Behind The masks

Zara's POV

The next three days passed in a blur of quiet tension and pretend peace. Dr. Henry continued his rounds, checking vitals that were already stable, offering calm reassurances I didn't need.

"Physically, you're fine," he said, tapping at his clipboard. "Sometimes, reconnecting with nature or revisiting familiar places can jog the memory. Even conversations with loved ones might help."

I nodded, said thank you, smiled when expected, but inside, my mind was a battlefield. I didn't care about that. I wasn't here to get Aria's memories. I'm back for revenge.

Every second that ticked by was time slipping through my fingers, time I needed to gather evidence, to figure out who helped Cassian throw me into that water, and to bring them both down. I hadn't seen Cassian since waking up in Aria's body.

So after the doctor left that morning, I turned to Nana. She was fluffing pillows and humming softly to herself.

"Where is Cassian?" I asked, keeping my voice light.

She looked up. "Oh, he traveled. Two days after your accident."

"Traveled?" I repeated.

She nodded. "Yes. That's why Mr. Everhart insisted you be brought here. We didn't want any press photos from the hospital, it's safer here."

I sat back slowly, digesting that. Aria is a public figure, a billionaire heiress, socialite, face of brands. Of course the news would've feasted on her injuries if word got out. But her husband, newly married, had just left? After two days?

Who does that? What kind of man leaves his wife in a coma and vanishes for weeks? It didn't add up. None of it did.

I glanced at the luxurious room again, the gold-framed mirrors, the velvet drapes, the way the sunlight filtered through cream sheers and landed gently on a crystal vase by the window. Every detail was immaculate.

Aria's world was beautiful. I didn't know the rules here, the people or routines, but I would learn. I had no choice. Because somewhere inside this life I didn't choose, was the only path revenge.

Nana watched me carefully. "You know, dear," she said gently, "maybe walking around the house will help jog your memory."

I nodded, if I was going to pretend to be Aria, I needed to know the stage I'd been thrown onto.

We began the tour. The fourth floor was off-limits, Mr. Everhart's private domain, but even the glimpse I caught through the locked glass doors screamed untouchable power.

On the third floor was a dining room that looked like it belonged in a palace, its long, sleek table faced a panoramic skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. In another room is an arcade. Of course.

I paused at a balcony wrapped in elegant wrought iron. Below, a matte-black helicopter rested on a private helipad like something from a spy film.

The second floor was just as unreal. A bar, each bottle looking more expensive than my rent. Past that, a music room housed a black grand piano, polished to perfection. Even that room was bigger than my old apartment.

Down the hall, a glass-walled gym gleamed with top-tier equipment. The kind celebrities brag about but rarely use. Twin staircases spiraled toward the lower floors, and two elevators glided silently between them.

Each turn unveiled another corner of obscene wealth, balconies that framed the estate like art galleries, and an infinity pool so pristine it looked photoshopped.

Just when I thought I'd seen the extent of it, Nana led me down a private pathway through the garden. At the end, we stepped onto a private marina where two yachts bobbed gently.

"You love hosting parties here," she said with a knowing smile.

I almost asked, Me? But I stopped myself just in time. Right. Aria.

Then, as if this world hadn't already broken every rule of excess, she led me further to a hangar. Inside were two private jets. Not chartered, but owned.

It hit me all at once: this wasn't wealth. This was an empire. And Mr. Everhart wasn't just rich, he was untouchable, he was a man who could rewrite rules, erase stories, and silence worlds.

"Would you rather walk through the estate?" Nana asked. "You had so many favorite spots growing up."

"No," I said quietly. "I think... I'll rest."

Because the truth was, I'd seen enough. When I finally returned to my chambers, I sat motionless on the edge of the bed. This was a life I didn't recognize.

The next day after lunch, a domestic staff member came to my room. "Ma'am, Mr. Everhart requests your presence at a birthday party this evening."

Nana, seated beside me, perked up immediately. "Let me call your stylist."

Stylist?

