The conference room smelled like expensive coffee and lies.
Elena Vega sat in her usual seat, third from the left, close enough to contribute but far enough to avoid the spotlight and watched the man she loved forget she existed.
Damian Cross stood at the head of the table, his fingers drumming against the polished mahogany surface. The same fingers that had traced her collarbone two weeks ago while he whispered promises into her skin. The same hands that had held hers in the dark when he admitted he was terrified of losing her.
Now those hands were just... hands. Belonging to a stranger who happened to have his face.
"Let's begin," Damian said, his voice carrying the sharp edge she remembered from three years ago, before he'd softened into the man who'd leave sticky notes on her desk that said things like thinking of you and meeting at 3, try not to look too beautiful.
The morning briefing proceeded like a execution in slow motion. Marketing presented Q4 projections. Finance flagged budget concerns. Elena's chest tightened with each passing minute, waiting for the inevitable.
It came when David from Operations mentioned her department's strategy revisions.
"Elena's team restructured the supply chain protocols," David said, gesturing vaguely in her direction. "Should reduce overhead by fifteen percent."
Damian's eyes swept across the table and landed on her. She watched recognition fail to register. Watched him search for context she knew he didn't have.
"I'm sorry," Damian said, his tone professionally apologetic but utterly detached. "Remind me who you are again?"
The room went silent.
Elena felt ten pairs of eyes turn toward her. Felt Katherine from HR shift uncomfortably. Felt David's confusion radiating from across the table.
They didn't know. None of them knew.
Only Rebecca had known, Damian's former executive assistant who'd retired a month before the accident. Only Rebecca had seen the way Damian's entire body language changed when Elena entered a room, the way his carefully constructed CEO persona would crack just slightly at the edges when she smiled at him.
Now Rebecca was gone. And Elena was nobody.
"Elena Vega," she said, her voice steady despite the way her hands were trembling beneath the table. "Strategic Operations Manager. I've been with the company for three years."
I've been with you for two of them, she didn't say. You told me you loved me six months ago. You were planning to go public with our relationship. You had a whole speech prepared about how you didn't care what the board thought, how I was worth any professional complications.
"Right," Damian said, his attention already shifting back to his tablet. "Good work on the protocols."
That was it.
Three years of working in the same building. Two years of stolen moments and secret smiles. Six months of him telling her she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Reduced to: Right. Good work.
Elena made it through the rest of the meeting on autopilot. She contributed when expected. Took notes she'd never read. Smiled when appropriate.
When Damian dismissed them, she was the first one out the door.
The hallway outside the conference room was too bright. The fluorescent lights made everything look sterile, clinical. She walked toward her office with measured steps, refusing to run even though every instinct screamed at her to escape.
"Elena."
She stopped. Turned.
Katherine from HR approached with concern etched across her face. "Are you okay? That was... awkward."
"I'm fine," Elena said automatically. "He's been through a lot. The accident ..."
"I know," Katherine interrupted gently. "But still. You two worked closely on several projects. I thought he'd at least..."
She trailed off, because what was there to say?
I thought he'd at least remember you existed wasn't exactly comforting.
"It's fine," Elena repeated. "Really."
It wasn't fine.
She made it to her office, closed the door, and allowed herself exactly sixty seconds to fall apart.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: How's your first day back?
Elena stared at the message. She'd taken a week off after the accident, a week spent haunting hospital corridors, being politely but firmly denied entry to his room by his family, watching through a window as he woke up and looked at his mother with confusion but no recognition.
The doctors had explained it clinically: retrograde amnesia, caused by traumatic brain injury. Memory loss spanning approximately two years. Full recovery uncertain.
What they hadn't explained was how to survive being erased from someone's history.
She typed back: Fine. Busy day. Call you tonight.
Another message appeared, this one from an unknown number. She opened it.
This is Damian Cross. Rebecca mentioned you might have files from the Singapore project. Can you send them to my assistant? Thanks.
Elena stared at the message.
He didn't have her number anymore. Or he did, it was in his phone but he didn't know whose number it was. So he'd asked someone for "that manager's contact information" and now here he was, texting her like she was a stranger.
Because to him, she was.
She drafted seventeen different responses. Deleted them all. Finally settled on: I'll send them over this afternoon.
Professional. Distant. Safe.
His reply came instantly: Appreciate it.
Two words. Not even a full sentence.
Elena set her phone down and stared at her computer screen. Her background image was a generic mountain landscape, she'd changed it the day after the accident, removing the photo of them from last year's company retreat. They'd snuck away from the group dinner and climbed to the roof of the lodge, and Damian had pulled her close and told her he was going to marry her someday.
"Not someday soon," he'd clarified, laughing at her shocked expression. "I know we agreed to keep this secret until the merger finalizes. But someday, El. I'm going to marry you, and I don't care who knows."
El. He'd called her El since their first real conversation, when she'd challenged his presentation in a board meeting and he'd cornered her afterward and said, "You're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, Miss Vega."
"Elena," she'd corrected. "And I'm right."
"We'll see about that," he'd said, but he was smiling. Then: "Elena's too formal. Can I call you El?"
She'd said yes.
He'd been calling her El ever since.
Until a week ago, when his car collided with a semi-truck on a rainy highway and the impact reset his brain to a version of himself that had never met her.
A knock on her door made her jump.
"Come in," she called, straightening in her chair.
