My fiancé called off our engagement after his first love lost her memory

The heavy satin of my wedding dress swept the floor as I stood before the three-way mirror. Twenty-one days left until I walked down the aisle.

My phone buzzed against the marble vanity. Jackson's name flashed on the screen.

I pressed speaker. "Did you finish your meeting? The seamstress says the train fits like a dream."

"Angela, take the dress off," Jackson said. His voice sounded thin, frantic with an edge I had never heard in five years together. "I’m at St. Jude’s."

The silk ribbon slipped between my fingers. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Not me. It’s Maria."

The name hung in the air like poison.

"She was in a massive pileup on the turnpike three days ago," Jackson rushed out. "She was in a coma. She just woke up ten minutes ago."

"Jackson, she moved to London four years ago. Why are you—"

"She doesn't know she moved," he interrupted. "She has severe brain trauma. The doctors ran scans. She lost the last four years entirely."

"What does that mean?"

"It means her mind stopped right when we were together," Jackson said, the background clatter of hospital carts bleeding through the speaker. "Angela, the very first thing she asked when she opened her eyes was, 'Where's Jackson? He promised to help me pick out a wedding dress tonight.'"

My throat dried out. "Tell her the truth. Tell her it’s over."

"The neurologist said any sudden emotional shock could cause permanent cerebral damage! She’s fragile!" He exhaled sharply. "I already called the venue and the caterers. The wedding is off."

The call clicked dead before I could speak.

***

Two hours later, tires crunched over the gravel driveway of our new villa.

Jackson guided Maria through the front double doors. She wore a soft beige cardigan and leaned heavily on his arm, her small face framed by dark hair, pale and tear-stained.

I stood in the foyer, my knuckles white against the banister.

"Jackson," Maria murmured, clutching his lapel. "The house looks so different. Did you redecorate while I was asleep?"

"A little," Jackson said gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "The doctor said familiar surroundings will trigger your recovery."

She turned her gaze to me, blinking wide, innocent brown eyes. She took in my jeans and my faded t-shirt.

"Jackson, sweetie," Maria asked, her voice light and melodic, "is she your new housekeeper?"

The blood rushed to my ears. I opened my mouth, but Jackson stepped forward, cutting between us.

"Angela helps manage the place," Jackson said smoothly. He gave me a warning look, his jaw tight. "Maria needs to rest. I’m taking her upstairs."

"Upstairs?" I blocked his path at the landing. "Jackson, that's our bedroom."

"She needs the master suite, Angela," Jackson hissed, lowering his tone so Maria wouldn't hear from the doorway. "It has the adjustable orthopedic mattress and the ensuite bath. Be reasonable."

"You canceled our wedding three hours ago," I said, my voice shaking. "Now you’re moving your ex into our bed?"

"She isn't an ex to herself!" he shot back. "In her head, we’re engaged! Do you want her to drop dead of a brain hemorrhage just to satisfy your pride? She’s a patient. Stop being petty and let it go."

He pushed past me, carrying Maria’s duffel bag straight into the room where my lingerie still sat inside the top drawer.

***

By morning, the nightmare had expanded into every corner of the villa.

I stood by the kitchen island, clutching a cold mug of black coffee. Soft footsteps padded across the hardwood floor.

Maria strolled into the kitchen. She wasn't wearing hospital clothes anymore. She wore Jackson’s oversized navy silk button-down—the one I had custom-ordered for his thirtieth birthday, monogrammed with his initials over the chest pocket. The hem barely covered her mid-thighs.

"Good morning," Maria announced brightly, sliding onto a barstool.

I stared at the shirt. "That belongs to him."

"Of course it does. I always steal his shirts after we sleep together," she said with a soft giggle. She tapped the quartz counter. "Housekeeper, could you make me two poached eggs and fresh grapefruit juice? That's how Jackson always has them prepared for me on Sundays."

I set my mug down with a hard thud. "My name is Angela. I am not the housekeeper."

Maria tilted her head, looking genuinely puzzled. "Then why are you standing in Jackson’s kitchen wearing rubber cleaning gloves?"

