Chapter 3 The Voice

Sarah POV

For four whole days, I'd been patting myself on the back for my cleverness. Marriage? Turns out it was that simple. One piece of paper could make Mom stop worrying, could free me from her endless nagging about settling down.

The moment I pushed open the door that day I got married, I saw Mom sorting through her work uniforms from the hospital and felt that pang in my chest again.

"Mom, I have something to tell you." I sat down beside her. "I know you've been worried about me, working so hard and then coming home to stress about my future. I thought maybe it's time I gave you some peace of mind."

Her face immediately softened, and I caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "Oh, sweetheart, you're never a burden. I just want you to be happy." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "It means everything to hear you say that."

I took a deep breath. "That's actually what I needed to tell you. I, well..." I pulled out the marriage certificate. "I got married today."

The soft smile disappeared entirely, replaced by that expression of someone who'd just spotted an alien. Wide eyes, gaping mouth, and that near-shriek of "What? Today? Sarah, have you lost your mind?"

"Mom, isn't this the guy you set me up with?" I tried to justify my impulse. "Michael Johnson, working at Pinnacle Industries. I think he's really great. And..."

I paused because that familiar feeling washed over me again. Like my body's memory was more honest than my brain—whenever I thought about Michael's voice, his eyes, his touch, there was this inexplicable sense of intimacy.

"Mom, I feel like I know him somehow. Did I date him during that time I can't remember? Are you recycling one of my exes?"

Mom's face flashed with displeasure, her brow furrowing. "Sarah, you're overthinking again. That's probably just a false impression. The doctor said you shouldn't dwell on these topics."

Her tone carried that familiar finality—the same expression she wore whenever she didn't want to continue a conversation. Growing up, whenever I asked about Dad, she had this exact look. The same protective shuttering that happened whenever I pushed too hard about my missing memories.

"The therapist said trauma can create false familiarity," Mom continued, her voice gentler now. "Your brain tries to fill in gaps with feelings that seem real but aren't necessarily based on actual experiences. You know how confused you were when you first started recovering."

I did remember that part. But this feeling with Michael was different. Sharper. More like muscle memory than imagination.

"But I really think..."

"Sarah, don't try to change the subject," Mom cut me off, though not unkindly. "While I want you married, I still need to approve. I have to meet him. When are you both free?"

"Let me ask him," I said, texting Michael right in front of her: [My mom is asking when she can meet you.]

But I didn't get Michael's message until the next morning. I showed Mom his reply. She frowned but eventually just sighed. "Fine, work comes first. But Sarah, I absolutely must meet him."

"Got it, Mom. Once he finishes his current project." I pocketed my phone, surprised by the wave of relief washing over me.

The next few days became genuinely pleasant.

Every morning, I'd wake up and instinctively check my phone, hoping for a message from Michael. But he seemed to have vanished into thin air—nothing beyond that one postponement text. Strangely, I didn't feel disappointed. Instead, there was this sense of liberation. And that mysterious sense of familiarity also faded with time.

At Bella Vista, Tony curiously asked why I'd left early that day. I just said I had some personal business, never mentioning the marriage. After all, even I found this whole arrangement somewhat surreal.

Mom asked about my husband's availability several times daily, and I kept deflecting with excuses about his busy schedule.

Each time, Mom would nod with understanding. She knew about demanding jobs, about schedules that left no room for personal life. It was one of the reasons she'd been so worried about me finding someone in the first place—who had time for dating when you were just trying to survive?

But to me, marriage and being single felt exactly the same. I should have done this ages ago—Mom wouldn't have had so much stress, and I wouldn't have had to endure her daily lectures. This Michael Johnson might be mysterious as hell, but at least he gave me the perfect shield.

I even started fantasizing that maybe this was the ideal marriage arrangement—complete independence, separate lives, but able to depend on each other when needed. No fighting, no clinginess, none of that suffocating possessiveness I'd witnessed in other relationships.

My dress designs flowed more easily, too, and I finished my freelance projects with unusual efficiency. I began believing maybe this was fate's arrangement—finding me the perfect husband in name only.

I thought this good mood would last forever, until the incident tonight.

When evening settled over the restaurant, it was quiet except for one table of customers—four middle-aged men who'd clearly been drinking heavily. I was in the kitchen helping Tony prepare their order, feeling pretty good. I'd just landed another design commission today—a small bridal custom job with decent pay.

"Sarah, the food's ready." Tony handed me the plates.

I carried the tray toward those customers. Their voices grew louder, making me uncomfortable.

"Gentlemen, your meals." I maintained my professional smile, starting to arrange the dishes on the table.

Just as I bent over to place the last dish, the bearded man suddenly grabbed my wrist.

"Hey there, beautiful, don't rush off." He yanked hard, trying to pull me onto his lap. "Come chat with us big boys."

The tray slipped from my hands, plates crashing to the floor with a jarring clatter.

"Let go of me!" I struggled desperately, but his grip was strong.

The other men started jeering: "Don't be so cold, we just want to talk."

"Help! Let me go!" I screamed, panic completely taking over.

Just when I thought I was in serious trouble, a voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"Get your hands off her!"

The voice was cold, commanding, with an edge that made my blood freeze and my heart race simultaneously. I knew that voice, but the panic flooding my system made it hard to connect the sound to a face right away.

I turned my head toward the restaurant entrance, and my breath caught.

Michael Johnson stood in the doorway, his face a mask of controlled fury I'd never seen before. Our gazes locked across the restaurant, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.