Chapter 2: Max accepts Sarah's request
[Sarah's Perspective]
Seven shots rang out faster than I could blink. No warning, no hesitation. Just the precise movement of Max's hand and the deafening crack of his pistol. Tiger's gun clattered to the ground as his body slumped behind me, followed by the heavy thuds of his men hitting the concrete floor.
"Pathetic," Max muttered, holstering his weapon with practiced ease. He didn't even look at me as he spoke into his comm device. "Clear the scene."
My legs gave out, the zip ties still cutting into my wrists. As consciousness faded, I caught a glimpse of his face – he looked more annoyed at having to handle this personally than concerned about the lives he'd just taken. Or about me.
The steady beep of medical equipment pulled me back to consciousness. My eyes fluttered open to find myself in what looked like a hospital room, but something felt... different. The equipment was too advanced, the furnishings too luxurious. Even the air had a peculiar sterility to it, beyond what you'd find in a normal medical facility.
"Morrison Group Medical Center," a crisp voice informed me. I turned my head to see a nurse in an immaculate uniform checking my vitals. "You've been unconscious for several hours. Director Morrison has authorized full medical support."
Director Morrison. Not Max. Not my husband. My supposed rescuer who had executed seven men without blinking, then disappeared without a word. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through me.
The door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss, and Isabella Blake glided in, carrying a silver tray.
"Sarah, darling," she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Max asked me to bring you something to eat. You must be famished." She set the tray down on the bedside table – a bowl of clear soup and a glass of water.
"Thank you," I managed, my throat raw from earlier screaming.
Isabella's perfectly manicured hand brushed my arm, and her mask slipped for just a moment. "Serving you like a maid?" Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Don't get used to it. You don't belong here, and you never will."
With a graceful movement that looked almost accidental, she knocked the tray off the table. The soup splashed across the pristine floor, and the glass shattered. In the same motion, Isabella stumbled backward, letting out a theatrical gasp.
The door hissed open again. Max strode in, followed by his chief assistant, Kevin Owen. Both men wore impeccably tailored suits that did nothing to hide their military bearing. Isabella immediately burst into tears.
"Max!" she cried. "I'm so sorry – I was just trying to help, but Sarah... she got so angry..." She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with obviously fake sobs.
Max's expression darkened as he surveyed the scene. His eyes barely flickered over me before settling on Isabella with obvious concern. "What happened?"
"Max, please," Isabella sniffled, touching his arm. "Don't blame Sarah. It was my fault for being clumsy."
Max's expression shifted, and suddenly I was looking at the same man who had executed seven people without hesitation just hours ago. He moved with lethal grace to stand beside my bed, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. His voice, when it came, was soft but carried the promise of violence.
"Let me make something very clear," he said, each word precisely measured. "I don't care what arrangement my grandmother forced on us. If you ever – ever – try to hurt Isabella again..." He didn't finish the threat. He didn't need to. His eyes, cold and deadly as gun metal, said everything.
I wanted to protest my innocence, to point out that Isabella had staged the whole thing. But the words died in my throat.
Kevin Owen cleared his throat, his tablet computer already in hand. "Sir, perhaps this is a good time to address the... situation." His perfectly neutral tone couldn't hide the distaste in his eyes as he looked at me.
"Proceed," Max ordered, helping Isabella to a chair while completely ignoring my presence.
Kevin's fingers danced across his tablet. "Sarah Wilson. Age 25. Originally from Southeast DC. High school dropout with a history of... promiscuous behavior. Multiple sexual partners – our investigation found at least five concurrent relationships." He paused, letting that sink in. "Worked as a nightclub hostess. Previous marriage to a European businessman who died under suspicious circumstances. Extensive plastic surgery. History of sexually transmitted infections."
Each word felt like another shard of glass in my heart. I wanted to protest, to deny it all, but the clinical way he delivered the information made it sound irrefutable.
"Family background," Kevin continued. "Father: John Wilson, chronic alcoholic. Mother: Mary Wilson, gambling addict. Brother: Michael Wilson – also a gambling addict, currently in custody for human trafficking."
"That's enough." Max's voice cut through the room like a blade. He turned to me, his expression carved from stone. "Explain yourself."
I forced myself to sit up straighter, ignoring the pain that shot through my body. "Your grandmother – Mrs. Morrison – arranged our marriage. She insisted on it. I thought..." My voice cracked. "I thought you agreed because you had feelings for me."
A harsh laugh escaped Max's throat. "Feelings? For a woman who had surgery to look like someone I used to know?" His eyes raked over me with cold disgust. "My grandmother's mind is failing. Her judgment can't be trusted."
"I... I don't remember any of that." My voice came out barely above a whisper. The room suddenly felt too bright, too sharp. "Three years ago, I woke up in a hospital with no memory of my past. Everything before that is just... darkness." I looked up at Max, willing him to see the truth in my eyes. "The person in Kevin's report – maybe that was who I was. But I don't remember being her. I just know who I am now, and I... I want to be a good person. A better person."
Isabella made a soft, derisive sound. Kevin's face remained impassive as he tapped something into his tablet. Max's expression was unreadable as he studied me for a long moment.
"Isabella, Kevin – leave us," he ordered suddenly.
Isabella's perfect composure cracked. "But Max—"
"Now."
They left, Isabella's heels clicking sharply against the floor, Kevin closing the door with professional discretion. The room felt smaller somehow with just the two of us, the medical equipment's steady beeping marking each tense second.
I gathered my courage and looked directly at Max. "I want a divorce."
His eyebrows rose slightly – the first genuine reaction I'd seen from him. "Excuse me?"
"Look at me, Mr. Morrison." My voice trembled but didn't break. "I'm nobody. A girl with a broken past and no memories. You're..." I gestured vaguely at his immaculate suit, at the vast corporate empire beyond the windows. "You're you. The great Max Morrison. I don't belong in your world. We both know that."
"A divorce would be... inconvenient." His voice was cold, calculated. "The Morrison name has certain standards to maintain."
"Then we have two choices," I said, surprised by my own boldness. "Either we get divorced quietly, or we live as real husband and wife. No more games, no more pretending I don't exist. If you want to maintain appearances, then treat me like a proper wife."
Max paused, something flickering behind his eyes. An enigmatic smile curved his lips, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Very well. I accept your terms."