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

"Two scrambled eggs, Angela. Light on the butter."

Maria tossed a wrinkled beige linen dress across the granite kitchen island. It slid across the counter, knocking against the ceramic coffee carafe.

"And steam this before noon," she added, inspecting her manicured nails. "Jackson is driving me to the country club terrace for lunch."

I ignored the dress and filled a white mug from the freshly brewed pot.

Maria pulled out a barstool, the metal legs scraping sharply against the porcelain tile. She rested her chin on her palm, smirking.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," I said, setting the carafe back onto the warmer.

"Then move. Since you live in Jackson's house, you should at least do something useful."

I lifted the mug, turned around, and poured the steaming black liquid directly into the sink drain. The dark roast gurgled away in loud, sputtering gulps.

Maria’s smile vanished. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I am not your maid," I said, setting the empty cup into the basin with a crisp tap. "The mistress of this house was supposed to be me."

Maria’s eyes narrowed into slits. Her face darkened, every trace of fragile vulnerability peeling away like cheap paint.

"Supposed to be," she echoed, her voice dropping into a harsh register. "Keep clinging to that word, Angela. See how far it gets you."

I walked past her without answering. I had an interview scheduled at a community conservatory downtown at two o’clock. If the Philharmonic was closed to me, I would teach children the basics. I just needed my own paycheck.

An hour later, I dragged my small weekend duffel to the landing. My violin case hung from my right shoulder, its leather strap cutting into my collarbone.

Soft footfalls hurried behind me on the runner rug.

"Leaving so soon?"

I gripped the banister and kept walking toward the stairs. "Stay out of my way, Maria."

She caught up to me at the very edge of the top step. She leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear.

"Four years ago I made him love me," she whispered, her tone dripping with venom. "I can do it again now."

I turned my head. "He’s all yours. Have fun playing nurse."

"Oh, you don't get to walk away looking like the bigger person."

Her hands slammed violently into my chest.

The impact threw my balance over the edge. My foot missed the top riser entirely.

Gravity ripped the world upside down.

My back crashed onto the third step. The corner of my violin case smashed against the railing. Pain flared white-hot behind my eyes as my forehead struck the sharp wooden edge of the bottom newel post.

I rolled onto the foyer floor, gasping for air. Warm, thick blood surged down my temple, pooling over my eyebrow and stinging my eye.

Above me, a frantic thump rattled the staircase.

Maria dropped herself onto the midway landing, kicking her slippers off, burying her face in her knees.

"Help! Jackson, help me!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs, her screams echoing through the foyer. "Don't push me! Please!"

The heavy oak front door flew open.

Jackson rushed inside, a leather briefcase swinging in his grip. He dropped it instantly at the sound of the wailing.

"Maria!"

He didn't glance at the floor where I lay bleeding. He bounded up the first six stairs, skipping two steps at a time, and scooped Maria into his chest.

"I'm here, I've got you," Jackson breathed, rocking her as she shook against his neck. "What happened? What hurts?"

"She tried to throw me down..." Maria sobbed hysterically, her fingers digging into his shirt. "She said if she couldn't have you, she’d make sure I broke my neck... Jackson, my head is throbbing..."

Jackson turned his head down toward the bottom of the stairs. His eyes burned with pure fury.

"I never thought you'd be vicious enough to attack a sick patient!" he bellowed.

I pressed my trembling fingers against my temple. They came away slick and crimson.

"Look at me, Jackson," I rasped, my throat raw. "She pushed me from the top landing. I fell down twelve steps."

"Stop lying!" Jackson roared, holding Maria tighter as she trembled. "Maria can barely walk straight without getting dizzy! How could she push you? You've been bitter and hostile ever since she got discharged!"

I dragged myself up until my back rested against the base of the banister. The room tilted. Blood dripped steadily from my jawline onto my collar.

I stared at the man I had spent five years serving, nursing, and loving.

"If I died right here today," I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm, "would you still ask if Maria was startled first?"

Jackson froze.

His mouth parted slightly. His gaze flicked from my blood-streaked face to the dark red stain soaking into the floorboards beneath my head.

Silence hung between us.

Heavy. Freezing. Absolute.

He did not answer. He did not say no.

That silence hurt far more than the cracked wood against my skull.

"I understand," I murmured.

I forced myself onto my feet. My knees trembled violently, but I gripped the strap of my violin case and hooked my fingers around the handle of my duffel bag.

"Angela, sit down," Jackson said suddenly, his tone shifting into awkward irritation. "You're bleeding. Let me call a private medic—"

"Don't touch me."

I walked out the front door, leaving a trail of red droplets on the porch.

***

A steady, cold downpour began twenty minutes after I reached the suburban bus terminal.

I pulled out my phone and tapped the banking app to book a cheap motel room near the station.

A red banner flashed across the screen: *Transaction Declined. Account Restricted by Primary Holder.*

My stomach hollowed out.

I dialed customer service.

"Miss Angela?" the representative answered. "Mr. Jackson placed a temporary security freeze on the joint living account forty minutes ago. Any debit cards tied to that line are locked until further review."

"It's my account too," I said, shivering under the plastic bus shelter. "My direct deposits went there for three years."

"I see that, ma'am, but he is listed as the primary signatory. You need his authorization to lift the flag."

The call ended.

I opened my leather wallet. Inside were three crumpled twenty-dollar bills and two singles. Sixty-two dollars. That was all I had to my name after giving up my conservatory career to manage his startup's social calendar and keep his home running.

The wind whipped rain beneath the rusted aluminum awning of the shelter. It soaked my jeans and plastered my dark hair to my neck.

My forehead throbbed with a sickening, rhythmic pulse. The blood had dried into a crusty, brown smear along my cheekbone.

A sudden gust tore across the sidewalk, rattling a collection of discarded papers against the curb.

A stiff, cream-colored flyer drifted across the wet concrete, slapping flat against the leather toe of my boot.

I stared down at it.

The paper was heavy cardstock, expensive and water-resistant. Elegant black calligraphy stood out clearly against the rain:

*Wanted: Live-in Private Music Instructor.*

*Requirements: Conservatory background, absolute discretion, master-level violin technique.*

*Compensation: $15,000 monthly, private suite included.*

At the very bottom of the page, beneath a wax-stamped crest of a perched raven, sat a single, unfamiliar name:

*Wellington.*

My fingers tightened around the soaked edges of the paper.

A private estate. Five times my old teaching rate. A roof over my head tonight.

I reached for my phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the card.

The line connected on the very first ring.

"State your credentials," a deep, chilling voice commanded from the receiver.