I wake up gasping, not from pain, but from silence. The room is too clean, too quiet—white marble, black windows, a bed wider than my old apartment. A man sits beside me, sharp suit, sharper eyes. 'Welcome back, Alice,' he says, like we’re sharing a joke I don’t remember. His hand brushes mine, but his voice is ice. News footage flickers on the wall: 'Billionaire CEO's wife survives tragic accident.' That’s me. But the face on screen… it’s mine, yet wrong. Too polished. Too cold. Then I see it—a photo tucked beneath a tablet: me, laughing in a sunlit café, wearing a faded bookshop apron. No ring. No him. Before I can react, the door opens. A woman steps in, all grace and poison. 'She remembers nothing?' she asks, not looking at me. Damien shakes his head. 'Good,' she says. 'Then we still have time.'

My fingers curl under the sheets, clutching the only proof I might’ve been someone real. They think I’m broken. They think I’m theirs. But I remember one thing they don’t know—I was never weak.