The Ruthless CEO's Forgotten Amnesiac Wife

The heat of Los Angeles hit Grace Wagner the second she stepped out of the jet bridge.

It wasn't just the temperature. It was the suffocating weight of the air, thick with the smell of jet fuel and unwashed bodies.

She gripped the frayed handle of her duffel bag. The canvas dug into her palm.

A luggage transport cart swerved past her. The driver slammed on the brakes.

The tires screamed against the polished linoleum floor.

The high-pitched screech sliced straight through Grace's eardrums.

Her breath stopped.

The terminal around her vanished. The bright fluorescent lights flickered out, replaced by the suffocating darkness of a collapsed building.

The roar of concrete shattering filled her skull.

Five years ago. The rubble. The dust choking her lungs. The blood pooling beneath her.

Her vision blurred into a tunnel of gray.

Her knees buckled. The duffel bag slipped from her sweaty fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Her hands started to shake. The tremors moved up her arms, violently vibrating through her chest.

Travelers in expensive suits and vacation clothes walked right past her. A woman in a sun hat bumped her shoulder and kept walking without a backward glance.

The isolation wrapped around Grace's throat like a physical hand, squeezing her windpipe.

She needed to breathe.

She bit down hard on her lower lip. The sharp tang of copper flooded her mouth.

The sudden pain was a hook, dragging her back to the present.

She grabbed her bag with trembling fingers and stumbled away from the crowded corridor. Her chest heaved.

She needed silence.

Her eyes darted around until she saw the frosted glass doors of an airline VIP lounge.

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a nearly expired guest pass her agent had given her months ago.

Her hand shook so badly she dropped the pass twice before scanning it.

The light flashed green.

Grace pushed through the doors.

The heavy soundproof glass sealed shut behind her. The roar of the airport vanished, replaced by the low hum of air conditioning.

She leaned her back against the door and dragged oxygen into her burning lungs.

She walked straight to the restroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed freezing water over her face.

She gripped the edges of the marble sink and stared at the mirror.

Her skin was paper-white. Her eyes were bloodshot, wide with a lingering, hollow terror.

She grabbed a paper towel, dried her face, and forced her breathing to slow down.

She walked out into the main lounge area, heading for a secluded corner in the back. She just wanted to hide.

She dropped onto a plush chair.

The slight rustle of her jacket made her notice movement on the leather sofa directly across from her.

She stiffened.

A large potted palm tree blocked her view. All she could see were three pairs of tiny, polished leather shoes dangling over the edge of the cushions.

She leaned forward.

Three little boys were sitting in a row, and her sudden movement had caused them all to look up from a shared tablet, their identical eyes now fixed on her.

They were wearing identical, custom-tailored Burberry suits.

They looked exactly alike. Perfect, sharp features. Dark hair. Eyes like crushed sapphires. They looked like porcelain dolls displayed in a high-end boutique window.

Grace froze.

The boy on the far left slid off the sofa. He walked toward her with the confident, measured strides of a CEO entering a boardroom.

He stopped right in front of her.

He reached into his tailored pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. A silver crest was embroidered in the corner.

He held it out to her. Her forehead was still damp with cold sweat.

Grace's first instinct was to pull away. She didn't like strangers touching her.

But her body didn't move. Her muscles refused to retreat.

She slowly reached out and took the handkerchief.

Her fingertips brushed against the boy's warm skin.

Her heart violently slammed against her ribs. It felt like a physical blow to her chest.

The middle boy pushed up a pair of thin gold-rimmed glasses resting on his nose. He looked at her with cold, calculating eyes.

He tapped the screen of a tablet in his lap. He looked at the screen, then back at Grace.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a satisfied smirk.

The third boy, holding a stuffed bear, practically threw himself off the couch.

He stumbled across the carpet and crashed into Grace's legs.

He squinted, leaning his face close to her jeans. He took a deep breath, smelling her clothes.

Then he buried his face right into her knees.

Every muscle in Grace's body locked up.

But a second later, a massive, crushing wave of maternal instinct flooded her veins. It was heavy and painful.

Her hands shook as she reached down.

She buried her fingers in the soft, dark hair of the boy hugging her legs.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned with sudden, inexplicable tears.

The first boy looked her dead in the eye.

"You are going to play with us today," he demanded. His voice was childish, but the tone left no room for argument.

Grace had a Hollywood audition in two hours. She needed to leave.

She opened her mouth to say no.

The word died in her throat. She couldn't say it.

The boy with the glasses walked over and handed her a glass of room-temperature water.

"Your breathing was irregular. Your heart rate is elevated. Drink this," he said.

Grace stared at him. He was maybe five years old.

She took the glass. The water slid down her dry throat. Her defensive walls crumbled completely.

The boy hugging her legs tilted his head up.

His deep blue eyes locked onto hers.

"Pretty lady," he whispered.

The words sent a physical jolt of electricity straight down Grace's spine.

She set the glass down. She pushed her duffel bag under the table.

She wasn't going anywhere.