The rain battered the windows of the Red Hook loft. Dominic Valerius paced the floor, agitated by the slow progress of his plan to weaponize the “Elena” situation against the label.
Across the room, the woman who was once Victoria Vance sat sketching in a notebook. The light caught her profile–the sharp jawline, the haunted eyes–and for a moment, the years melted away.
“Victoria,” Dominic murmured, the name slipping out before he could catch it. “We need to move the timeline up.”
The sketching stopped. The woman looked up slowly, her gaze piercing.
“You called me that name,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “The man at the jazz club… he looked at me and thought that name. And now you.”
Marcus Thorne stepped forward from the kitchenette, panic flaring in his eyes. “Dominic is tired, Elena. He misspoke.”
She stood up, the notebook falling to the floor. “Stop lying to me!” she shouted, the docile amnesiac mask cracking. “Who is Victoria? Why do I know how to play the violin? Why do I dream of snow? Tell me who I am!”
Dominic looked at Marcus, a silent warning passing between them. *Not yet.*
“Victoria was the woman who lived here before,” Marcus lied, his heart breaking as he forced the words out. “She died. It’s just a ghost story, Elena. Nothing more.”