From Her Pawn to Her Nightmare

I had argued with Tiffany Jensen at the construction site over a 15-dollar BBQ plate, and the fight had spiraled out of control.

Clutching my throbbing head, I watched as she stuffed the freshly cashed paycheck into her pocket.

"Are you ever going to let this go? You just want me to pay for your meal, don't you? You're always complaining about headaches and dizziness. I think you're just lazy!"

I wanted to tell her about the flashes of luxury that kept appearing in my mind, images I could not explain. However, the words stuck in my throat as another wave of vertigo hit me.

By the time I steadied myself and caught up to her, she was already climbing into a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan.

Their mocking voices drifted out through the car window.

Someone said, "I thought your little 'real-life experience' would be fun, but this is it? You even argued over a meal."

Another person laughed along. "Tiffany, Mr. Jensen's about to have a heart attack over this. Now that he's finally agreed to let you date Ethan Parker, just dump this loser already. Are you planning to support him for the rest of his life?"

Tiffany replied without hesitation, "He's a nobody who doesn't even know who he is, and he thinks he deserves someone like me?"

It turned out that after I lost my memory, I had become nothing more than a pawn in a wealthy heiress' rebellion game.

I turned to leave, my heart sinking. Just then, an unknown number flashed across my phone screen. I answered without thinking.

"Mr. Shaw, this is Alfred Wright, your family's butler. You've been missing for five years! Your grandfather is dying, and he wants to see you one last time."

I glanced back at the car disappearing into the distance and said, "Alfred, come pick me up."

When I got back to the rental apartment, night had already fallen. The air was thick with dampness and mold, mixed with the greasy scent of cheap takeout. On the table sat a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, still steaming.

Tiffany Jensen was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone. She did not even look up when I walked in.

A few hours ago, I would have been over the moon and thought that, despite her harsh words, she still cared about me deep down. Now, I walked past the table without a glance, heading straight for the beat-up wardrobe in the corner to pack my few faded T-shirts.

Tiffany grumbled, "Who are you putting on this show for? You're so dramatic. I said a few things to you, and you're still sulking? What kind of man holds a grudge over something so small? I still remember when I found you. You could barely speak when you first woke up. Now you only have a few headaches, yet you act like it's the end of the world."

Her muttering sounded exactly like that condescending tone she had used in the car that afternoon.

I stopped what I was doing and slowly turned around, looking at her with cold eyes for the first time. She instinctively put down her phone and sat up straight.

"What's your problem now? If you've got something to say, say it. If not, go take a shower. You reek."

I remained calm, asking, "Where did you put my watch? The old one I was wearing when I woke up."

That watch was the only thing I had been wearing when I came to. It was my only personal possession after losing my memory. Its face was worn, the band shiny with age, but the back had a faded, elegant letter "S" engraved on it.

I had always felt it could help me recover my past, and I treasured that watch more than my own life.

I remembered once at the construction site, I had fallen off the scaffolding. When I came to, my first words were, "Where's my watch? Is it still there?"

Tiffany replied through teary eyes, "Don't worry. As long as I'm here, it won't be lost."

That promise still echoed in my ears, but now, Tiffany said impatiently, "How should I know where you lost it? It's just a beat-up old watch. Why are you making such a big deal out of it? If it's gone, it's gone. I'll buy you a new one tomorrow."

I did not argue with her, just quietly pulled out my phone. The screen was small and the signal weak, but I managed to load Ethan Parker's latest social media post.

In the photo, a hand wearing a Patek Philippe was holding my old watch between two fingers with obvious disgust.

The caption read: [An antique gift from a friend. She ripped it off that little lapdog she's been keeping. What taste, am I right?]

The comments below were full of malicious glee.

[I heard Tiffany's little boyfriend is some amnesiac idiot. Is she bored with him already?]

[That watch looks cursed. Ethan, you should just toss it before it contaminates you.]

So, this was her idea of protecting it, by treating it like garbage and handing it over to be someone's punchline.

I shut my phone off as my stomach churned violently. I could not hold it back anymore and rushed into the bathroom, retching. Along with it, I threw up all the bitterness and humiliation of the past five years.

Tiffany rushed in after me and said, "William Shaw, what is wrong with you? Why are you still throwing up? We are going to the hospital right now!"

She tried to pull me up.

"Don't touch me. You disgust me," I hissed, each word deliberate.