THE COLLATERAL HEART: THE NIGHT I FORGOT YOU

ARIA POV

"Tell me his name."

My mother's voice didn't shake.

Mine did.

"I don't know."

The slap came fast enough to turn my head.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed.

"I'm not lying."

"You expect me to believe you don't know who got you pregnant?"

"I don't."

The crystal chandelier above the dining table trembled slightly from the force of my father's fist slamming against polished wood.

"This is disgraceful," he said flatly.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears.

"I woke up in a hospital three weeks ago," I said, forcing the words out evenly. "They told me I was in a car accident. They told me I lost some memory. I didn't even know I was pregnant until yesterday."

"Convenient," my mother snapped.

"I have medical records."

"And yet," my father cut in coldly, "you refuse to name the man responsible."

"I can't name someone I don't remember."

Silence.

Not disbelief.

Calculation.

My mother's eyes scanned my face like she was looking for cracks in porcelain.

"You were engaged," she said quietly.

Something in my stomach dropped.

"Engaged?"

"Yes."

"To who?"

My father's jaw tightened. "Daniel Whitmore."

The name meant nothing.

"I don't know him."

"You were going to marry him."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"You did," my mother said sharply. "You were very clear."

My breath felt thin.

"I don't even remember loving anyone."

The temperature in the room seemed to shift.

My father leaned back slowly.

"Then this is worse than we thought."

"Worse?" I whispered.

"Yes," he replied. "Because if you are pretending, it's unforgivable. And if you are not..." His eyes hardened. "You are unstable."

The word hit harder than the slap.

"I am not unstable."

"You don't remember the man you were engaged to."

"I don't remember half of last year!"

"And now you're pregnant."

"Yes!" My voice cracked. "And I don't know how or when or why!"

My mother's expression flickered, not sympathy. Fear.

"Were you seeing someone else?" she demanded.

"I don't know!"

"Were you sleeping around?"

"No!"

"Then how do you explain this?" She pointed violently at my stomach.

I wrapped my arms around myself instinctively.

"I wish I could explain it."

My father stood.

That was worse than when he shouted.

He walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

"How far along?" he asked.

"Twelve weeks."

He nodded once.

"So the timing aligns."

"With what?" I asked.

"With betrayal."

"I didn't betray anyone!"

"You humiliated this family," he said, turning slowly. "The Whitmores are already asking questions."

"I don't care about the Whitmores."

"That's the problem."

"I care about figuring out what happened to me!"

"What happened," my mother said tightly, "is that you lost control."

"I was in a car accident."

"You were reckless."

"I don't even remember the car."

My father's eyes sharpened.

"You were running."

The word settled in the room like smoke.

"Running from what?"

He didn't answer.

"From who?" I pressed.

My mother grabbed my wrist.

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Digging."

"I have a right to know "

"You have a responsibility to fix this."

"Fix what?" I snapped. "The pregnancy?"

Silence.

Cold.

Precise.

My mother released my wrist slowly.

"If necessary," she said.

Something inside me recoiled.

"You're not serious."

My father's voice was calm. Too calm.

"This cannot become public."

"It's a child."

"It's a liability."

The word knocked the air from my lungs.

"A baby is not a liability."

"In our world," he said evenly, "everything is."

I stared at him.

"I could have died."

"But you didn't."

"I lost my memory."

"Selective memory," my mother muttered.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"You think I'm pretending?"

"I think," my father said carefully, "that this is incredibly convenient timing."

"For what?"

"For escape."

My pulse stumbled.

"Escape from what?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he looked at my mother.

And something passed between them.

Something decided.

My stomach turned.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

My father picked up his phone.

"Send them up."

My heart dropped.

"Send who?"

The front door opened downstairs.

Heavy footsteps echoed against marble floors.

"No," I breathed.

My mother didn't look at me.

"Pack a bag," she said.

"Why?"

"Because you're leaving."

The words didn't register at first.

"Leaving where?"

"Somewhere discreet."

"You're sending me away?"

"Until we determine the truth."

"I am telling you the truth!"

The footsteps grew closer.

Two men in dark suits appeared in the doorway.

Not security.

Enforcers.

My chest tightened.

"You can't just remove me from my own house."

"You are not thinking clearly," my father said. "We are protecting you."

"By exiling me?"

"By controlling the narrative."

"I am not a narrator!"

"You are our daughter," my mother said sharply. "And you will do as you're told."

"I'm twenty five!"

"And pregnant," my father replied. "Which makes you vulnerable."

"I won't go."

The two men stepped forward.

My heartbeat slammed against my ribs.

"You don't have a choice," my father said.

"I absolutely do."

"You don't."

The men moved toward me.

I backed away instinctively.

"Don't touch me."

"Aria," my mother warned.

"Don't touch me!"

One of them reached for my arm.

I jerked away.

"You think I don't see what this is?" I said, my voice shaking but rising. "You don't believe me. You don't trust me. You think I ruined your perfect arrangement."

"You did," my father replied.

"I was unconscious!"

"You were disobedient."

The word froze me.

Disobedient.

Not confused.

Not hurt.

Not traumatized.

Disobedient.

"I almost died," I whispered.

"And yet," he said, "you survived."

Something clicked then.

Not memory.

Instinct.

"You're not scared for me," I said slowly.

Silence.

"You're scared of what I might say."

My mother's face paled.

"That's enough."

"About Daniel?" I pressed. "About the engagement? About why I was running?"

My father's composure cracked just slightly.

"You will stop talking."

"Or what?"

He stepped closer.

"Or you will regret it."

The threat wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

The men grabbed my arms.

I struggled.

"Let go!"

"Aria, don't make this worse," my mother said, voice tight.

"You're throwing me away."

"We are containing damage."

"I am not damaged!"

My father turned to the men.

"Remove her belongings."

"What?" I choked.

"Everything from her room. It will be delivered where necessary."

"That's my home."

"Not if you cannot behave like a Beaumont."

The words sliced clean.

One of the men released my arm long enough to step aside as another pair entered and headed upstairs.

I heard drawers being pulled open.

Closet doors sliding.

My life being reduced to luggage.

My chest felt hollow.

"You're choosing them over me," I whispered.

"We are choosing stability," my mother said.

"At what cost?"

Neither of them answered.

A suitcase was dragged down the stairs.

Then another.

The sound echoed like a verdict.

My father walked toward the door.

"You will go to Italy," he said without looking at me.

"Italy?"

"You will remain there until this situation is corrected."

"And if I refuse?"

His gaze finally met mine.

"You won't."

The front door opened.

Cold air rushed in.

My suitcase was rolled past me.

Like I was already gone.

I stood there.

Hands shaking.

Memory fractured.

Pregnant.

Unwanted.

"You don't even care if I remember," I said quietly.

My mother's lips parted.

For a second, I thought she might break.

Instead, she straightened.

"Memory returns," she said. "Reputation doesn't."

The men guided me toward the door.

I didn't fight this time.

Because something else had taken root.

Not confusion.

Not fear.

Suspicion.

If they were this desperate to send me away

Then whatever I forgot...

It was bigger than pregnancy.

The door shut behind me.

Not slammed.

Closed.

Controlled.

Final.

The cold hit my face.

My suitcases sat on the driveway like evidence.

The gates began to open.

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed

I felt something sharp cut through the fog.

They weren't protecting me.

They were hiding something.

And if I had to cross a continent to find out what

Then fine.

Let them send me away.

I would come back with answers.