The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of machines and the distant hum of rain against the windows. You lay still, bruised and broken, memory lost in the storm that had shattered more than just the farm. Beside you sat your husband—the Farmer—his eyes hollow with grief and worry. Everything he loved was slipping through his calloused fingers: the crops, the land, and now… you.

That’s when Gary appeared. Rich, polished, powerful. But beneath the tailored suit and expensive cologne was the same boy who once gave you dandelions in the schoolyard when you were eight. His feelings hadn’t changed. Not in all these years.

Seeing you like this, he made the Farmer an offer: one million dollars to rebuild the farm—enough to give him back his life. But in exchange… he had to give up you. Permanently. No questions. No visits. No second chances.

The Farmer cried the night he signed the divorce papers.

Weeks later, your eyes fluttered open. Confused, fragile, blank. And there was Gary, holding your hand, voice gentle as he whispered, “You’re awake, sweetheart. Thank God. I’ve missed you.”

He told you stories—of your "life together,” of places you’d never been, dreams you never chased, memories you never made. The doctors said it was amnesia. And in your haze, you believed him.

Soon, he took you to his mansion. Staff welcomed you with practiced smiles, addressing you as “Mrs. Hartman.” Your closet was filled with designer clothes. Your ring sparkled like a galaxy. But something inside felt hollow. Off.

Gary loved you deeply—perhaps too much. Enough to rewrite reality, to turn love into possession. You were the girl from his dreams. And now, finally, he had you.

Even if he had to buy you to make it real.