His Perfect Prescription, My Royal Betrayal

For three years, I was his "little bird," an amnesiac he rescued and cherished. He was Dawson Nash, a handsome tech billionaire, my savior, my anchor, my entire world.

Then I overheard him talking to his therapist. "10,000 encounters, Dawson. You chose well. She's clean, naive, and pliable. A perfect prescription."

I was just a tool, a "cure" to keep him pure for his true obsession: Arleen, his mother's best friend.

Every gentle touch, every patient lesson, every whispered "I love you"-all a calculated lie. He called me disposable, a placeholder until he could have his goddess.

He humiliated me, abandoned me in a storm, and left me for dead after a car accident. When I saved Arleen from drowning, he accused me of trying to kill her and had me locked in a chapel to "reflect."

But as the super blue blood moon rose, I saw my chance. Not for revenge, but for escape.

I threw myself into the ancient well on his family's estate, not to die, but to go home.

Because I wasn't just a naive girl with amnesia. I was a princess from a lost kingdom, and the well was my gateway back.

Chapter 1

My entire world shattered into a million pieces the moment I heard Dawson's therapist's clinical voice, "10,000 encounters, Dawson. You chose well. She's clean, naive, and pliable. A perfect prescription."

The world I had known for three years, the one Dawson had built for me with his charming smiles and gentle touches, crumbled around me. I had woken up in this bustling, overwhelming city of Los Angeles three years ago, my mind a blank slate. The last thing I remembered was the suffocating smoke of a barn fire, then nothing. Suddenly, I was here, in a hospital bed, surrounded by flashing screens and unfamiliar noises. Panic had clawed at my throat.

Then he appeared, a beacon of calm in my storm. Dawson Nash, handsome, charismatic, a tech billionaire. He found me, lost and confused, a stranger with no name, no past, and no memory. He told me he'd found me near a construction site, disoriented and muttering. He brought me back to his sprawling, hyper-modern mansion, a place so alien it might as well have been another planet.

"It's okay, little bird," he'd said, his voice a low, soothing melody that had instantly calmed my frayed nerves. "You're safe now."

He was my savior, my anchor in a world that spun too fast. He patiently taught me how to use a smartphone, a magical device that held endless information and connections to a world I couldn' t fathom. He introduced me to social media, a place where people shared snippets of their lives for strangers to consume. Everything was a marvel and a puzzle. I must have seemed utterly ridiculous to him, constantly asking "why" and "how."

I remember trying to swipe a physical photo off a table, thinking it was a faulty screen. Dawson had laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made my chest warm. He didn't mock me; he indulged my "quirks," as he called them. He'd explain everything with a patient smile, his eyes sparkling with what I thought was affection. He' d even buy me clothes that wrapped around my body too tightly, saying they were "fashionable," and when I' d awkwardly trip on unfamiliar heels, he' d catch me, his arms a safe haven.

Our intimacy had bloomed slowly, naturally, or so I believed. He' d hold me close at night, whispering sweet nothings into my hair. "You're mine, Dora," he'd murmur, his lips brushing my skin, making shivers run down my spine. "My innocent, beautiful Dora." Those words, that feeling of being completely possessed by him, had been my entire world. I lived for his touch, his gaze, his approval. I loved him with a fierce, desperate intensity that only a person with no past and no future could conjure. He was my everything for three long years.

Then the fragments started. Not clear memories, but flashes. A tall, sturdy barn. The smell of hay and fresh earth. A deep, clear well, its water shimmering under the moon. And then, the super blue blood moon, appearing in the Los Angeles sky just a few nights ago. Looking up at it, a strange sense of longing, a pull towards something ancient and forgotten, had stirred within me. I remembered whispers of a community, reclusive and hidden, that opened its gates only during this rare astronomical event. It was a chance, a thread, a possibility of finding my true past.

The thought of leaving Dawson, even for a moment, had twisted my stomach into knots. But the pull was undeniable. I had dreamt of showing him this part of my past, of eventually returning with him to wherever I truly belonged. I imagined him, my brilliant Dawson, fascinated by my old world, helping me bridge the two.

That evening, I decided to tell him about the fragments, about the moon, about the community. He often spent his evenings at a private club, a place I rarely visited, feeling out of place among the glittering elite. But tonight, I needed to see him, to share this burgeoning hope. I took an Uber to the club, my heart thrumming with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

I found his private study on the second floor, the door slightly ajar. I heard voices. Dawson's, deep and resonant, and another, sharper, more professional. I paused, my hand on the doorknob, about to push it open. Then I heard her name.

"Arleen," Dawson's voice, softer than I had ever heard it, almost reverent. "She's my white whale, Chad. My goddess."

My breath hitched. Arleen Coffey. Dawson's mother's best friend. A sophisticated, elegant woman, ten years his senior, always kind to me, always smiling. My mind reeled.

Then Chad Gallagher, Dawson's friend, spoke, his voice laced with a knowing chuckle. "So, the 10,000 'cure' is working, then? Dora's doing her job?"

My blood ran cold. Cure? Job?

"She's... effective." Dawson's tone was dismissive, almost bored. "Clean, uncomplicated. Doesn't ask questions. Exactly what Dr. Albright prescribed to keep me pure for Arleen."

The world tilted. My vision blurred, the vibrant colors of the corridor fading to a sickly gray. Chad's voice, now clearer, echoed my worst fears. "You always said you needed someone... disposable. Someone who wouldn't taint your reputation if things got messy. A simple, naive girl with amnesia, who better?"

Disposable. Naive. A simple girl. It was like a thousand daggers piercing my heart, each one twisting deeper. Every gentle touch, every whispered endearment, every patient lesson, every shared laugh-they were all lies. A calculated performance. I was a prescription, a tool to be used and discarded.

The realization hit me with the force of a tidal wave. I wasn't loved; I was a convenience. A therapy session in human form. The sweet memories, the intense passion, the feeling of being cherished-they were all artificial, manufactured for his twisted purpose. My mind replayed his words, "My innocent, beautiful Dora." But he hadn't meant it as a compliment; he had meant I was easily controlled, easily manipulated, a blank canvas for his sick game.

A silent scream tore through my chest, but no sound escaped my lips. I couldn't breathe. My legs felt like jelly. I turned, blindly stumbling away from the horror, my heart a raw, bleeding wound. I had to leave. I had to get away from the suffocating lie that was my life, the beautiful monster who had pretended to love me.

Back in the mansion, the opulent rooms felt suffocating. I went straight to the large, luxurious bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes wide and hollow. I stripped off the silk dress Dawson had bought me, pushing it away as if it were contaminated. I turned on the shower, letting the scalding water beat down on my skin, trying to wash away every trace of him, every memory of his touch, every false word he'd ever whispered. But the dirt wasn't on my skin; it was seared into my soul.

The super blue blood moon hung large and luminous outside the window. It was my only way out. I wouldn't tell Dawson. He didn't deserve to know. He didn't deserve any part of my real life, not after he had so callously orchestrated this false one.

I would leave him, just as he had always intended to leave me. But I would leave on my own terms. And I would never, ever look back.