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He remembered it all.
Leonidas knew that if he turned around and sought out a mirror, he would finally look like himself again, despite the scars that told the story of that terrifying plane crash. His bespoke suits were flown in from Milan and tailored to his specifications in the privacy of his own home. He wore leather shoes crafted by hand for him by local artisans who thanked him for the honor. His hair was once more cut the way he’d always preferred it, short and neat and with the vaguest hint of the military, as if he was always on the verge of going to war.
He’d learned to sleep again in his own bed, a king-size monstrosity that sprawled across the better part of his penthouse and had been designed to work as well for intense play as sleep. Far better than the sturdy, efficient mattress in the compound.
He indulged in rich foods again instead of the bland rations of the compound. He rediscovered his family’s wine labels and his own vast collection. He reintroduced himself to strong coffee and even stronger spirits.
It wasn’t simply that he didn’t belong in the cult—that he’d never belonged on that mountaintop—it was that the place where he did belong was almost unimaginably luxurious, and he could see that now in a way he’d never done before. He knew exactly how marvelous every bit of his life was, because he’d lost it for four years.
He kept telling himself he was lucky. That many people never got the opportunity to see life from more than one side, or if they did, it was usually a downward spiral with no possibility of return.
That notion had buoyed him for the better part of his reentry into the world. The long plane flight back, filled with phone calls to the Betancur legal teams across the planet, as well as the authorities back in Idaho about Robert’s plans and goals. And then to his mother, who had performed her usual Maria Callas–like operatics at the sound of his voice but, of course, hadn’t stirred herself to rush to his side from her current holiday in the South Pacific.
All excellent distractions from the fact that the last time he’d been on a private plane, it had exploded and very nearly killed him.
He’d reminded himself of his luck over and over again during the press junket when he landed. During the speeches he gave in all the subsequent interviews, or the little myths he told anyone who asked about his time away. Every time he smiled and shaped those optics that Susannah was so concerned with—and that his board of directors had agreed were of paramount importance.
And then it had been time to go back to work, and that was where Leonidas had discovered that his memory was not all that it should have been.
He refused to admit it at first because he didn’t want to believe it was possible, but it seemed as if he hadn’t quite remembered everything when he’d regained his memory. Not everything.
He turned then, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his three-piece suit, keeping his face impassive as he looked out the glass on the other side of his office. This was the internal wall, and through it he could see the whole of the serenely lavish executive floor the Betancur Corporation offices.
More to the point, he could see Susannah.
He didn’t know what he’d thought she did, back there in the States when she’d appeared at the compound. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to consider it while he was so busy regaining his own identity. His own past, for good or ill. He’d first had an inkling on the flight back to Europe when she’d managed all the calls he’d had to make and had cut in when necessary with a quiet word that had always—always—stopped everyone else talking. Instantly. And he’d noticed it even more during that first press conference when they’d pulled up outside his building and she’d handled his reintroduction to life with such seeming ease. She used that smile of hers, cool and calm. She’d exuded that particular slickness, impressive and unmistakable, that seemed to define her these days—because she hadn’t dropped it when they’d finally made it past the throng of reporters and into the private elevator that whisked them from the street to the lobby of his penthouse.
Their penthouse, he’d had to remind himself. Because she lived here, too—and had, she’d informed him, ever since the wedding he’d forgotten for all this time.
“Have you taken over my position in the company, as well?” he’d asked when they’d stood in a silence he didn’t want to consider awkward, not quite, in the great open room that soared up three stories and had been his pride and joy, before. His architects had made his vision real when he’d bought the building, making the top three floors of one of Rome’s many ancient edifices so modern and airy within while still including elements of the historical details.
