My Erased Past Life by Tessa Kelwyn
My Erased Past Life
Description
She wakes up in a stranger's bed with no memory of who she is, how she got there, or why a little girl keeps begging for help in her dreams. A badge by the sink tells her she's Ruby-personal assistant to Melo Vega, the youngest executive director at Technocorp. He's brilliant, possessive, and knows her body better than she knows her own name. But a neon butterfly in the lower district pulls her off-route and into a bar where everyone calls her Beth. They say she worked here. They say she disappeared eight months ago without a word. And a man the size of a wall touches her cheek with a chrome hand and asks where she's been. Ruby isn't missing a few memories. She's missing an entire life-so now she's juggling two names, two men, and a sister in prison who refuses to explain any of it. And every night, the same dream: a girl holds her hand and says please don't go. Ruby is starting to think the girl is real.
Chapter 1
Aug 21, 2026
[Ruby’s POV]
"Don't go."
The girl's hand is warm in mine. Her fingers are small enough that I can close my whole fist around them.
"Please. I need help." She presses her thumb into my palm, twice, like it means something.
Behind her, a butterfly hangs in the dark, neon blue, one wing flickering out of sync with the other. I try to look at it and can't stop looking at her instead.
"Who are you?" I ask, and she only tilts her head.
“Help me, you promised to help me!” She doesn't say my name, and it feels important, but I can’t understand why.
Then somebody fastens a zipper, and it pulls me back to reality.
My eyes open on a ceiling I don't recognize. A man is standing at the end of the bed pulling his pants up, bare shoulders, cheap chrome plating along one forearm.
He reaches across the table, picks up my credchip, and slides it into his jacket pocket quickly.
"That's mine." My voice sounds grating, and my throat is disgustingly parched. It feels suspiciously like a hangover, except I don’t remember drinking.
"You said I could take cab fare." He doesn't meet my eyes and shrugs on his shirt.
"Did I?" I pull the sheet up over my chest and sit up.
"Last night." Now he looks at me and smiles with half his mouth. "You were generous last night."
Did I? The hell happened last night? Who even is he and where did we meet? "Put it back." My hands are steady on the sheet, but my heart beats too fast from a mounting anxiety.
"It's forty creds." He shrugs into the jacket and hits the door panel. "Relax." Then the door slides shut and the lock clicks.
I look around. The apartment is one room and a sink, grey walls, a rack of clothes in colors that I don’t really like, a window with the city in rain and ad light.
Where is this and where am I?
I wait for it to arrive, like when things arrive a little later when you’re hungover. Nothing arrives. Great, just great. What the hell did you do last night— and what is my name?
My heart quickens and my breath stutters, so I press both palms flat on the mattress and count my heartbeats before I hyperventilate. It will come to me, sooner or later. I couldn’t have forgotten my own name, could I?
I get to ten beats and make myself stand up and go to the sink.
I look at myself in the mirror. A woman with long blue hair and a shaved left temple looks back at me, grey eyes wide open in confusion and terror.
There’s a badge lying face up next to the tap with my photo and a caption underneath. RUBY. Personal assistant to Executive Director Melo Vega. TECHNOCORP.
I touch my own temple. Bare skin, then the small hard ridge of a port. Ruby. Fine. I'm Ruby. The comm on the counter lights up on its own. ALARM OVERDUE—40 MIN.
Guess it’s time to get myself together. I go to the kitchen first to make some coffee, and muscle memory takes over.
Four scoops from the grinder without a heap. Cold water in the cup first, then the hot, then two taps of the spoon against the rim and half a spoon of syrup out of a jar with no label on it.
I watch my own fingers do it. Funny, thirty seconds ago I couldn't have told anyone a single step of that.
My hands know and my head doesn't. That is not how any of this is supposed to work.
I drink it standing up. It tastes great, and I’d imagine this is how I like taking my coffee. The comm pings again, and now it has three messages on it, all from the same contact—Melo Vega.
Melo, 07:10: Board deck on my desk by nine. Two printed copies.
I scroll down. My thumb leaves a wet mark on the screen.
Melo, 07:40: Where are you?
Melo, 07:52: Are you okay? You're not answering. Is everything all right? Do you need help?
I read the last one four times, and my chest fills with warmth. Huh, this seems weird. Bosses don't write like that. Bosses send the first message, and then they send you a warning.
Me: On my way. Sorry.
I dress, call the cab, and get in. I put two fingers on the port behind my ear and push the restart. "Destination confirmed. Technocorp Tower." The cab's voice is bright and dead at the same time. "Passenger, your harness is not engaged."
"You can start moving," I hold my fingers on the port until it goes hot under the skin.
"Passenger, your harness is not engaged," the cab insists. I pull the strap across my chest and the dash finally stops blinking at me. Then the chip answers.
SYNC FAILED. BASELINE ONLY.
The chip loads in some pieces: all just facts appearing in my head.
Ruby Ford, twenty-four years old, office on the seventy-first floor, the elevator code is two-seven-at-capital f-three.
Working for Melo Vega, executive director, four years at the company, allergic to shellfish.
Then it stops. Nothing about the girl, the butterfly, the man at my place in the morning. What did I do last night? Or last week? Or last year?
I sigh. At least, it’s enough for one day. As long as nobody asks me anything important.
The seventy-first floor is busy, and has a lot of offices. I don’t remember which one is Melo’s, but my legs carry myself to a vaguely familiar office.
Melo is standing at the window with his back to me when the doors open. Dark suit, no jacket, dark hair and tanned skin. A blue light is crawling under the skin at his right temple.
"Forty-three minutes," he says.
"I know." I stop before his desk, unsure what to do. May I sit? Should I? Am I late often?
"You've never been late. Not once in eight months." He still hasn't turned around. "Where's the deck?"
I look down at my hands. There is nothing in them, nothing in the comm. Great.
"In the render queue." Please let there be a render queue.
"Queued." He turns. His eyes go over my face once, top to bottom, checking something. "I messaged you twice before I got worried, and then I messaged you again." He sets his tablet face down on the desk. "Don't do that to me."
"I overslept." I should probably tell him, right? Tell him my chip has malfunctioned, and I barely remember who I am and what I look like.
"You don't oversleep." He crosses the office and stops a step before me. Too close. "Try again."
And then what? He fires the assistant who can't remember the schedule.
"Long night," I take a deep breath and the smell of his perfume reaches me. Wood and bergamot.
His fingers land on my throat, just under my jaw. His thumb strokes once along the side of my neck and my whole body goes still.
What. What is he—
He kisses me, and I kiss him back. It’s automatic, a reflex, and not my conscious decision.
My mouth opens under his like it's been trained for it. My hand comes up on its own and settles over the port at his temple, three fingers spread along the edge of the plate, thumb finding a groove on the underside I didn't know was there.
He makes a low sound against my mouth and leans into my palm. I've done this hundreds of times. My hand knows the shape of this man better than my head knows my own name.
What is happening here?!
My Erased Past Life
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