Part 1Forgotten Scapegoat Of The Cruel CEO

A year ago, a violent car crash shattered my mind, wiping the slate of my life completely clean. In the quiet aftermath of that blankness, I fell in love. I became another man's wife.

I was at the clinic for a routine neurological follow-up when it happened. A little boy, no older than eight, suddenly stepped into my path, blocking the sidewalk.

His brow was furrowed, his voice dripping with a cold, cynical edge that had no business belonging to a child. "My dad says you need to come home. Stop throwing a tantrum."

I couldn't help but offer a soft smile, crouching down to be at eye level with him. I reached out, instinctively wanting to smooth his hair.

"Hey there, sweetie. I think you might have the wrong person."

He flinched away with lightning speed, his lip curling into a sneer. "Stop faking it. If you just come back, I’ll even let you tuck me in at night."

A bizarre chill crept down my spine, but we were near a busy intersection. For the child's safety, I couldn't just leave him alone on the concrete. I gently guided him back the way he pointed, assuming a frantic parent was looking for him.

We arrived at the wrought-iron gates of a sprawling, austere estate in the wealthiest zip code of the city. A man stood at the end of the driveway. He was tall, his shoulders broad in a custom suit, but his eyes were like chips of dirty ice.

The moment his gaze locked onto mine, a flicker of something volatile crossed his face, quickly swallowed by a bitter smirk. "Margot. Are you done playing your little games? Finally decided to crawl back?"

Before I could process the words, he lunged forward, his large hand clamping around my bicep like a vice, trying to drag me toward the sprawling brick house.

Panic spiked in my chest. I violently wrenched my arm free and fumbled for my phone, hitting my husband's speed dial with trembling fingers. "Greg! Greg, please, I'm outside the clinic and there are these strange people, I think they're crazy—"

* * *

The call connected for a fraction of a second.

Then, a heavy hand swiped the phone from my grip. It hit the cobblestone driveway with a sickening crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of dead glass.

The man stared down at me, his jaw clenching with pure, unadulterated irritation.

"Margot, drop the amnesia act. It’s pathetic."

He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing me. "So what if I made you take the fall for Cece and do those three years? It’s not like you suffered. You were taken care of. But you? You get out, jump out of a moving car, and vanish. Do you have any idea how guilty Cece has felt for the past year? You’re going to march in there and apologize to her."

A sudden, phantom pain pierced my chest—a sharp, breathless agony that came from absolutely nowhere.

My fingers trembled as I knelt to gather the broken pieces of my phone.

"You have the wrong person," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I don't know who you are."

I spun around to run, but his hand shot out, his fingers digging bruisingly into my wrist. He yanked me back, pulling me so close I could smell the stale coffee and expensive cologne on his breath. The sheer impatience in his eyes was terrifying.

"Did a few years in a cell make you completely stupid? There are no cameras here, Margot. Stop acting!"

My heart felt like it was being ripped open. My lungs seized.

A suffocating terror wrapped around my throat. I opened my mouth to scream, to call for help, but no sound came out.

Then, the heavy oak front door opened.

A woman stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a silk slip dress, delicate and fragile-looking. She peeked out from behind the man’s broad shoulders, her eyes widening in exaggerated relief.

"Margot! Oh my god, you're back!"

She hurried down the steps. "Where have you been for a whole year? How could you just abandon your husband and your son? Look, I know what happened back then wasn't entirely fair, but I’ve already scolded Timothy for it..."

Timothy. The name pinged in the hollow cavity of my skull. It felt familiar. Too familiar. But the harder I tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through my fingers like ash.

"Don't touch me!"

I instinctively shoved the woman as she reached for me. She let out a high-pitched cry and collapsed onto the driveway, scraping her knees.

"I don't know you! I just want to go home, I want my—"

A sharp, agonizing blow cracked against my temple. Warm liquid instantly began trailing down the side of my face.

The little boy stood a few feet away, another jagged landscaping rock clenched in his fist. "Monster! Don't you dare hurt my mom!"

Timothy’s eyes darted to my bleeding forehead, a flash of something like panic tightening his jaw. But he didn't reach for me. Instead, he dropped to his knees, carefully wrapping his arms around the fragile woman in the silk dress, helping her up as if she were made of spun glass.

Cece, however, pushed him away gently. She looked at me, her eyes swimming with a sickeningly sweet sorrow.

"Margot, please don't be mad at Beckett. He's been living with me for the past few years. I practically raised him. He's just... forgotten that you're his real mother."

She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly tight, and dragged me into the cavernous foyer of the house. She pushed me onto a velvet stool and fetched a first-aid kit, aggressively swabbing my forehead with iodine.

"You really have no idea how hard Timothy looked for you..." she murmured, her voice a low hum of false sympathy.

Realizing I was physically outmatched and trapped, I forced my body to go limp. I stopped fighting.

Instead, I sat in silence, letting my eyes sweep the room. The walls were plastered with framed photographs. A beautiful, happy family. A man, a delicate woman, and a little boy. Apple picking in autumn, skiing in the winter, beaches in the summer.

The timestamps on the photos ranged from January to December of last year. The year I was supposedly missing.

I let out a dry, cracked laugh. I pointed a bloody finger at the little boy glaring at me from the hallway.

"You just said I’m his mother. So who are you?"

"I..."

Cece flushed a deep, ugly red. Her eyes darted to Timothy.

The man scowled, his voice a cold whip.

"Cece is your sister-in-law. Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?"

He crossed his arms. "While you were locked away, Cece stepped up. She took care of me. She raised our son. You should be down on your knees thanking her."

A hysterical bubble of amusement rose in my throat. I stood up, ignoring the throbbing in my skull, and looked Timothy dead in the eye.

"You say I’m your wife. Fine. Answer me this." I took a step closer. "Why exactly did I go to prison for her?"

He froze. His voice leaped an octave, defensive and sharp.

"Cece has a weak constitution. She can't handle a place like that. You can't compare yourself to her."

I took another step forward. "Okay. What are my hobbies? What’s my favorite flower? What size dress do I wear?"

Timothy took a step back. The color began to drain from his face, leaving him a sickening shade of gray. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

I leaned in, delivering the final, quiet blow.

"When is my birthday?"