When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room blinded me. There was a man sitting by the bed, dressed in a sharp, impeccably tailored suit. He looked incredibly formal, radiating an icy kind of authority. I cleared my throat, the dryness scraping like sandpaper, and politely asked if he was the employer interviewing me for the live-in nanny position. All the color drained from his face in an instant. I explained, calmly, that I was suffering from amnesia. The only thing I could remember was that I was on my way to take a job as a live-in housekeeper. Hearing this, he let out a choked breath, his eyes wild, and lunged forward to grab my hand. Instinctively, I snatched my hand back. I reminded him, with a firm frown, to maintain professional boundaries. When I finally returned to his sprawling estate, the way everyone in the house looked at me made my skin crawl. It felt entirely wrong. I woke up at five o’clock every morning to make breakfast. I called the master of the house "Mr. Pierce," and the woman who was always lingering around "Ms. Foster." Ms. Foster’s gaze toward me shifted over time. What started as a smug, triumphant smirk slowly morphed into deep, unsettling anxiety. The little boy—the young master—came running to me one afternoon, his face red and streaked with tears, throwing his arms around my legs. I could only push him away with an awkward, apologetic smile, explaining that the nanny wasn't allowed to have inappropriate physical contact with her employers. He cried even harder after that. He practically wailed. Mr. Pierce was always staring at me. His gaze was heavy, dark, and suffocating. I assumed he was scrutinizing my work, searching for a reason to fire me, so I scrubbed the floors harder and kept my head down. Then came the night I brought a tray of late-night snacks to his study. I paused in the hallway, the heavy oak door slightly ajar. He was on the phone, his voice a desperate, ragged whisper. He told whoever was on the other end that he couldn’t take it anymore. He begged the doctor to tell him when my memory would come back. His voice cracked, thick with unshed tears, as he choked out that I used to love him so much, and now... now I treated him like a total stranger. I stood frozen in the hallway, the silver tray suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in my hands. 1 I woke up at five in the morning, right on schedule. Before the car accident, my last cohesive memory was of working as a housekeeper for a wealthy family, spending my days cooking and cleaning for a father and son. Since I was discharged from the hospital, it only made sense to get back to work. A job was a job. I padded lightly down the grand staircase. The kitchen lights were still off, the house steeped in a heavy, suffocating silence. I opened the massive industrial fridge, finding it stocked to the brim with high-end ingredients. I bypassed the caviar and truffles, pulling out eggs, oats, and some spinach. Just a standard, ordinary breakfast. I was stirring the oatmeal when the sound of footsteps echoed behind me. I turned. Donovan Pierce stood in the kitchen doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them bruised and heavy, as if he hadn't slept a wink. "Mr. Pierce. You're up early," I said, offering a polite, practiced smile. He stared at me, a cold, hollow laugh escaping his lips. "You're putting on quite the performance," he said. I blinked, genuinely confused. "Excuse me?" He closed the distance between us, his presence looming. "Do you really think faking amnesia after a car crash is going to give us a clean slate? Is this your twisted way of starting over?" I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "Mr. Pierce, I really did lose my memory..." "Save it," he snapped, his tone dropping to a freezing register. "Just days ago you were screaming for a divorce, and today you're playing the maid?" I recoiled, taking a step back until my hip bumped the marble island. His hostility was terrifying. He kept going, his voice dripping with venom. "You’re trying to play the victim, aren't you? You want me to feel guilty. You want Oliver to feel sorry for you." "I really don't—" "I know exactly what you're doing." He glared at me, his eyes dark with contempt. "You've pulled a lot of manipulative stunts, Evelyn, but this one is just pathetic." My mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn't know what to say to this angry, bitter man. The oatmeal began to bubble. I turned the stove off, ladled it into three porcelain bowls, and set them on the dining table. Mr. Pierce sat at the head of the table. He didn't even glance at the food. "You used to make a feast every morning," he said, his voice flat. "Now I get this?" I wrung my hands nervously against my apron. "I... this is all I know how to make..." "Keep acting." He picked up his spoon, took one bite, and dropped it back into the bowl with a clatter. "It tastes different, too." I had no explanation to offer. Just then, the sound of a child crying drifted down from the second floor. The young master was awake. I hurried up the stairs and pushed open the door to the sprawling, toy-strewn bedroom. The little boy was sitting up in bed. The second his eyes locked onto mine, huge, fat tears began to spill down his cheeks. "Mommy..." he sobbed. I knelt down beside his bed. "What's wrong, young master?" He froze. Then, the tears came faster, his chest heaving. "Why are you calling me that... I'm Oliver..." I was completely out of my depth. I reached out and awkwardly patted his small shoulder. Mr. Pierce appeared in the doorway, his expression carved from stone. "Stop it," he commanded. "Oliver, ignore her. She's just acting." The boy looked from his father to me, his cries