David poked his head inside. "Hey, got a minute? Damian wants us in his office for a follow-up on the supply chain changes."
Damian. Not the CEO or Mr. Cross. Just Damian.
Because David didn't know they were supposed to be careful about familiarity in public. David didn't know that Elena spent most nights at Damian's penthouse apartment. David didn't know anything.
"I'll be right there," Elena said.
She checked her reflection in the small mirror by her door. Fixed her hair. Made sure her expression was neutral.
Then she walked to the executive floor like she was walking to her own execution.
Damian's office was exactly as she remembered, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, minimalist furniture, everything in shades of grey and black. Professional. Intimidating.
The only color in the room used to be the small succulent plant she'd given him for his birthday six months ago. He'd protested that he'd kill it, and she'd laughed and said, "Then I'll just have to visit more often to make sure it survives."
The plant was gone now.
Elena's chest constricted as she scanned the space. Other things were missing too. The photo of them that used to sit in his desk drawer (hidden but present). The coffee mug she'd bought him with "World's Most Difficult Boss" printed on it. The throw blanket from his couch, navy blue, her favorite, the one she'd curl up in when she worked late in his office.
Everything that tied her to this space had been erased.
"Elena, thank you for coming," Damian said, not looking up from his computer. "David was just explaining the implementation timeline. I need clarification on the third-quarter logistics."
She sat in the chair across from his desk, not her usual spot on the couch, because sitting there felt like a betrayal of something she couldn't name.
For the next twenty minutes, she answered his questions with the clinical precision he seemed to expect. She pulled up spreadsheets, highlighted key data points, explained cost-benefit analyses.
He listened. Asked intelligent questions. Took notes.
And didn't once look at her like he'd ever kissed her.
"This is solid work," he said finally, closing his laptop. "I can see why Rebecca spoke highly of you."
Rebecca spoke highly of you.
Not: I spoke highly of you. Not: I know you're brilliant because I've spent two years watching you solve impossible problems.
Just: Someone else vouched for you, so I suppose you're adequate.
"Thank you," Elena managed.
"David, can you give us a moment?" Damian said suddenly.
David glanced between them, confused, then shrugged and left.
Elena's heartbeat kicked up. They were alone. In his office. Like they'd been a hundred times before.
But everything was different now.
"I wanted to apologize," Damian said, his tone formal. "For this morning. The memory issues from the accident have been... challenging. I should have reviewed the personnel files more thoroughly before the meeting."
Personnel files.
That's what she was to him now. A file. A name in a database.
"It's fine," Elena said. "You've been through a lot."
"That's not an excuse for unprofessionalism." He paused, studying her. "Have we worked together before? On other projects?"
The question was casual. Polite curiosity.
He had no idea he was driving a knife into her chest.
"A few," Elena said carefully. "The Singapore expansion. Some of the logistics restructuring last year."
"Hmm." He frowned slightly, like he was trying to recall something just out of reach. "I feel like I should remember you."
You should, she thought desperately. You should remember everything.
"Memory recovery takes time," she said instead. "That's what the doctors said, right?"
"Right." He stood, signaling the end of the conversation. "Well, thank you for your work on this. I'll have my assistant reach out if I have additional questions."
His assistant. Not: I'll reach out. Not: Let's grab coffee and discuss this further.
Everything routed through intermediaries now.
Elena stood. "Of course. Let me know if you need anything."
She was halfway to the door when he spoke again.
"Elena."
She turned, hope flaring stupidly in her chest.
"Yes?"
He hesitated, his expression flickering with something she couldn't identify. Confusion? Recognition?
"Have we..." He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind. Thank you again."
The hope died.
"You're welcome," she said, and walked out before he could see her expression crack.
She made it back to her office before the tears started.
Sixty seconds. That's all she allowed herself. Sixty seconds of sitting at her desk with her face in her hands, breathing through the pain that felt like it might actually kill her.
Then she straightened. Wiped her eyes. Reapplied her lipstick.
And got back to work.
Because this was her life now. Watching the man she loved forget she existed. Answering his questions like a stranger. Pretending her entire world hadn't just collapsed.
Her phone buzzed. Another text from the same unknown number.
One more thing, do you know why there's a key to my apartment in the office lost and found? My assistant said someone turned it in last week. Key has my address on the tag but I don't recognize it.
Elena stopped breathing.
The key. She'd left it on his counter the night she went to his apartment and saw the photo of them was gone. She couldn't keep it. Couldn't keep walking into a space that didn't want her anymore.
She'd dropped it at the office security desk on her way out, anonymous and final.
Now he was asking her about it.
She typed slowly: Not sure. Maybe from a friend? Or family member?
The response came quickly: Maybe. Seems strange though.
She didn't reply. Couldn't.
Because if she started explaining the key, she'd have to explain everything. And the doctors said forcing memories could damage him further.
So she'd stay silent.
She'd smile when he asked her questions.
She'd answer his emails professionally.
She'd attend meetings and contribute to projects and act like her heart wasn't actively being torn apart every time he looked at her with polite indifference.
Elena opened her laptop and pulled up the resignation letter template she'd been staring at for three days.
Then she closed it again.
She couldn't leave. Not yet.
Because somewhere, buried deep in whatever remained of Damian Cross's fractured memory, was the man who loved her.
And she couldn't give up on him.
Not yet.