Chapter 189 Finding Him
Quentin paused, grappling with the fact that Matthew genuinely suffered from amnesia.
She tried to help Matthew stand, intending to get him comfortably onto the bed, but he rose too swiftly and felt light-headed. His weight shifted onto Quentin, and they both lost their footing, falling onto the bed together.
Their eyes locked, their breaths coming in short bursts, and their hearts pounding erratically against their chests. Matthew lay on the bed while Quentin leaned over him, bracing herself on the mattress. In their gaze, each seemed to behold a deep pool, pulling the other in. As they drew closer, the energy in the room crackled with unspoken attraction.
Even with faded memories, the spontaneous emotions of the heart lingered after a long separation. For reasons unknown, Matthew felt an undeniable pull toward the woman before him; his physical reaction was immediate and overpowering, the warmth flaring within him, fierce and desperate for an outlet.
Abruptly, the sound of footsteps interrupted them, startling both. Quentin snapped out of her daze, fumbling in her attempt to leave the bed, stumbling several times in her frantic state. Finally, on her feet, her cheeks were tinted with a shade of red from the embarrassment, while Matthew, too, sat up sharply. The footsteps drew nearer, stopping just outside Matthew's bedroom door, where a woman's voice called out, "Caius, are you all right? Caius, open the door."
Quentin, despite being his wife, was overwhelmed with a sense of awkwardness and mortification, akin to what one feels when caught in an incriminating or compromising situation. She cast a helpless look at Matthew, her eyes shimmering with urgency, silently pleading, what do we do now?
The knocking continued relentlessly. Matthew wasn't quite sure why, but as he gazed into the woman's imploring eyes, a wave of compassion washed over him.
As the knocking grew more insistent, he made his way toward the door. "Are you there? I'm about to call for someone to open the door."
Matthew quickly responded, keen to dissuade her, "No need for that, I'm okay. You don't need to come in. I just stepped out of the shower, and it's really not a good time."
The woman's voice, filled with concern, carried through from the other side, "Are you sure you're alright? Do you need me to get a doctor to come check on you?"
"There's no need for that," Matthew replied sharply. His brusque manner was nothing new, but the woman, seemingly accustomed to his distant ways, showed no signs of irritation, only a persistent worry for his health.
She tried a few more times, pushing with additional questions, but Matthew's responses remained icy, "I've already said I'm fine. Please, go back now."
Finally acquiescing, the woman spoke gently, "Alright then, get some rest. I'll be on my way."
After she departed, Matthew turned to face the woman who remained in his room, Quentin, who claimed to be his wife. Deep down, something had resonated with him the moment he saw the photograph. It wasn't a forgery; the man in the picture was indeed him.
Matthew had harbored doubts about everything Quentin had told him up to that point. He felt indebted to her for saving his life and believed it was only right to repay her kindness. Since he had no memories of his past, he had chosen to stay by her side.
He didn't find her presence off-putting. Instead, there was an unexplainable closeness between them. Whenever he pondered her name or the vivid scenes she painted with her words, he was struck by a crippling headache, as if something within his mind was desperately trying to surface.
Now, with the visitor gone, the room was enveloped in a thick silence. The pair exchanged glances, the aura of mystery that had once shrouded them now dissipating.
Quentin's mind was in turmoil. Matthew had amnesia, an outcome she hadn't foreseen. Faced with this dilemma, she pondered over her next steps. Should she whisk him away unnoticed?
Matthew's stare lingered on Quentin. He took note of her flushed cheeks, her full lips, her eyes glistening with the threat of tears, and her arms with their delicate, almost translucent skin. Mortified, he experienced an unfamiliar stirring within him.
Feeling self-conscious, he cleared his throat and voiced, "I need a shower." With that, he headed straight for the bathroom.
As he disappeared, the sound of the shower running filled the space, deepening Quentin's blush.
Her phone rang at that moment.
Before Quentin had the chance to gather herself, she answered the call. An urgent voice greeted her ears. "How did it go? Is everything straightened out? We're about to reach the dock; he'll join us promptly after," Dorian's haste was evident, under the impression that Quentin's encounter with Matthew had resolved all the issues.
Quentin's response fell like a douse of cold water, "He's lost his memory."
On the other end, Dorian was speechless, the rest of his words caught in his throat. "Amnesia? Does he really not remember even you?" He found it hard to believe, questioning how such a dramatic turn of events could be possible.
"Where are you now? Still in Matthew's room?" Dorian probed.
"Yep."
"Is Matthew right next to you?" he went on.
"No, he's in the shower," Quentin admitted.
Dorian couldn't hide his surprise. "He's in the shower? With amnesia, and he's in there just taking a shower?"
Flustered, Quentin quickly clarified, "Don't jump to conclusions. He's simply showering, nothing more."
Dorian, not one to hold back, suggested an idea. "Well... seducing him might not be the worst thing. He is your husband, after all. Perhaps a little excitement could jog his memory."
At Dorian's words, Quentin was so taken aback she stomped her foot in a mix of embarrassment and frustration.
Thankfully, they hadn't been in the same room, and she was by herself; otherwise, he might have caught her cheeks turning a shade of crimson. She had been toying with Dorian's proposal in her mind. Was it actually feasible?
"Come back for now," Dorian's voice beckoned her to rejoin him. "We're nearing the harbor, and this memory loss throws a wrench in the works. If he's stubborn and won't come with us... forget it, head back; we'll strategize once we're on solid ground."
"Alright," Quentin conceded, ending the call and exiting Matthew's cabin.
At this juncture, regrouping with Victor after disembarkation seemed to be the most feasible plan. The paramount concern was Matthew's well-being—his survival was the beacon of hope. They could address the complexities and uncertainties later.
After his shower, Matthew stepped out to find the room empty and felt a surprising sense of loss. Towel-drying his hair, he wondered if she had gone back. Was she really Quentin? A tinge of annoyance crept in as he contemplated why his mind was drawing such a blank.
Back in her room, Quentin was met by Dorian, who wasted no time in updating her. "I've been in contact with Victor and filled him in on Matthew's memory loss. There's a sizable group on the ship packing heat, so the dock is not the smartest place for a showdown. We'll hold off until they get off and then look for a chance. I'm going to chat with the cops to put some heat on them. It would be ideal if they just released him, but if it comes down to it, we might have to snatch him ourselves."
Dorian's tone was so matter-of-fact that the idea of abducting someone seemed like the most logical plan in the world.
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