Forgotten Love, Unleashed Cold Revenge

Sienna woke up in a hospital room, her body screaming from a severe car accident. Through the glass, a man paced with violent rage, a dark shadow she felt absolutely nothing for.

Her friend Julia burst in, eyes bloodshot, dropping a bomb: "He didn't even try to help you." Dante, Sienna's fiancé, had protected another woman, Valeria, in the crash, leaving Sienna to burn alive.

Her past life unspooled – seven years sacrificed, an architecture degree abandoned, all to serve Dante. Her phone was a shrine to him: his photos, his "taboos," and even "Valeria's preferences," with no trace of Sienna herself.

But amnesia brought no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating fury. She felt disgust for the "idiot" she'd been, stripped of dignity. The memory loss was a release, a blank slate.

With chilling resolve, Sienna deleted every trace of Dante. Ripping out her IV, she declared, "The wedding proceeds." Not for love, but as a weapon: "I need to take back everything that belongs to me before I disappear."

Chapter 1

Sienna POV:

I tried to roll over, and my body immediately punished me.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my ribs, forcing me to fall heavily back onto the stiff hospital mattress. I gasped, my fingers digging into the sterile white sheets. My body was conditioned to hide pain, a quiet instinct buried deep in my muscles, but this agony was blinding.

The harsh scent of medical rubbing alcohol flooded my nose. I forced my eyes open. The glaring fluorescent lights above me blurred my vision for a few seconds. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the white spots dancing in my sight.

A heart monitor next to my bed beeped in a rapid, frantic rhythm, breaking the absolute dead silence of the room. It was the only sound keeping me anchored to reality.

I turned my head slowly, ignoring the stiff ache in my neck. Through the semi-transparent glass of the blinds covering the VIP room window, I saw a tall, dark shadow pacing in the hallway.

The shadow stopped abruptly. He slammed a heavy fist right into the wall. The reflection on the glass caught the side of his face. He was a man consumed by violent, explosive rage. My brain registered his aggressive posture, the way his broad shoulders bunched under a tailored suit. He looked like a man who used violence to regain control when things slipped through his fingers.

I stared at the man outside. I waited for a reaction. I waited for my heart to race, for my palms to sweat, for some spark of recognition or fear or love.

Nothing.

There was only a vast, hollow emptiness inside my chest. I felt absolutely nothing for him.

The man yanked at his expensive silk tie, loosening it with a rough jerk of his hand. He turned to a man in a black suit standing nearby—a bodyguard—and roared something. The thick soundproof glass muted his words, but the sheer force of his anger penetrated the barrier.

I frowned slightly, watching him. His charcoal suit was impeccably tailored. It probably cost more than a car. He had the fashion sense of a billionaire, but he was acting like a street thug.

The heavy door to my room clicked open. A doctor in a crisp white coat and gold-rimmed glasses walked in quickly.

He saw my open eyes and let out a massive, visible sigh of relief. He immediately reached over and pressed the nurse call button on the wall.

The doctor pulled a small penlight from his chest pocket. "Miss Sienna, please follow the light," he said, shining the bright beam directly into my pupils. "Do you feel any nausea? Dizziness?"

I instinctively turned my head away, squinting against the harsh glare. "Just my chest," I rasped. My voice sounded like crushed gravel. "My chest hurts."

The doctor nodded, pulling out a tablet and tapping the screen a few times. He looked down at me with a gentle, professional expression. "Do you remember your full name?"

I opened my mouth to answer.

Nothing came out.

I searched my brain, reaching into the dark void for a name, a face, a memory. It was completely blank. The harder I tried to grasp something, the more it slipped away. A sudden, violent migraine spiked behind my eyes.

I grabbed my head with both hands, my breathing turning into short, frantic gasps.

"Okay, okay, stop," the doctor said quickly, lowering his tablet. "Don't force it. This is a normal stress response after a severe trauma."

Outside the glass, the man seemed to notice the sudden movement in my room. He snapped his head toward the door, his dark eyes locking onto the frame like a predator spotting prey.

He took wide, aggressive strides toward the door. I saw his large hand grab the metal handle. Before he could turn it, the bodyguard stepped in, speaking quickly and holding a hand up in a placating gesture.

I watched the metal handle turn slightly, then release.

A massive wave of relief washed over me. I didn't know why, but every cell in my body was screaming in rejection at the thought of that man entering my space.

"You were in a severe car accident," the doctor explained, drawing my attention back. "Based on your current cognitive state, you are experiencing retrograde amnesia."

Amnesia.

I chewed on the word. I tested it in my mind. I didn't feel panic. I didn't feel the terrifying loss of identity that people in movies portrayed. Instead, I felt a strange, weightless sense of relief. It felt like a massive chain had just been cut from my neck.

The doctor pointed a finger toward the door. "Would you like me to let your fiancé come in?"

I followed his finger. I looked at the dark silhouette pacing outside the glass. My eyes were completely cold.

"Why would I want to see a lunatic who punches walls?" I asked flatly.

The doctor coughed awkwardly, clearly not expecting that answer. "Right. I need to go adjust your pain medication dosage. I will be right back." He turned and quickly left the room.

The room fell silent again. I looked down at my hand. A clear IV tube was taped to the back of it, feeding clear liquid into my vein.

The sound of frantic, clicking heels echoed on the marble floor outside.

The heavy door was shoved open with a loud bang. A woman with bright red hair, wearing a worn leather jacket, rushed into the room. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen.

She ran to the side of my bed. She hovered her shaking hands over me, too terrified to actually touch me. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and ran down her cheeks.

I shrank back into the mattress, my muscles tensing. I stared at this crying stranger with high alert.

The woman saw the defensive, guarded look in my eyes. She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. Her shoulders shook violently.

"Sienna, don't you remember? When the crash happened, he didn't even try to help you."