Before I could answer, Jackson walked in, buttoning his cuffs. He took one look at the tension vibrating between us and frowned.

"Maria, honey, why don't you sit on the patio?" Jackson coaxed, his tone dripping with tenderness. "The morning air will clear your head."

"Only if you bring me my juice, Jackson," she pouted playfully, rising and brushing her hip against his side as she drifted past.

The patio door slid shut.

I rounded on him instantly. "She’s wearing the shirt I bought you. She’s ordering me around like staff. Tell her who I am, Jackson. Tell her right now, or I swear to God I'll scream it in her face."

"Lower your voice," Jackson snapped, grabbing my wrist and tugging me toward the pantry. "You're acting crazy."

"I am acting crazy?" I yanked my hand free. "You brought another woman into our home! You cancelled our marriage for a ghost from four years ago!"

"I told you, she has a brain injury!" Jackson’s eyes flared with anger. "The specialist called this morning. Her memory centers are inflamed. One severe emotional break could induce seizures. Do you want her blood on your hands?"

"I want my life back!"

"Then give it two weeks," he pleaded, his anger suddenly collapsing into an exhausting, desperate plea. "Just two weeks until her vitals stabilize. Please, Angela. Sleep in the guest room downstairs. Just stay out of her way. Do this for me."

I stared at the man I had loved for half a decade. He looked like a stranger wearing Jackson's skin.

"Fine," I said quietly. "Two weeks."

***

Night fell over the villa like a suffocating shroud.

I hauled my down blanket and a single pillow down the hall to the small guest room on the main floor. The mattress was stiff. The silence felt heavy and wrong.

Around two in the morning, a sound dragged me out of a fitful sleep.

It wasn't a thump. It wasn't the groan of settling pipes.

It was a voice. A woman’s breathless, rhythmic whimpering, slipping down the central staircase.

My stomach dropped.

I swung my legs off the bed. My bare feet made no sound against the cold oak steps as I moved up toward the second floor.

The master bedroom door stood ajar by two inches. A warm amber glow spilled onto the dark carpet.

With every step, the noises sharpened.

"Jackson... yes... right there..." Maria's voice hitched into a high, wanton cry. "Harder, baby, please..."

The door groaned as my palm pressed against the wood.

The scene inside froze the air in my lungs.

Maria was completely naked. Her back arched, her hands clutching Jackson’s broad shoulders as she rode him on the center of the bed. Jackson lay beneath her, his head thrown back, his fingers digging deep into the flesh of her hips, thrusting upward to meet her rhythm.

The floorboard squeaked beneath my foot.

Jackson’s eyes snapped open.

His pupils blew wide in terror as he locked eyes with me.

"Angela!" he choked out.

He shoved Maria off him so violently that she tumbled sideways onto the mattress with a shriek. Jackson scrambled across the sheets, dragging the heavy comforter up to his waist, his chest heaving, glistening with sweat.

"Angela, stop! Don't make a scene!" Jackson yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "She woke up having a massive panic attack! She was hyperventilating, she was shaking—I couldn't trigger her! I couldn't push her away!"

I stood in the doorway. My hands hung limp at my sides.

My gaze shifted from his flushed, guilty face to the nightstand beside the headboard. Resting right next to the lamp was our framed engagement portrait—me laughing in a white sundress while Jackson kissed my temple.

A sound tore from my throat.

It wasn't a sob. It wasn't a scream.

It was a sharp, ringing burst of laughter.

"Angela, don't," Jackson pleaded, crawling to the edge of the mattress. "Listen to me—"

"So treating amnesia," I said, wiping a tear of pure hysteria from my cheek, "also includes fucking your ex-girlfriend?"

Before Jackson could form another lie, Maria whimpered. She clutched the sheets to her bare breasts, burying her tearful face into the crook of Jackson’s neck.

Her voice trembled with sweet, wounded confusion as she pointed a shaking finger at the framed portrait.

"Jackson..." Maria sobbed, looking straight into his eyes. "Who is that woman? And why does she have our wedding photo?"