The Man Who Forgot Her

My fiancé, Floyd Meyers, announced he was canceling our engagement.

He was proposing to Jaylah Ryan, an heiress, all because a psychic claimed I was the cause of his misfortune.

Jaylah then falsely accused me of tearing her expensive gown. Floyd ordered his guards to slap me fifty times and forced me to kneel in the snow all night to mend it.

When Jaylah's mother needed an emergency transfusion of my rare blood type, he dragged me to the hospital to be used as a living blood bag, without anesthetic.

He threatened my mother and my dog, forcing me to repair an architectural model for him.

When Jaylah engineered another incident, he threatened to burn my mother's hands unless I confessed to a crime I didn't commit.

My own mother, terrified, screamed at me to sacrifice myself.

With a numb heart, I chose my own hands, enduring the searing agony of hot coals until they were ruined and blackened.

As I lay dying, he appeared only to snarl, "I hope you die and rot in the ground. I never want to see your face again."

The truth shattered me when the psychic confessed Floyd had paid her to lie. He had orchestrated my downfall from the start.

When I confronted him, he forced champagne down my throat and drowned me in the pool.

But I woke up again, back on the day I first met Floyd Meyers.

Chapter 1

It was Elizebeth Rice' s first winter in New York. The snow in the backyard was thick, piling up in soft, white mounds. Elizebeth knelt in it, shivering.

Large snowflakes settled on her hair and brows, a cold, wet blanket. A gust of wind cut through her thin shirt, and she felt nothing but cold. Her body was cold, but her heart was colder.

The back door of the mansion opened. A housekeeper walked out, her face a mask of indifference. She threw a designer dress at Elizebeth' s feet, followed by a sewing needle so fine it was almost invisible against the white snow.

"Mr. Meyers said if you don't mend the dress, he won't let you in."

The housekeeper turned without another word and went back inside, leaving Elizebeth to the biting wind. The heavy door clicked shut.

Her heart ached. Everything that had just happened replayed in her mind. Floyd Meyers had returned home tonight and made two announcements.

First, he was canceling their engagement.

Second, he was proposing to Jaylah Ryan, the heiress of Ryan Holdings.

The reason? A psychic he' d hired told him Elizebeth was the cause of his family' s recent misfortunes. To reverse his bad luck, he had to marry into a powerful family. It was a simple business transaction for him.

She and Floyd had met in college. They fell in love. Five years ago, a car accident put him in a coma. She donated her neural interface to him, a dangerous procedure that left her with an artificial one, a constant, low-grade hum in the back of her mind.

She did it for love. She stayed by his side for years, ready to help the moment his body showed any sign of rejecting the interface. Floyd, driven by guilt, had promised to cherish her forever. He said he wanted her by his side for the rest of his life.

They were supposed to get married next month. Now, because of some psychic' s nonsense, he had thrown her away.

Tonight, Jaylah Ryan had asked Elizebeth to help her change into a different dress for the party. Elizebeth had agreed, her heart heavy. But as they went upstairs, Jaylah suddenly collapsed on the steps.

Jaylah immediately accused Elizebeth of tripping her, of tearing her expensive gown on purpose.

Floyd' s face had turned dark with rage. He didn' t even ask for an explanation. He just ordered his security guards to drag her out of the house.

"Slap her fifty times," he had commanded, his voice like ice. "Then make her mend the dress."

Elizebeth' s heart felt like it had turned to lead. But Floyd had only smiled at Jaylah, his voice full of doting affection.

"Don't worry, I'll buy you another one."

Before Elizebeth could say a single word, the guards grabbed her arms and dragged her into the courtyard.

Fifty slaps. The sound echoed in the quiet winter night. Her tears finally fell, freezing on her cheeks. With each slap, her face burned, a raw, stinging pain.

She collapsed onto the ground when they were done, her mind numb. She remembered him whispering to her once, years ago, that he would never let her suffer again, never let her cry. She had been a fool to believe him for so long.

With a loud thud, the mansion's gate was slammed shut. The last sliver of light from the house vanished. She was surrounded by darkness, the wind and snow her only companions. They seemed to freeze her heart solid.

She picked up the fine needle. Her fingers were stiff with cold. She began to mend the delicate fabric of the dress. Each stitch was a tiny prick of pain. For the fine, detailed embroidery, she had to strain her eyes, holding the dress close to her face to make sure the needle passed through cleanly.

The snow fell harder. The wind grew more relentless. Dressed only in a thin shirt, she knelt on the ground, her body shaking uncontrollably. Her fingers started to bleed from the needle pricks, but the pain just made her feel numb. She focused only on the task, on the dress.

The sharp pain from her fingers was nothing compared to the pain in her heart.

She remembered the first scarf she had ever owned. Floyd had knitted it for her himself. She was always frail, especially sensitive to the cold. He would wait until she fell asleep, then quietly get up, turn on a small lamp, and sit at the foot of their bed, knitting.

He told her, "With me here, your winters will never be cold again."

Elizebeth kept sewing. Blood mixed with the delicate thread. A hot tear fell onto a cut on her hand. It burned, making her flinch.

Whenever she felt like she was about to collapse from the pain and the cold, a housekeeper would come out and drag her back into a kneeling position, forcing her to continue.

The cold wind seeped through her collar, making her teeth chatter. She curled into a tight ball, trying to preserve what little warmth she had left. The night wore on, long and torturous.

Under the swirling snow, she sat and sewed all night.

By the time the first ray of morning sun pierced through the mist, the dress was finished. Elizebeth shakily rose from the ground. Her fingers were a bloody mess, raw and swollen.

She stood at the door, trembling, and knocked. Her heart ached with a desperate, fading hope.

The people inside seemed to be deliberately ignoring her. There was no sound, no movement.

The cold intensified. Her breath frosted in the air. Her vision blurred. Instinctively, she tried to curl up again for warmth, but her legs gave out. She fell to the ground, unconscious.