Part 3Forgotten Scapegoat Of The Cruel CEO

Timothy’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, likely to spit another insult, but a voice drifted down from the sweeping staircase.

"Are you insane, Margot?"

Cece descended the stairs, her gaze dripping with absolute disdain.

"Everyone in New York knows Greg Wright doesn't do relationships. The man is a machine. He barely keeps company, let alone a wife. Furthermore, Caldwell Enterprises is in the middle of a merger with the Wright Group. If the CEO had gotten married, we would know."

I clenched my fists, desperate to explain, but a sudden, violent throb pulsed behind my eyes.

I glanced past them. The massive front doors were unguarded. No security.

I didn't think. I just ran.

"Where do you think you're going?!"

Cece sprinted across the foyer, tackling me from behind, her manicured nails digging into my shoulders as we crashed onto the marble floor.

Something feral snapped inside me. I twisted around, pure adrenaline flooding my veins, and slapped her hard across the face. I wanted to destroy her.

She let out a blood-curdling shriek and collapsed, clutching her cheek, her entire body shaking in exaggerated agony.

"Timothy! God, it hurts..."

Timothy was there in a second. The look he gave her was pure, agonized devotion. The look he turned on me was pure, unfiltered murder.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

CRACK.

His palm connected with my jaw with the force of a wrecking ball.

Black spots exploded in my vision. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the sounds of the room.

By the time I regained my bearings, Timothy had dragged me by the hair across the floor, throwing me at Cece’s feet. He kicked me hard in the back of the knees, forcing me down.

"Get on your knees and apologize to her."

"I'll kill you for hurting my mom!"

Little Beckett charged at me, raising a heavy plastic action figure like a club. He brought it down repeatedly, savagely, against my skull.

The wound from yesterday split wide open. Hot blood poured down my face, blinding my left eye.

I choked on a mouthful of metallic blood, spitting it onto the marble. I planted my hands on the floor, trying to push myself up, trying to crawl away.

Someone shoved me from behind. Hard.

I pitched forward, the side of my head colliding violently with the sharp edge of the marble stair step.

A blinding, white-hot agony tore through my skull. My vision swam. Through the haze, I saw my diamond wedding ring—it had slipped from my blood-slicked finger and bounced away, resting against the baseboard.

I reached for it. My fingers stretched out, grasping at empty air, before the world tilted, darkened, and simply ceased to exist.

When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh, sterile smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol burned my nostrils.

Hushed, angry voices floated above me.

"Amnesia? What the hell does that mean?" Timothy’s voice, tight with barely repressed rage.

"Mr. Caldwell, clinically speaking, it's dissociative amnesia," a calm, weary male voice replied. "It is a severe psychological defense mechanism triggered by profound, sustained trauma."

"She was given a roof over her head and a life of luxury!" Timothy hissed. "How the hell does she get a disease from that?"

The doctor let out a heavy sigh. "Mr. Caldwell, the patient's body tells a very different story. She has deep-tissue scarring from sharp force trauma, poorly healed bone fractures, and deep bruising consistent with long-term, systematic physical abuse."

The doctor paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "Her body was subjected to a level of agony most people cannot comprehend. When her mind finally broke, it initiated a hard reset. It chose to erase her memory to protect her from the trauma of her own life."

There was a long, suffocating silence. When Timothy finally spoke, his voice was hollow, raspy.

"I'll look into it. I'll find out what happened... But how do we fix her? How do I make her remember?"

"There are... extreme methods," the doctor said hesitantly. "But I must warn you, attempting to forcefully break a dissociative barrier can cause irreparable neurological damage. It could render her catatonic. A vegetable."

The voices began to fade into the background.

Several nurses approached the bed, their faces impassive as they prepped an IV. I felt the cold slide of a needle slipping into my vein.

I forced my heavy eyelids open. Terror gripped my chest. I tried to thrash, to fight, but my limbs felt like lead.

Timothy was standing beside the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed, a twisted look of sorrow and determination on his face.

With the last ounce of strength I had, I weakly reached out and grabbed the hem of his jacket.

"No..." I breathed.

He didn't speak. He just reached down and gently placed his hand over my eyes, forcing them shut.

The darkness pulled me under.

When I woke up, the sterile hospital walls were gone. I was back in the Caldwell estate.

But I wasn't in a bedroom. I was strapped to a heavy metal chair in a windowless basement. A cold, thick leather strap bit into my forehead, holding some sort of mechanical device against my temples.

"Well, look who's finally awake."

Cece was crouching in front of me, a malicious, giddy smile stretching across her face.

"I just had a very interesting chat with Timothy about your little memory problem," she whispered. "But don't worry, sweetie. We're going to help you find yourself."

I stared blankly at the concrete wall, my throat too dry to form words.

Timothy stepped out of the shadows. His eyes were bloodshot. He dropped to one knee, cupping my face, and gently kissed a tear that had slipped down my cheek.

"I found a specialist. Off the books," he murmured. "He said a few rounds of targeted electroconvulsive therapy will shatter the mental block. You're going to remember me, Margot. And when you do, I swear to God, I will hunt down whoever did this to you."