CHAPTER 46: CHAPTER-46. (MIND’S SELF-CRITICIZING).

The car was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet...more like the suffocating, crawl-under-your-skin kind.

I sat in the passenger seat, hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles could’ve doubled as chalk.

Dave had his head tilted back, eyes closed, jawline sharp enough to double as a weapon. He looked... relaxed.

Or pretending to be. Meanwhile, I was sitting next to him like a high schooler caught cheating on a math test.

The air-conditioning hummed. My brain hummed louder.

The car felt like a coffin on wheels.

Josh was up front in the driving seat. His eyes were glued to the road and honked in between the traffic.

I kept my eyes glued to the window, watching the city roll by in smudged colors.

I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Twisted the strap of my purse until it was threatening to snap. Josh cleared his throat once, the sound so loud in the stillness I nearly jumped out of my skin.

In half an hour, we reached our destination.

The gates creaked open like they had been waiting for us, slow and dramatic, because of course, even the metal here had to put on a show.

Josh steered the car into the long driveway, tires crunching over white gravel that probably got imported from some place I couldn’t even pronounce.

I pressed my forehead lightly against the window, watching as the mansion rose into view like it was daring the rest of the city to compete. Spoiler: nothing could.

The Morris estate wasn’t just big. It was excessively, unapologetically, in-your-face massive. A house so big it made other rich people feel poor.

I had been here before, plenty of times, actually.

Family dinners, charity galas, those awkward birthday parties where people wore tuxedos just to eat cake.

And every single time, I had to fight the same ridiculous feeling...like I’d accidentally wandered into a movie set and someone was going to catch me for trespassing.

Because yes, my family had money. The good kind, too.

The summer-home-in-the-hills, private-school-tuition, diamond-bracelet-for-your-sixteenth-birthday kind of money.

But the Morrises?

They weren’t just rich. They were the standard everyone else compared themselves to.

The elite class. The people whose last name alone could open doors that stayed locked for everyone else.

The driveway curved slowly, like it enjoyed making you wait, before spilling into a circular courtyard.

At the center was that ridiculous fountain again...white marble, an angel with hollow eyes pouring water from her hands into the basin below.

Somehow, I always got this icky feeling from her. She always looked like she was silently judging me for breathing too loudly.

Around the fountain, flowerbeds bloomed in perfect symmetry. Not a single petal dared step out of line. Even nature was disciplined here.

Josh parked right at the front, and there it was...the main entrance.

Those giant oak doors glared down at us, polished to a shine so blinding it could double as a mirror.

Two lions carved from stone crouched on either side, teeth bared, looking ready to bite the head off anyone who was not welcome.

And here I was, in my pale blue dress, purse strap nearly snapped from how much I’d been twisting it, wondering if I was welcome at all.

I’d walked up these stairs countless times before.

I knew every creak of the steps, every shadow in the chandelier-lit foyer that waited beyond.

I knew the hallways lined with oil paintings of long-dead Morrises, the grand staircase that split halfway up like it couldn’t decide which direction was better, the endless maze of drawing rooms and parlors that smelled faintly of lemon polish and old money.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t surprising.

But today, it felt different.

Today, I wasn’t just Mrs. Morris, the wife of very handsome yet cold-hearted Dave of Morris, who could fake a smile and sip champagne like the rest of them.

Today, I was Elena Kingsley, the one who had publicly declared she was walking away from a marriage that was supposed to glue two influential families together.

And trust me, these walls remembered things.

Every whispered conversation, every broken promise, every scandal that had ever passed through the Morris name.

I felt the weight of it pressing down, heavier than the oak doors in front of me.

Josh turned off the engine. Silence.

Dave hadn’t moved. Still sitting there with his eyes closed like he wasn’t about to walk into a room full of people who lived to dissect weaknesses.

His jaw relaxed, his whole posture effortless. If you did not know him, you would think he was calm.

But I knew better. Calm was not in Dave’s vocabulary. He was calculating, probably already running through every move like it was chess, and the rest of us were pawns.

Meanwhile, I was sitting next to him like a kid about to be sent to the principal’s office.

My palms were sweaty. My stomach twisted.

And my brain, helpful as always, reminded me that brunch here wasn’t about food. It never was.

It was about appearances. About showing up polished, smiling, pretending everything was fine, even if you were breaking inside.

I’d learned how to play that game in my own house, surrounded by my own family. But this wasn’t my house.

This wasn’t my game. And I wasn’t sure my smile would hold.

The door opened with a soft click. Josh stepped out first, rounding the car.

I forced my spine straight, pasted on the kind of expression that said yes, I totally belong here, nothing to see, folks. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle.

"Ready?" Dave’s voice broke the silence, low and maddeningly steady. How in the world is he so calm?

The next moment, my sarcastic overthinking mind replied to that definitely stupid question.

Because he has lost his memories for the starters and he also happened to be an actor who coincidentally hides their true feelings.

Jesus, sometimes even my mind’s self- criticizing shocks me with its utter honest yet and somehow cruel comments.

I glanced at him. His eyes were open now, sharp and unreadable, fixed on me like he could see every thought I had just had. Could he be a mind reader or is just the Morris’ genes?

Because I was definitely not ready. Not even close.

But I nodded anyway.

Because in the Morris mansion, weakness wasn’t an option. I nodded and we both got out of the car ready to face this another mess of mine.