Chapter 2

The doctor called both me and Richard into his office and delivered the diagnosis: selective dissociative amnesia.

"Her memories have reset to ten years ago — the period she subjectively identifies as the happiest time of her life. It's the brain's way of protecting itself." The doctor adjusted his glasses, his tone firm and serious. "She must not be provoked under any circumstances. If she discovers that reality doesn't match her memories, it could trigger a complete psychological breakdown — or even a cerebral hemorrhage. We're talking life-threatening."

Richard sat in the chair with both hands covering his face, his fingers shoved deep into his hair, rubbing his scalp like he was trying to scratch his way out of this mess.

I watched him coldly, my eyes drifting to the Patek Philippe on his wrist. Mia had given it to him for his birthday last month — paid for with Richard's own money, of course.

"Richard," I said, my voice flat and cutting, breaking the silence. "So what now? Your precious little girlfriend is waiting for you at home, and your actual wife needs you to play the devoted husband you were ten years ago. Think you can pull that off?"

Richard's head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot. "Ellen!" he snarled through clenched teeth. "I'm your father. Who the hell do you think you're talking to like that?!"

"You're my father — so you threw money at me to keep me quiet while I watched my mom get played for five years like an idiot?" I didn't flinch. My eyes locked onto his like a blade. "And now look. The universe did you a favor. She actually is an idiot now. So what's your plan? How are you going to pull this off?"

Richard's chest heaved. He glared at me, and then — slowly — the fight went out of him, like air leaking from a punctured tire.

"We play along," he said at last, drawing a long breath and forcing his anger down. "We bring her back to the old house. Mia's stuff isn't there."

So we brought Diane home to the old villa — the one that had been sitting empty for five years. Ever since their marriage had turned into nothing more than two strangers sharing a last name, Richard had moved into a penthouse downtown, and this place had been left to rot.

The moment we opened the front door, a wave of stale, musty air hit us. The furniture was draped in thick white sheets, the whole place silent as a tomb.

But Diane moved through it like a happy little bird, drifting around the living room, completely oblivious to the suffocating stillness around her.

"Oh my gosh, why does this couch cover look so worn out? I swear I just washed it yesterday!" She ran her hand along the dust-coated coffee table and turned back to look at Richard. "Richard, didn't you say you were going to hire a cleaning service? You are so cheap, I swear."

Richard rubbed his hands together awkwardly, his throat working as he swallowed. "Uh… yeah. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

"Ellen, go grab your dad's pajamas, would you? He's had a long day — let him get a shower." Diane slipped right back into her old role, giving instructions like no time had passed at all.

I went to the bedroom and pulled open the wardrobe. It was nearly bare — just a few old shirts yellowed with age. But at the very bottom drawer, shoved in the back, I found something that made my stomach drop. A pair of red lace underwear. I knew exactly what they were. Two years ago, Richard had brought Mia back to this house while my mom was away. She must have left them behind.

I stood there holding them, my stomach turning.

"Ellen? Did you find them?" Diane's footsteps padded toward the door.

I shoved the underwear into my pocket and grabbed an old pajama shirt I could find, then walked out.

That night, the real torture began.

Diane insisted on sleeping in the same room as Richard.

"We're husband and wife — why on earth would you sleep in the guest room?" She looped her arm through his, and the look in her eyes was pure, unguarded — that same open longing and dependence she'd had ten years ago.

Richard's body went rigid as a board. He was used to Mia — her youth, her energy, the constant novelty she brought. Faced with this woman he hadn't touched in five years, a woman he'd quietly grown to resent, something flickered across his face: unmistakable revulsion and fear.

"Diane, you still have a head injury. The doctor said you shouldn't—" He grasped for an excuse, a thin sheen of sweat already forming at his temples.

"I don't care." Diane suddenly wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. Her voice came out soft and small, with a little catch in it, like she was trying not to cry. "Richard, I'm scared. I had this dream — this really long, awful dream — where you left me. Where you were with someone else. Can you just… hold me? Please?"

Richard went completely still.

I stood just outside the door, watching through the crack. I could see his face clearly. It was a complicated expression — more complicated than I had words for. There was guilt. There was panic. And underneath all of it, buried but unmistakably there, was something else entirely: a flicker of desire, dredged up from ten years ago, that he clearly hadn't expected to feel.

He slowly raised his arm and wrapped it around Diane's shoulders.

That night, I lay in the room next door, listening to the sounds coming from the master bedroom. Muffled gasps. The creak of the bed frame. And Diane's breathless, tearful moans.

Bold move, I thought bitterly.

A woman who had just survived the brink of death, and a man whose body was filled with the scent of other women. In their memories from ten years ago, they engaged in an extremely absurd sexual encounter. I don't know whether Richard was thinking of the gentle Diane from ten years ago or the young and promiscuous Mia on the bed when he was doing it.

But I knew one thing. This was only the beginning of hell.