Marcus’s POV

It’s been two days since Ariana met Alan, and they’ve been making preparations for the surgery. She was barely present here with Dante, so I visited more often than I usually do. We shared responsibilities.

I sat in the chair beside Dante’s bed, watching his chest rise and fall.

The same rhythm for thirty days.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Never changing.

I was tired, so tired my eyes were heavy, my head was pounding.

A lot has happened over the past month.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes for just a second.

A small sound, a groan, because my eyes snapped open, I sat up straight and at the bed.

Dante’s hand moved, his fingers twitched as his head turned on the pillow.

His face scrunched up like he was in pain.

"Dante?" I stood up with my heart pounding. "Dante, can you hear me?"

He groaned again, louder this time. His eyes moved under his lids.

His lips parted.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "Dante, wake up. Come on, man. Wake up."

His eyes opened.

I stared at him.

He stared at the ceiling.

His eyes were unfocused and confused. He blinked a few times like the light was too bright.

"Dante!" I leaned over him. "You’re awake. Thank God. Don’t move. I’m going to get the doctors."

I turned toward the door. I was about to call out when I heard his voice.

Small.

Weak.

Hoarse.

"Melissa." 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

I stopped. Turned back. "What?"

He looked at me, his eyes were still confused.

Still unfocused, but he was looking at me. Really looking.

"Where is Melissa?" His voice was scratchy and dry. "I need to find her. I need to go."

I stared at him, my brain couldn’t process what he was saying. Melissa? Why was he asking about Melissa?

"Where is my fiancée?" he asked, his voice was stronger now. Urgent. "I need to see her. I need to go, or I’ll miss the wedding. I can’t keep her waiting at the altar."

My blood ran cold.

My hands went numb.

Wedding?

Fiancée?

Melissa?

"Dante," I said slowly. "What are you talking about?"

He tried to sit up his arms were weak. He couldn’t lift himself, yet he was trying. He was pushing against the bed, his face twisted with effort.

"The wedding," he said. "My wedding to Melissa, I can’t be late. She’ll kill me. I need to go."

He was trying to pull the tubes out of his arm.

His hands were shaking.

His fingers fumbled with the tape holding the IV in place.

"No, no, no." I grabbed his hands. Held them down. "Dante, stop. You need to calm down. You’re in the hospital. You’ve been in a coma for a month."

"A month?" He looked at me like I was crazy. "That’s not possible, I was just at my bachelor party with you, and we were there. We were drinking. You made a toast. You said—" He stopped. His face twisted. "I need to go. Let me go."

He started thrashing his body, which was weak, but he was fighting.

The machines started beeping faster.

Alarms went off.

The door burst open.

Nurses rushed in with the Doctors. They surrounded the bed.

"Mr. Russo, you need to calm down," one of the doctors said. She put her hand on his shoulder. He shook her off.

"Let me go!" he shouted, his voice was raw. "I need to get to my wedding."

"Mr. Russo, you’re in a hospital," the doctor said calmly. "You’ve been in an accident. You need to rest."

"I don’t need to rest!" He was pulling at the tubes again. "I need to get to the church!"

Melissa.

The wedding.

This was 15 years ago.

This was the Dante who was about to marry the biggest mistake of his life.

"Hold him down," the doctor said. Nurses grabbed his arms and legs, but he tried fighting them.

"Fucking let go!!"

The doctor pulled out a syringe.

She injected something into his IV.

He kept fighting.

Kept yelling till his voice got weaker and his movements, then slowly his eyes started to close.

"Melissa," he whispered one more time. Then his eyes closed. His body went limp.

"What the hell was that?" I demanded. "Why is he talking about something that happened almost 15 years ago?"

The doctor turned to me. "Mr. Russo has suffered a significant trauma. A traumatic brain injury. When patients wake from a coma, sometimes there are complications. Memory loss, confusion, disorientation ."

"Memory loss?" I stepped closer. "What kind of memory loss?"

The doctor looked at her notes. "It’s difficult to say right now. He may have retrograde amnesia. That means he has lost memories from before the accident. Sometimes patients lose years. Sometimes they lose decades. Sometimes they lose only specific periods."

I stared at her. "You’re telling me he doesn’t remember his current memories?"

"It’s possible. When he woke up, he thought he was on his way to his wedding. That was 15 years ago, and I mentioned a woman named Melissa. That suggests he may not remember anything that happened after that point."

"But how?"

"We need to run more tests. We need to do an MRI, a CT scan, and cognitive assessments. We need to determine the extent of the memory loss, but based on what we just saw, it’s likely that Mr. Blackwood’s memory ends approximately 15 years ago."

"Okay... I understand"

"Also, you need to be careful cause sudden shocks can be dangerous for patients with traumatic brain injuries. If he wakes up and we tell him things he doesn’t remember... it could cause more damage. It could set back his recovery. We need to introduce information slowly, gently, at his own pace."

I sat down in the chair.

My legs wouldn’t hold me anymore.

"So what do I do? What do we tell him?"

The doctor sighed. "When he wakes up again, let him talk. Let him tell you what he remembers. Don’t correct him unless you have to. If he asks for Melissa, bring her to him."

"We need to call Ariana," I said. "She needs to know he woke up; maybe seeing her would help his situation."

The doctor hesitated. " I understand your concern, but I need to be honest with you. If his memory is focused on Melissa, seeing another woman might cause confusion. It might cause agitation. It might set back his recovery."

I turned to face her. "Ariana is his wife. She has a right to know, she has a right to be here."

The doctor nodded slowly. "I understand, but we need to be careful. Explain to her what’s happening, and when he wakes up again, we need to let him lead. Let him tell us what he remembers. Let him tell us what he doesn’t."

I nodded and didn’t hesitate to call her.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Ariana," I said when she answered. My voice was thick. "He woke up."

She gasped.

I heard the joy in her voice, the relief. "He woke up? Oh my God, Marcus. Is he okay? Is he talking? Can I talk to him?"

I closed my eyes.

The words were stuck in my throat.

"Marcus?" Her voice changed.

Worried now. "What’s wrong? What happened?"

I took a deep breath. "He’s awake, but Ariana... he’s not... he doesn’t remember."

"What do you mean, he doesn’t remember?"

"He doesn’t remember you," I said. "He doesn’t remember the children. He doesn’t remember the last ten years. He thinks he’s about to marry Melissa. He thinks it’s 15 years ago."

The silence on the other end of the line was the worst sound I had ever heard.