, or even dissociative amnesia triggered by extreme stress.”
“Given the specificity of the timeframe, dissociative amnesia is likely, often linked to a significant event your mind has suppressed to protect you.”
He leaned forward, his voice steady. “We’ll need to run tests—an MRI to rule out physical damage, and a psychological evaluation to assess trauma. In the meantime, therapy, such as cognitive behavioral therapy or EMDR, can help unlock suppressed memories.”
“Journaling, revisiting familiar places, or talking with people from your past may also trigger recall, but it must be done carefully to avoid overwhelming you.”
He asked me more questions—simple ones, things I should’ve known without thinking. But my mind stayed blank. Every answer felt like grasping smoke.
Cassian sat beside me the entire time, never more than a breath away. Every time I trembled, his hand steadied me. Every time my voice wavered, his presence wrapped around me like armor.
“We’ll run scans, but trauma-induced memory loss is unpredictable.” The doctor finally said.
“Start whatever needs to be started,” Cassian said.
The doctor nodded solemnly. “But you need to understand—there’s a chance she may never recover all of her memories.”
Cassian’s response was instant and ice-cold. “That’s not an option,” he said. “She will remember. Every second. Or you’ll be looking for another job.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I stared at him, my pulse roaring in my ears.
We left the office, his hand on my lower back, guiding me back to the bike. The ride home was silent.
Back home, Cassian had been unusually quiet. Like he was holding in more than words.
His gaze settled on me like a weight. “You need to be careful, Charlotte,” he said, voice controlled.
