"Excuse me?" the brunette woman barked, her cinnamon-toned brows lifting in disdain.
"You're excused," I replied, the words gliding from my lips with a calm I did not feel.
Instantly she surged forward, rage flashing like broken glass in her hazel eyes. Zion's black-suited men reacted on muscle memory, closing ranks to form a living wall before me, palms out, broad shoulders squared.
"Miss, the lady is off-limits," two of them intoned in perfect unison, a warning rehearsed a thousand times in drills.
"Pssh! Let me go!" she hissed, jerking her arms. When they realized she carried no weapon—only righteous indignation—they released her, yet stayed planted like granite pillars, ready to intercept a single hostile breath.
She brushed imaginary lint from her blazer, nostrils flaring. "So you marry one rich guy and suddenly you're too strict with me, Ally!" Her voice cracked, pitched between anger and a child's wounded sob. Moisture glimmered on her lower lashes, threatening to fall.
What—? My thoughts skipped like a damaged record.
"I'm your best friend, Ally Cole!" she cried, stepping back as tears finally spilled. "Your one and only best friend!"
My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. Silence—thick and suffocating—stretched between us.
"It's me—Sanny!" she announced, desperation sharpening the syllables. Recognition slammed into my chest.
"S-Sanny?!" I echoed, disoriented. Memories flickered: fluorescent convenience-store lights, stale instant noodles at 2 a.m., a lanky cashier who let me sit behind the counter after closing because I had nowhere else warm to go.
"Sanny Bels! We both lived abroad, Ally!" She searched my face, hunting for familiarity. "Are you suffering from amnesia or something?"
My heart pounded like frantic fists against a locked door. This Sanny wasn't quite the girl I remembered before I—died? Was that even the right term anymore?
A guard leaned close to my ear. "Madam, shall I summon mall security to escort her from the premises?"
I shook my head. "We just need to talk," I said, voice low.
Reluctant but obedient, the guards retreated ten paces. Sanny latched onto my arm with surprising strength, studying my pupils as if checking them for a concussion.
"What happened, friend? You vanished on us—no texts, no calls, not even a goodbye!" She spoke in a rush, breath hitching.
I inhaled, steeling my nerves. "Honestly… there are gaps in my memory," I confessed, shame burning my cheeks.
"Seriously?!" She slapped both hands over her mouth, horrified. Curious shoppers slowed; Zion's detail straightened.
"Keep it down," I urged.
"But how?" she whispered fiercely. "You were perfectly fine the night Carlo dumped you!"
Carlo. The syllables chimed ominously, stirring half-formed flashes of a handsome smile and a sudden ache.
"I… guess it just happened," I muttered.
"This back-story's gonna take coffee and an hour," she grumbled, steering me toward a nearby bench beneath an antique-shop window. Zion's men followed at polite sniper distance.
"I truly don't remember, so I'm sorry I froze earlier," I told her while we sat.
"Hmmm." She tapped her forehead, gathering thoughts. "Right—primer: You're Ally Cole. We were about to enter our third year at the university overseas. Then Carlo Ville broke up with you, and the very next morning you disappeared—poof—like a magician's rabbit."
Air stalled in my lungs. My fingers worried about the hem of my blouse.
"We searched everywhere," she went on, voice trembling. "Your family filed missing-person reports on two continents. They're terrified."
"I… I have a family?" The words tasted foreign, yet painfully sweet.
She nodded, gaze softening. "A devoted family, Alls. What trauma stole your memories?"
I exhaled shakily. "I wish I could tell you."
She flicked a glance at the hovering bodyguards. "Maybe your billionaire husband knows something? He's the one who flew you home, yeah?"
"How do you even know that?" I asked, throat tight.
Her lips quirked. She bent closer like a conspirator. "I'm your protector," she breathed—then broke into a quiet snicker. "Kidding—well, half kidding."
My stare remained flat; jokes felt too brittle.
"Fine, truth-bomb: your busted phone still pinged its GPS. Remember that tracker chip we installed sophomore year? It linked to my device. When your signal resurfaced at Cartridge Manor, I followed it."
"Why didn't you extract me from Zion?" I whispered.
She sobered. "Because your vanishing reeked of organized crime. Whoever abducted you, Zion apparently rescued you. Until I grasp the full chessboard, prying you away risks checkmate."
My skull throbbed. "If that's reality… what am I supposed to do?"
Sanny reclined, eyes scanning the corridor beyond the window where shoppers drifted past perfume kiosks. "For now, stay married. Irony: the devil you wed might be the safest angel available."
"Do you actually know him?" My voice shrank.
"Only through dossiers," she said. "And relax—I won't alert your parents yet. New hairstyle, different skin tone—harder for enemies to recognize."
Silence collected like dust motes. She tapped idle rhythms on her thigh, jaw clenched. "I still need intel on your disappearance. My hunch? Your ex plays a part."
"Ex? Carlo?" I prompted.
Her eyes iced over. "Carlo Ville," she confirmed. The loathing in her tone curdled the air.
The male lead of My Lily? My universe twisted again. In the novel Carlo shone pure, all compassion and light. Yet Sanny's scowl painted him in shadows.
She rose, smoothing her skirt. "I've got to run. I'll stay nearby. Figure out that amnesia and call me." She pressed a folded slip of white paper into my palm—numbers scrawled in midnight ink—then melted into the crowd like fog before sunrise.
A voice cut my daze. "Madam." One guard inclined his head; Sanny was gone.
I opened my hand. Call anytime, the note read.
Was this truly the plot I'd devoured online? Events were skittering off outline, characters refusing to stick to their assigned pages.
Zion's men reminded me gently of our "shopping itinerary." I followed them through shining aisles, mind racing. Maybe I'd arrived in the prologue—before the author even set the main conflict in motion. Or maybe I was trapped inside a draft the writer never finished, forced to improvise the missing chapters myself.
Either way, two facts crystallized:
First, I had to survive whatever unseen author kept rewriting my fate.
Second, I needed to uncover why the story's designated hero might be tied to my abduction—while the villain, Zion Cartridge, wore the puzzling halo of my unlikely savior.
For now, I clutched Sanny's number in one hand and Zion's limitless black card in the other, walking deeper into a tale that no longer followed its own script, determined to author a safer ending for myself—before someone else tried to write The End.