escalating into a full-blown wail. I stood up, desperate to escape the suffocating tension. "I... I should go back downstairs." "Hold on," Mr. Pierce barked. "Where did you sleep last night?" "In the housekeeper's quarters." He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You're really committed to the bit." I kept my eyes glued to the hardwood floor. "Do whatever you want," he said, turning away. "But don't think for a second this is going to make me feel sorry for you." Breakfast was an agonizing affair. The little boy just stared at me, tears silently dropping into his oatmeal. Mr. Pierce didn't even look in my direction. When they finally pushed their bowls away, I took a breath and carefully spoke up. "Mr. Pierce, I just wanted to inquire... what is my weekly salary?" He slowly raised his head. He looked at me as if I were an alien species. "Your salary?" He rolled the word around in his mouth before letting out a dark chuckle. "Evelyn, you really never cease to amaze me." I stood there, utterly baffled. "Fine. Play whatever game you want," he said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "Just don't expect me to play along." With that, he walked out the front door. Oliver immediately scrambled out of his chair and bolted upstairs, leaving me entirely alone in the cavernous dining room. I looked at the half-eaten bowls of oatmeal, a profound sense of bewilderment washing over me. Were this father and son out of their minds? 2 Over the next few days, Mr. Pierce's attitude toward me grew increasingly frigid. I didn't care. I was just the hired help. As long as I did my job, he could act however he pleased. I just needed to save up enough cash to quit and get out of this madhouse. Around noon, I started prepping lunch. Oliver was in the living room playing with his action figures. Whenever I walked past, he would dramatically turn his back to me, refusing to acknowledge my existence. Melody Foster was sitting on the plush velvet sofa, legs elegantly crossed. She offered me a sweet, sugary smile. "Evelyn, do you need a hand with anything?" I shook my head. "No, thank you, Ms. Foster." She just smiled, saying nothing more. When lunch was ready, I brought it out to the dining room. Shrimp fried rice, with a side of sautéed greens. Oliver took one look at it and wrinkled his nose. Melody scooped a spoonful onto his plate. "Come on, Oliver, you need to eat." "Aunt Melody makes it way better," he mumbled, refusing to look at me. I stood by the table, shifting uncomfortably. Mr. Pierce walked in. He took one look at the spread and his brow furrowed in disdain. "This is it?" I nodded. "Yes... sir." He scoffed, pulled out his chair, and started to eat. Oliver managed two bites of the fried rice before he suddenly dropped his fork and clutched his stomach. "Oliver?" Melody asked, her voice pitching up in alarm. The boy's face flushed a violent shade of crimson, and bright red hives began to blossom across his neck. Mr. Pierce's chair clattered to the floor as he shot up, his face pale with terror. He scooped the boy into his arms and bolted for the door. "We're going to the hospital!" Panic seized my chest. I ripped off my apron and sprinted after them. In the car, Mr. Pierce drove like a madman, his jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to snap. I sat in the back seat, watching the little boy writhe in discomfort, my stomach tying itself into a sickening knot. At the ER, the doctors rushed him back, administered an epinephrine shot, and quickly diagnosed him with a severe shellfish allergy. Mr. Pierce slowly turned to face me in the sterile white hallway. His eyes were absolute ice. "You fed him shrimp?" I blinked, my heart pounding. "I... I didn't know the young master was allergic..." "You didn't know?" The laugh that tore from his throat was entirely devoid of humor. "You're his mother! How could you not know?" His fury physically backed me into the wall. "But... I swear to you, I don't remember..." "Drop the act," he snarled, stepping into my personal space. "Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?" "You're just trying to punish me, aren't you? You wanted to put him in danger just to make me feel guilty." I shook my head frantically. "No! I wouldn't—" "Enough." He turned on his heel and walked into the hospital room, leaving me stranded in the freezing corridor. Melody approached me, letting out a soft, pitying sigh. "Evelyn, I know you're hurting inside," she murmured. "But is this really the way to handle it?" I stared at her, totally lost. She kept going, her voice a gentle purr. "Using stunts like this to win Donovan back? It's only going to push him further away." I stared at her. "I'm not trying to win anyone back..." "You don't need to explain it to me." She offered a sad, knowing smile. "Honestly, Evelyn, I'd suggest you just let it go. Donovan has already given up on you. No matter how hard you act, it’s not going to change anything." She patted my arm patronizingly and slipped into the hospital room. I stood alone under the flickering fluorescent lights, my mind completely blank. I didn't understand a single word she just said. When we got back to the house, I locked myself in the bathroom, pulled out my phone, and Googled my own name: Evelyn Sinclair. The first headline that popped up felt like a punch to the gut: "Sinclair Heiress Weds Nobody—Seven Years Later, Is the Fairy Tale Over?" I clicked the link. The article detailed how Evelyn Sinclair, the sole heir to the massive Sinclair Enterprises fortune, had defied her powerful family seven years ago to marry a low-level corporate employee named Donovan Pierce. After the wedding, she stepped down from her role as VP, choosing to be a stay-at-home wife. Meanwhile, Donovan used his father-in-law's connections and capital to build his own empire. Three years ago, Evelyn's parents tragically passed away, leaving her the entirety of their astronomical estate. Lately, the tabloids were swirling with rumors of an impending divorce. I stared at the glowing screen, my brain short-circuiting. My first thought was: Good lord, this Evelyn girl must have been out of her mind. Why would someone with that much money marry a gold digger? 