The Memory of the Alps

After my surgery, I lost my memory. My fiancé took me abroad to settle down.

For seven years, he didn’t let me contact the outside world.

But that day, I accidentally found a financial magazine in his study.

“Sebastian Silva…”

The name sounded so familiar.

Looking at the man on the cover with his cold, elegant beauty, dubbed the “Tech rookie rising from the slums,” my heart suddenly ached inexplicably.

I asked my fiancé who that was.

His eyes dodged mine: “You don’t know him.”

I only asked who he was.

Why did Luke Shaw subconsciously blurt out that I didn’t know him?

Even though I lost my memory, it doesn’t mean I lost my basic logical reasoning.

Especially when looking at the calm, cold face of the man in the photo, the void in my head suddenly seemed to crack.

My intuition told me that I must have known Sebastian Silva in the past.

I had to go find him.

But Luke Shaw inexplicably strongly opposed my return to Europe.

He also said that both families had discussed it and a wedding would be held this month in an old castle.

He used his worry for me as an excuse to restrict me from going out.

This made me even more suspicious that he was hiding something from me.

I pretended to be obedient, secretly got my passport back, and ran away exactly the day before the wedding.

After seven years of separation, setting foot on the familiar cobblestone streets of Paris once again, I couldn’t hide my excitement.

Perhaps it was because I was a little closer to that person.

I stood in the middle of Charles de Gaulle airport, looking at the address written on the financial magazine I took from Luke’s room.

I was about to call an Uber.

Someone rushed over and bumped into me.

My phone and the magazine fell to the ground at the same time.

“Pardon, pardon, are you okay?”

I crouched down to pick up my phone and magazine, looked up and smiled, “I’m fine.”

But as soon as I turned my head, amidst the bustling crowd, the man from the magazine was standing tall just three meters away from me.

He saw me first, his steps halting.

His brows were cold, his gray eyes calm.

He didn’t move, nor did he say a word.

His chiseled face carried a hint of arrogance due to his indifferent expression.

At that moment, my heart, which had been still for seven years, beat wildly.

I was absolutely certain he knew me.

From before I lost my memory.

I was about to walk toward him.

A blonde secretary suddenly appeared beside him: “It’s time to board, sir.”

He was about to leave?

I glanced at the flight ticket in the secretary’s hand, the destination was New York – where I had been locked up for the past seven years.

I was a bit rushed: “Monsieur…”

His body stiffened, he looked at me in disbelief, his face showing a bit of paleness and anger.

Deep in his gray eyes, something seemed to be hibernating, a gaze as dead as the frozen Seine River.

Was he… angry?

Oh right, if we knew each other and now I called him “monsieur” so distantly, he would definitely be angry.

I smiled, consciously explaining with good intentions: “I lost my memory, but you look a bit familiar. May I ask if we knew each other before?”

Under the cold lights of the terminal, his tall, sturdy figure strode in front of me, staring at me intently.

I smiled even brighter in response to his gaze.

But he just smirked slightly, his tone full of sarcasm: “I don’t know you.”

Emotionless, yet extremely harsh.

My smile froze.

Watching him turn and walk towards the security checkpoint, the secretary beside him hurried to follow: “Boss, aren’t we going to New York anymore?”

He didn’t answer, seemingly still angry.

This man is really weird.

But I won’t give up.

After dropping my luggage at the hotel, I took a taxi straight to his company in the La Défense district.

The magazine had the address of the office tower.

“Can you help me make an appointment with the CEO of Aegis Tech – Sebastian Silva?”

The French receptionist looked me up and down: “Does Mademoiselle have an appointment?”

“I don’t have his contact information, so how could I make one? Can I just make an appointment now?”

The receptionist looked at me like I was a fool, shrugged, and ignored me.

I felt a bit wronged for no reason.

Growing up, whether I wanted to go to my father’s company or the Shaw family’s corporation, I never needed an appointment; someone would respectfully escort me up.

How would I know how cumbersome this appointment procedure is?

I sat in the lobby all afternoon. The employees began to leave for the day, but I still hadn’t seen Sebastian Silva.

I was getting hungry; I had fasted all day.

I decided to find a croissant shop to eat something first and come back tomorrow.

However, just as I stood up to leave, Sebastian appeared in the lobby.

He didn’t even glance at me, striding right past me. Anxious, I reached out and grabbed his suit sleeve.

“Wait a minute.”

The surrounding employees heard this, their eyes widened, whispering to each other before all looking over.

He paused slightly, not turning to look at me. His hand hanging by his side clenched tightly, the blue veins faintly visible on the back of his hand.

“What’s the matter?”

“Sebastian Silva, your name is Sebastian, right?”

His breathing grew a bit heavier. He abruptly turned his head and glared at me fiercely: “You travel all the way here to find me, and then ask me who I am? Lily Evans, are you playing with me? Is it fun?”

“You really do know me!”

My eyes lit up, looking at him with joy.

His expression stiffened, turning his face away, his eyes squeezed shut as if trying to endure something.

After a long while, he turned his head back, looking at me with emotionless eyes that hid the inner turmoil: “Just a college classmate, not close. Please don’t come here to bother me again in the future.”

This was the first time someone spoke to me with such rejection after I lost my memory.

But for some reason, this situation felt very familiar.

It seemed that in the past, on the university campus, there was also a boy with a cold face who told me, “Could you stop following me around?”