The strong wind came without warning, a violent, screaming force that slammed into the car like a living being.
Amara's hands held the steering wheel as rain struck the windshield, the world outside nothing but beams of light and water. The wipers screeched carelessly across the glass. The road ahead blurs, twisting into silver strips beneath the storm.
She shouldn't have driven. Ethan had begged her not to. "Stay home, Amara. It's late." But she'd needed some air, needed to breathe something that wasn't tied to him. The argument still echoed in her head, his voice calm but cold. You're too emotional. You'll ruin everything.
The next instant, the car jerked. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard, piercing and unsettling. The wheel surged hard to the left she tried to handle it, but the wind was in control. Her heart leapt to her throat as the tires lost grip. The world tilted. The Barrier flashed in the headlights then shattered.
Cold air and rain rushed in.
The car tipped, weightless for one terrible second — and then plunged.
Amara screamed as water exploded around her, swallowing sound, light, breath. The river closed over the roof. She fumbled with the seatbelt. It wouldn't budge. The buckle jammed. Her lungs burned.
Through the fractured windshield, she saw the shimmer of headlights above — a figure on the bridge.
Tall. Familiar.
Ethan.
He was standing there, coat whipping in the wind. For one fragile moment, their eyes locked through the storm. Relief burst inside her — He's here. He'll save me.
Then he turned.
And walked away.
"No!" She screamed, her voice was a bubble of sound lost to the river. She hit her fists against the glass so hard, but the car was already filled. Cold water covered her
Darkness swallowed her whole.
A beep. Steady, rhythmic.
White light.
The sharp smell of antiseptic.
Amara gasped and coughed, lungs seizing as if waking from drowning all over again. Wires tugged at her skin IV lines, monitors, bandages. A hospital. She tried to sit up, but pain shook through her ribs.
"Easy," a voice murmured, deep and too calm. "You're protected now."
Ethan.
He sat close to her bed, perfect as always, his shirt sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly unraveled, that familiar controlled softness in his eyes. The same eyes that had watched her die.
"Ethan…" Her voice cracked, fragile and uncertain. "What… happened?"
His hand brushed her hair gently. "You were in an accident. The bridge near the Han River. You've been in a coma for two weeks."
Coma. The word landed like ice. She couldn't believe it, memories spinning, headlights, rain, his shadow, no, she must be mistaken. She tried to speak again, but her throat burned.
"Don't be hard on yourself," Ethan said softly. "You're lucky, Amara. Really lucky." He smiled the kind of smile that could melt cameras, boardrooms, and hearts. To anyone else, he'd look like a man who nearly lost his world.
But beneath that charm was something else a flicker of relief that didn't belong to love.
She whispered, "You saved me?"
"I was nearby," he said quickly. "The police called me right after. I never left your side." He held her hand. "I don't think you remember much."
Amara hesitated. Splinters danced in her head a bridge, the gleam of a watch, the look in his eyes before he turned away.
She swallowed. "No," she lied.
For a heartbeat, he studied her face too closely, as if searching for cracks in her words. Then his expression softened again. "Good. It's better that way."
Better for whom?
Days blurred into each other.
Ethan moved through the hospital like a shadow always polite, always loving, always watching. He handled everything: the doctors, the press, the unending visitors who kept calling them the golden couple.
When the doctors finally discharged her, he brought her home to their penthouse.
A place that once felt like home now felt like a bondage.
Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
Her favorite flowers filled the vases. Her wardrobe was freshly organized. The fridge was stocked with her preferred brands. Every detail was as if she'd never left except she didn't remember arranging any of it.
"Home," Ethan said, guiding her gently to the sofa. "I can't believe this moment is finally here ."
She smiled lightly, because that's what good wives do. But her stomach stirred.
She walked around the apartment later in the night, while he was on a call in the study. His voice was low, firm.
She stood near the door.
"…She doesn't remember a thing," he was saying. "Yes. I'm sure. Don't call me again. Not for now."
Her blood went cold. She backed away, heartbeat pounding loudly.
The next morning, Dr. Lila Bridge reached for a private checkup sharp eyes, calm tone, the kind of woman who noticed things others didn't.
"You're recovering well," Lila said, pressing a stethoscope against Amara's chest. "Do you remember the crash?"
Amara hesitated. "Flashes. Not much."
Lila's gaze lingered. "Hmm." She lowered her voice. "Your CT scans show something odd. The trauma didn't match the depth of your coma. Almost like…" She trailed off.
"Like what?"
Lila met her eyes. "Like you weren't just injured. Like something kept you unconscious longer than you should've been."
Amara stared. "You mean"
"I mean, rest," Lila said suddenly, smiling again as footsteps approached. Ethan entered, all charm and composure.
"How's my wife?" he asked.
"Recovering beautifully," Lila replied sweetly. But as she left, she squeezed Amara's wrist, just once — a silent warning.
That night, Amara sat in her studio the one room Ethan rarely entered. Her notepads, covered in dust, were stacked on a shelf. She suddenly opened one, and something small slipped out a piece of tape sticking to the back cover.
A burner phone.
Her heart hammered as she turned it on. A single saved voice memo crackled to life her own voice, shaky and rushed.
"If anything happens to me… It's because I found out what Ethan did."
The phone slipped from her hand. For a long moment, she froze, staring at the wall.
Her reflection in the glass looked like a ghost pale, vacant, fragile.
But under that fragility, something new stirred.
She stood, steadying her breath.
Ethan thought she'd forgotten. That she was weak.
Let him think that.
When Ethan came to check on her, she smiled softly, almost shyly.
"You've been so patient," she said softly. "I don't know how to thank you."
He smiled, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "You don't have to thank me, Amara. Just… don't doubt how much I love you."
Her lips curved in a faint, trembling smile. "I don't."
But behind her eyes, another promise began to take shape, silent, sharp, unbreakable.
If Ethan Vale had truly tried to kill her, then the woman who once loved him was gone.
In her place stood someone new.
Someone who would make him remember what it felt like to drown.