Neva's eyelids twitch, then slowly part as she opens her eyes.
Silence presses close, the darkness pierced by the dim glow of a lamp on the nightstand.
A dull ache throbs along the side of her neck as her eyes slowly adjust to the room's dim glow—then she jerks upright.
Her heart begins to race, her gaze locked on the shadowed form of a man, broad and unmoving on the couch across from her.
"You're awake," the deep, unfamiliar voice says.
A feral instinct propels Neva off the bed and toward the door, her thoughts lagging behind her body.
It wasn't a dream it wasn't a dream
She's been kidnapped—
Just as she makes it a step out, strong arms seize her waist, yanking her off the ground.
"Help!" Her scream tears through the cavernous mansion.
"Somebody—help!"
She struggles against his grip, clawing at his muscular arms as her legs thrash in the air, but he hauls her back into the room.
"Help—" The word snaps into a yelp as her back slams into the mattress.
Her heart pounds in her ears as she scrambles back,
his shadow creeping closer and closer until her back meets the headboard.
"Don't—don't come closer!" she chokes out, tears blurring her vision.
He stills just an arm's length away, his gaze dropping as a sigh escapes him.
"Relax," he murmurs, climbing off the bed.
A soft click makes her flinch, as bright light pours into every corner of the room.
She slowly opens her eyes,
only to meet the dark, unfamiliar gaze of her kidnapper—the man who broke into her home, who threatened her, who stole her consciousness.
Where is she? What is this place?
Her hands rise to her face as a sob slips through.
Oh, Father… this can't be happening to me.
Where's Rhett? Is he alright? Is he looking for her?
The mattress dips as fingers brush her hair. "Neva—"
She cuts him off, roughly knocking his hand away.
"Why are you being this way?" he asks softly.
Is he serious? After everything—after breaking into her home, after terrorizing her he asks that?
"Do you—" he falters, swallowing. "Do you really not remember me?"
She doesn't answer, her knees pulled close as she buries her face in her arms.
What is she supposed to do now? How could everything go wrong so suddenly?
One moment, she was home, surrounded by roses, waiting for her fiancé, and the next… this stranger—
Her throat closes, at the utter absurdity of it, the anger pressing in.
"Nine years ago… you disappeared."
A soft shuffle follows, the slide of a drawer opening, then shutting.
"This is us," he says. "I painted it."
Against her will, her eyes drift to the frame, to the slightly yellowed picture it holds.
"There's more," he says.
He places the frame on the bed and reaches into the nightstand drawer once more.
It's a little girl holding a slightly older boy's hand in a field of daisies.
Despite everything, her traitorous soul, so easily enchanted by art and beauty, betrays her. She takes the frame, studying the brushwork, the vivid colors,
the details so real they almost feel alive.
But what strikes her most is the little girl in the frame. Her fingers graze the familiar face—a younger version of herself.
Either he's a master manipulator… or she's trapped in a living nightmare toying with her.
He sets down two more glass-framed paintings, their wooden carvings intricate and elegant.
Her hand drifts to one with an almost ethereal air—a boy and an old man beneath a tree, its colors softened into a kaleidoscope of fading warmth and light.
It's how she used to paint—still does, though not often. Not like before.
"It's your painting," he murmurs, reverence threading through his voice.
"What am I supposed to make of this?" she demands, her voice tight.
He lifts his gaze to hers, a fleeting shadow of despair passing through his eyes.
"We've known each other since childhood," he says, voice low. "Your grandfather found me when I was eleven. We grew up together… until you disappeared."
"So?" she snaps. "Even if we had a past together, what does that change? Why am I being held here?
"You're not a hostage," he says.
"Then where am I? Let me go home.''
"I can't."
She glances at him, frowning at the hollow look on his face.
He looks like her fiancé—almost. But now, up close, the difference is undeniable. He's so unfamiliar—so apart from her.
He doesn't mirror her the way Rhett does.
Her soul burns with agony, aching for her fiancé. He must be so worried.
"What do you want from me?" She folds into herself, burying her face in her arms.
"You didn't remember me," he says.
"Because I can't."
"Why can't you remember me?"
"Given everything you've told me is a lie… no, I can't remember you."
"It's not a lie." His voice comes out harsh.
She doesn't move, hiding the tremor in her bones at the nearness of him.
"I know what I did was wrong," he says, his voice softening.
"I don't know what came over me."
"Then let me go."
"I can't." He hesitates. "I can't lose you again."
"Why are you doing this to me?" Her voice cracks.
"Neva…"
"Stop. Please… just go."
"Tell me what happened," he says, inching closer. "Did something happen that made you forget about us?"
"Please… leave."
"I just want to understand."
She says nothing.
He sighs, and the mattress dips as he stands. "We'll talk tomorrow."
She sinks into the bed, curling into herself as warm tears fall, her sorrow and fear turning into a broken prayer to her Father.