Forgotten Love, Unleashed Cold Revenge

Sienna woke up in a hospital room, her body screaming from a severe car accident. Through the glass, a man paced with violent rage, a dark shadow she felt absolutely nothing for.

Her friend Julia burst in, eyes bloodshot, dropping a bomb: "He didn't even try to help you." Dante, Sienna's fiancé, had protected another woman, Valeria, in the crash, leaving Sienna to burn alive.

Her past life unspooled – seven years sacrificed, an architecture degree abandoned, all to serve Dante. Her phone was a shrine to him: his photos, his "taboos," and even "Valeria's preferences," with no trace of Sienna herself.

But amnesia brought no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating fury. She felt disgust for the "idiot" she'd been, stripped of dignity. The memory loss was a release, a blank slate.

With chilling resolve, Sienna deleted every trace of Dante. Ripping out her IV, she declared, "The wedding proceeds." Not for love, but as a weapon: "I need to take back everything that belongs to me before I disappear."

Chapter 1

Sienna POV:

I tried to roll over, and my body immediately punished me.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my ribs, forcing me to fall heavily back onto the stiff hospital mattress. I gasped, my fingers digging into the sterile white sheets. My body was conditioned to hide pain, a quiet instinct buried deep in my muscles, but this agony was blinding.

The harsh scent of medical rubbing alcohol flooded my nose. I forced my eyes open. The glaring fluorescent lights above me blurred my vision for a few seconds. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the white spots dancing in my sight.

A heart monitor next to my bed beeped in a rapid, frantic rhythm, breaking the absolute dead silence of the room. It was the only sound keeping me anchored to reality.

I turned my head slowly, ignoring the stiff ache in my neck. Through the semi-transparent glass of the blinds covering the VIP room window, I saw a tall, dark shadow pacing in the hallway.

The shadow stopped abruptly. He slammed a heavy fist right into the wall. The reflection on the glass caught the side of his face. He was a man consumed by violent, explosive rage. My brain registered his aggressive posture, the way his broad shoulders bunched under a tailored suit. He looked like a man who used violence to regain control when things slipped through his fingers.

I stared at the man outside. I waited for a reaction. I waited for my heart to race, for my palms to sweat, for some spark of recognition or fear or love.

Nothing.

There was only a vast, hollow emptiness inside my chest. I felt absolutely nothing for him.

The man yanked at his expensive silk tie, loosening it with a rough jerk of his hand. He turned to a man in a black suit standing nearby—a bodyguard—and roared something. The thick soundproof glass muted his words, but the sheer force of his anger