3 Donovan hired a new chef. She was a middle-aged woman who treated me with an uncomfortable amount of reverence. "Ma'am, what would you like for dinner tonight?" she asked on her first day. I stammered, "Oh, I'm... I'm not the..." "Just call her Miss Sinclair," Melody chimed in from the doorway, her voice dripping with amusement. "She's currently enjoying playing dress-up as the maid." The chef looked utterly bewildered, but nodded anyway. Oliver avoided me like the plague. One afternoon, I picked up a stray toy off the floor and tried to hand it to him. He slapped it out of my hand, sending it clattering across the hardwood. "Don't touch me!" he screamed. Donovan stood leaning against the doorframe, watching the entire exchange. He let out a dark scoff, but said absolutely nothing to correct the boy. One morning, when the house was finally empty, I decided to deep-clean the study. I pushed open the heavy oak doors and started dusting the massive mahogany bookshelves. Halfway through, my rag brushed against a framed photograph. It was a picture of Melody and Donovan. They were standing on a beach, the wind in their hair, laughing with an effortless, radiant joy. I frowned and kept looking. There had to be at least seven or eight similar photos tucked onto various shelves. Conversely, I only found one single, solitary photo of Donovan and "Evelyn", shoved to the very back of a bottom shelf, gathering dust. Wow, I thought to myself. Those two definitely have something going on. How on earth did the wife put up with this? I had already completely detached myself from the idea that I was Evelyn Sinclair. There was no way I was pathetic enough to be this hopelessly in love. While organizing the drawers of the desk, my hand brushed against a leather-bound notebook. Curiosity got the better of me. I flipped it open. The very first line read: "Why isn't he home yet?" I turned the pages. It was entry after entry of agonizing, desperate rambling. "It's 3 AM. I've been sitting in the dark living room all night." "Melody came over again today. She swears she and Donovan are just friends, so why the hell does she have a room in my house?" "Oliver told me he wishes Aunt Melody was his mom. My heart is completely broken." I read the messy scrawl, shaking my head. Destroying yourself over a man? Losing your mind in an empty house? Why bother? I’d honestly rather be a housekeeper. At least the housekeeper got a paycheck. I kept flipping. "We fought again today. He called me hysterical and unreasonable." "I just asked for an explanation. How is that unreasonable?" "Oliver defended Melody today. He called me a bad mom." "I'm so incredibly tired." The handwriting grew increasingly erratic toward the end. Some pages were warped, stained with dried tears. I reached the very last page. There was only one sentence written on it. "I want a divorce." Now we're talking, I thought. A guy like that? You drop him and run. I tossed the diary back into the drawer and shut it tight. Whoever this weeping, desperate, love-sick woman was, she definitely wasn't me. During dinner that night, Oliver couldn't stop staring at me. His eyes were rimmed with red. He looked like he'd been crying in his room. "Mommy..." he whispered suddenly into the quiet room. I looked up from my plate. "Did you... did you really forget about me?" he asked, his tiny voice trembling. I had no idea how to navigate this. Donovan put his fork down slowly. He locked eyes with me, a desperate, silent plea flickering in his dark gaze. I opened my mouth, closed it, and finally, gave a slow nod. Oliver shattered. He started sobbing uncontrollably. Melody immediately swooped in, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, Oliver, sweetie, don't cry..." "Young master, you love Aunt Melody anyway, right?" I offered, trying to be helpful. "As long as she's here, you're fine." Oliver froze mid-sob. He stared at me in horror, then pushed away from the table and sprinted upstairs, wailing. Donovan stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He glared at me, his face a mask of absolute disgust. "Are you done acting yet?" he gritted out. "You're willing to torture your own son for this?" He turned and stormed up the stairs after the boy. Only Melody and I were left at the massive dining table. She let out a heavy sigh. "Evelyn, why are you doing this?" I said nothing. She stood up, walked over, and leaned down close to my ear. "You know, Donovan actually does care about you." "It's just that... the way you've behaved these last few years. You've disappointed him too much." She patted my shoulder with faux sympathy and glided up the stairs. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Why would I fake this? If he cares about me, great. The problem is, I don't care about him. 4 Over the next few days, Donovan's hostility cooled slightly. He stopped making snide remarks, though he still barely acknowledged my presence. It was exactly as if I were, in fact, just the maid. Then, one morning, Melody tracked me down. "Evelyn, we need to talk," she said. We sat down in the formal living room. She looked uncharacteristically nervous, wringing her manicured hands. "The truth is... Donovan and I were sweethearts in college," she began.
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