I gently stopped her. "It's alright, Nana. I can manage."

She hesitated. "You haven't been seen in public for a while. People will start talking. Are you sure you can manage on your own?"

I nodded. "Yes."

By evening, I'd settled on a sleek black gown that hugged curves I still wasn't used to. It felt foreign, like I was slipping into someone else's polished skin. Matching heels, a simple purse, and a smile I had to glue to my lips.

In the car, silence stretched until Mr. Everhart finally spoke, his voice cold and mechanical.

"When we arrive, smile and return greetings. Don't show any sign of amnesia. We can't afford a scandal."

I nodded, hands clenched tight in my lap. "Okay."

Scandal? Because Aria was sick? He didn't even ask if I was doing okay, I just had to make an appearance.

I expected a gala, something grand and political, but when we arrived, I froze for half a beat. It wasn't a boardroom event, not a fundraiser or launch.

It was a birthday party for a cat. A cat!

The venue was a vision, twinkling chandeliers, champagne trays, a live string quartet playing soft jazz. There were canapés labeled like museum pieces. An actual cake shaped like a diamond-encrusted tuna can.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. This wasn't just wealth, it was insanity dressed in designer couture.

Still, I smiled. Nodded. Replied "thank you" and "so lovely to see you" like a script I'd memorized. Every time someone said "Aria," I flinched internally, reminding myself that's my name now.

Mr. Everhart melted into the crowd, mingling with the elites gathered near a gold-trimmed bar, leaving me adrift. I stood alone, surrounded by clinking glasses, laughter, and eyes that felt like lasers.

My hands trembled slightly. I wasn't made for this, these people's jokes could pay off my debt. Their shoes probably cost more than my entire apartment and restaurant, but I kept smiling, because if I cracked now, they'd smell the difference.

That's when I saw a man whose presence didn't just command attention, it silenced the room without trying. He looked younger than most of the men here, early forties maybe.

Black hair, effortlessly styled, framed a face sharp enough to be sculpted. High cheekbones. A jawline carved like a greek god, and that frame, tall, broad, and commanding made his tailored suit fall over him like liquid power.

I didn't mean to speak to him, but I felt his eyes on me. I turned to refill my glass, hoping the motion would ground me. It didn't. The moment he stepped closer, I caught the scent, something masculine and expensive.

My heart skipped. That scent. The same one from Hudson Yards. The stranger who caught me when I collapsed, the one who vanished before I woke in the hospital.

But colognes are mass-produced, anyone could wear it. I just needed to hear his voice. He reached for the decanter beside me, before I could think, the word escaped:

"Hi."

He looked at me, his lips pulling into a slight, unreadable smile. "Hi," he replied.

That voice, deep and smooth, was unmistakable. My vision had been blurred that day, but I remembered that voice. I almost said thank you.

But that was Zara. Now, I am Aria.

"Nice party," I said casually, trying to sound like someone who belonged in this world.

He let out a quiet scoff, just the hint of amusement dancing in his storm-grey eyes.

"Is it?" he murmured. "Personally, I think I have better ways to waste my evening. She called it her 'child's birthday.' It's a cat."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "I know, right?"

I took a slow sip of champagne, grateful for the glass in my hand to steady me. I could see his reflection in it, eyes still fixed on me. Was he married? Taken? Before I could spiral too deep, he spoke again softer this time.

"How are you doing?"

It wasn't small talk. There was something else in the way he said it, like he already knew something. Did he remember me? That's impossible.

"Better now that you're talking to me," I said, lips curling into a playful smile.

He studied me. Something flickered in his eyes, he looked like a man who didn't trust easily, but for a second, I saw a softer shadow behind the sharpness.

Before I could say more, another polished man approached us.

"Aria," he said warmly, extending a hand.

I took it with a poised smile. "Good evening, kind sir."

Then he turned to the man beside me.

"Mr. Blackwell," he greeted, shaking his hand. "It's been a while."

Everything inside me stilled. The man who helped me. The man now standing beside me...

Was a Blackwell?