I Faked Amnesia to Destroy My Sister’s Stolen Wedding

I lay in the hospital bed, pretending to stare vacantly at the ceiling while my mind raced. The betrayal burned through me like acid, dissolving every memory I had cherished of Ryan and my sister. How long had they been planning this? How many times had they laughed behind my back? The thought made my stomach clench with a mixture of rage and humiliation.

The door to my private room swung open, and Marcus strode in with his usual air of self-importance. His designer shoes clicked against the polished floor as he approached my bed, his face arranged in what I assumed was meant to be brotherly concern.

"Isabella, how are you feeling?" His voice carried the practiced sympathy of someone who had rehearsed the line in the elevator.

"Confused," I replied, maintaining my façade of disorientation. "Everything feels... strange."

Marcus nodded, as if my confusion confirmed something for him. "The doctor says you can be discharged today. I've made arrangements for you."

"Arrangements?" I blinked up at him, playing the part of the vulnerable, memory-impaired sister.

"Yes." He checked his Rolex impatiently. "You can't stay at your apartment alone in this condition, and Ryan is... well, you understand now that he's with Victoria."

I forced myself to nod slowly, as if processing this painful information for the first time.

"Fortunately," Marcus continued, "Nathaniel Sterling has agreed to take you in."

"Nathaniel Sterling?" I echoed, genuinely confused this time.

"Your boyfriend," Marcus said smoothly, checking his phone. "Don't worry if you don't remember. The doctor said temporary memory loss is normal after a concussion."

Boyfriend? I had never dated anyone named Nathaniel Sterling. The only Nathaniel Sterling I knew of was Ryan's friend, a successful businessman who occasionally attended the same social functions. We had barely exchanged more than polite greetings.

"He's waiting outside," Marcus added, gesturing toward the door.

On cue, a tall figure entered the room. Nathaniel Sterling was even more imposing up close—broad-shouldered, with sharp features and penetrating gray eyes that seemed to see right through my charade. His dark hair was immaculately styled, and his tailored suit spoke of wealth that didn't need to announce itself.

"Isabella," he said, his voice deep and controlled. There was no warmth in it, no affection that would suggest we were in a relationship.

"Nathaniel will take care of you until you recover," Marcus said, already backing toward the door. "I've had your essentials packed and delivered to his home."

I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to tell them I remembered everything. Instead, I played along, nodding meekly as a nurse entered with discharge papers.

The ride to Nathaniel's home was silent and tense. His sleek black Aston Martin purred through the streets of Los Angeles, carrying us away from the hospital and toward Manhattan Beach. I stole glances at his profile, trying to decipher why he would agree to this bizarre arrangement.

"Why are you doing this?" I finally asked, keeping my voice uncertain, as if I genuinely couldn't remember him.

"We'll discuss it when we arrive," he replied curtly, his eyes never leaving the road.

Nathaniel's home was exactly what I would have expected—a modern mansion overlooking the ocean, all clean lines, glass, and steel. He led me inside with minimal conversation, his movements efficient and detached.

"Your room is upstairs, second door on the right," he said, nodding to a uniformed woman who appeared in the foyer. "Mrs. Patel will show you up. I've asked her to prepare fresh linens."

With that, he turned and disappeared down a hallway, leaving me with the housekeeper and my confusion. Mrs. Patel offered a sympathetic smile and gestured toward the sweeping staircase.

As I followed her up the stairs, I wondered what game Nathaniel was playing. Was he just another pawn in my family's cruel chess match? Or did he have his own agenda?

The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the immaculate guest room where I had been sequestered. I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, staring out at the ocean view, feeling more alone than I ever had before.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. The door opened to reveal Nathaniel, transformed from the cold businessman of earlier. He had shed his suit jacket and tie, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and—most surprisingly—donned a kitchen apron.

"I thought you might be hungry," he said, his voice noticeably gentler than before. In his hands was a tray bearing a steaming plate of fettuccine Alfredo and a glass of pinot grigio.

The rich aroma of garlic, butter, and Parmesan filled the room as he set the tray on the bedside table. I stared at him, momentarily forgetting my amnesia act.

"You... cooked this?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Contrary to popular belief, I do know my way around a kitchen."

He poured the wine into a crystal glass and handed it to me, his fingers brushing mine. For a moment, something flickered in his gray eyes—concern, perhaps, or something deeper that I couldn't quite identify.

"Eat," he said softly. "We can talk tomorrow. You need rest now."

As he turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of something unexpected in his expression—a tenderness that seemed entirely at odds with the cold, distant man who had brought me here. What was Nathaniel Sterling's role in all of this? And why did I suddenly feel safer in the home of this near-stranger than I had in my own family's presence?