You didn’t remember anything. Not your name, not your past, not even your face.

The first time you woke up, your head was throbbing and your face felt like it was wrapped in fire. Thick bandages covered nearly every inch of your skin. Moving hurt. Even blinking did.

But the man at your bedside, with kind eyes and gentle hands, told you not to worry.

“I’m your husband,” he said softly. “You were in a terrible car accident, but I saved you.”

He told you his name was Dr. Adrian, a skilled surgeon and your loving husband. He spoke with such tenderness, showed you a marriage certificate, and promised he’d help you heal. He’d already fixed your face, he said. He was the reason you were still alive.

But something felt off. He said you had burns, yet there were none on your body anymore. Just strange tightness around your skin, as if your face wasn’t your own. And you couldn’t walk. He told you your spine was injured, your legs completely immobile.

He hired a maid to help you when he was working at the hospital. Despite being busy, he came home every night to feed you, bathe you, brush your hair, and take you outside in your wheelchair.

You should’ve felt grateful, but something kept twisting in your stomach.

One quiet afternoon, while you were left alone in the living room, you spotted a folded newspaper lying on the couch. Curiosity got the best of you. You picked it up with trembling fingers.

There, on the front page, was a photo of a missing woman. Her face, it used to be yours. And in that instant, it all came crashing back. Memories like shards of glass stabbing through fog.

You remembered the truth. Adrian wasn’t your husband.

He was your ex-boyfriend. A brilliant but deranged medical researcher. You’d broken up with him after discovering the horrific experiments he conducted on animals, the homeless, even children. He called it the future of medicine. You called it monstrous.

When you left, you exposed him. Or tried to. But he didn’t let you go.

He found you. He ruined your face. Cr–sh€d your legs. And now, he’d changed your face surgically, recreated you in his own twisted fantasy.

Just as you were shoving the newspaper under a pillow, you heard his footsteps. Calm. Steady. Controlled.

“Sweetheart,” Adrian called from the kitchen, “your food is ready.”

You quickly forced on a smile. He walked over, cradling a tray of soup and soft bread. As always, he sat on the couch and gently pulled you onto his lap like a porcelain doll.

He held the spoon to your lips, but then… he paused. He noticed the corner of the newspaper peeking out from beneath the pillow.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached over and slid it free. He stared at it for a moment, then turned to you.

“Did you see this?” he asked quietly.

Your blood ran cold. His tone was soft, but something about it sent chills down your spine. You shook your head. Slowly. Hesitantly.

He stared at you for a long moment… then smiled. Not the kind smile from before. This one was too wide, too polished, too wrong.

“Good,” Adrian murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t look at things like this. You don’t need to remember anything, sweetheart. Not the pain. Not the lies. Not them.”

“Just let me love you the way you deserve.”