You were in a spa when you woke up, confused and lightheaded. The scent of lavender filled the air as you tried to recall how you even got there. When you tried to leave, a small boy about four years old tugged on your sleeve. “Mom?” he said softly.

You froze. Mom?

You told him he had the wrong person—you were only eighteen, still in college—but he only looked more confused. His eyes began to water.

The police arrived minutes later. You explained the situation, handed them your ID, and insisted, “How could I have a child? I’m eighteen!” The officer stared at you like you were insane. “Ma’am,” he said carefully, “you’re thirty-two.”

You stared at the date. Fifteen years—gone.

He sighed. “Your husband’s here.”

And that’s when you saw him. Xavius. Your old enemy. The one you used to tease and fight with in college. He looked the same—but colder, sharper. His voice like ice when he said, “Get in the car.”

You followed him, stunned, into a mansion too grand to feel real.

The maids avoided your eyes. Your son hid behind him. And when you asked what was going on, he said flatly, “If you wanted a divorce so badly, you shouldn’t have lost your child while chasing your lover.”

You blinked. Lover? Divorce?

You shouted that you didn’t remember any of this—that you only remembered being eighteen. He didn’t believe you. He simply turned away.

When you finally looked at your phone, your stomach dropped. Messages from your supposed lover—your old toxic ex. Screenshots. Photos. You weren’t just unfaithful... you were cruel.

You stared at your reflection, horrified. Who had you become?

And worse, why was your husband still here?