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.

Dora POV:

The scalding water eventually turned cold, mirroring the emptiness in my chest. I toweled myself dry, my movements stiff and robotic. My reflection stared back, a stranger with haunted eyes. This body, this face, had been his to mold, his to use. The thought made my skin crawl. Exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness, pulled at me. I collapsed onto the cold sheets of the bed, the bed we had shared for three years, and fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

A heavy weight shifted the mattress. A familiar scent, a mix of expensive cologne and alcohol, filled my nostrils. Dawson. He was back. I tensed, my eyes clamped shut, feigning sleep. His hand, warm and possessive, slid onto my waist, pulling me closer. His lips grazed my neck, sending not shivers of pleasure, but revulsion through me.

"Mm, little bird," he mumbled, his voice thick with drink. "Didn't think you'd be asleep yet."

He tried to turn me, to deepen the embrace. I resisted subtly, instinctively. My body, which had once craved his touch, now recoiled.

"What's wrong, Dora?" His voice held a hint of annoyance, a slight edge I hadn't heard before, or perhaps had chosen to ignore. "Don't tell me you're playing hard to get tonight."

I forced out a weak cough. "I... I don't feel well, Dawson. My head aches." It wasn't a complete lie. My head was pounding with a pain far deeper than any physical ailment.

He sighed, a frustrated puff of air against my ear. "A headache? Again? You've been... distant lately, haven't you?" He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his shadow falling over me. "Are you getting tired of me, little bird?" There was a possessive growl in his voice, but also a strange undercurrent of vulnerability that almost, almost, made me falter.

But then I remembered Arleen, the "prescription," the 10,000 encounters. The vulnerability was another trick, another facet of his manipulation.

"No, Dawson," I whispered, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Never. Just, truly, not feeling well."

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Oh, Dora. Always the delicate one. You know I love it when you play coy." He leaned in, his heavy body pressing against mine. "But not tonight. Tonight I need you."

A wave of nausea washed over me. "Dawson, please," I pleaded, my voice barely audible. "I can't."

He pulled back abruptly, a surprised look on his face. "Can't? What do you mean you can't? You've never said 'can't' before." His eyes narrowed. "Are you actually refusing me?"

My heart pounded. The naive, dependent Dora would have crumbled, apologetically given in. But that Dora was gone, shattered into dust. "I... I just need to rest, Dawson. Really."

He stared at me for a long moment, his gaze piercing. I could feel his anger brewing, simmering beneath the surface of his practiced charm.

"You know, Arleen never gives me this trouble," he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for me to hear. The name, like a poison, seeped into my veins.

My breath hitched. "Arleen?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft. "Is that what this is about, Dawson? Is this part of your 'cure' for Arleen?"

His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock on his face. He quickly composed himself, a cold mask replacing the surprise. "What are you talking about, Dora? Are you hallucinating? You know I love you."

"Love?" I almost laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "You love the 'clean, naive, pliable' prescription, Dawson. You love the easy target. You love the woman who won't 'taint your reputation.' Don't you?" My voice rose, cracking at the edges. "Don't you dare pretend you love me! I heard you, Dawson! I heard everything!"

His face hardened, all pretense of affection gone. But then, a strange, almost manic denial flickered in his eyes. "You heard wrong, Dora. You're confused. You have amnesia, remember? You don't know anything. I found you, I saved you, I gave you a life. How could you ever think I don't love you after all I've done for you?" He gestured around the luxurious bedroom. "Look at this! Everything is yours! Everything I've given you!"

"I am not a possession, Dawson." My voice was a shaky whisper. "I am not a tool for your therapy. And I am not part of your sick game to be 'pure' for Arleen!"

He flinched at Arleen's name again, but quickly regained his composure. He reached out, trying to cup my face. "Sweetheart, you're overreacting. You're upset. We can talk about this in the morning. I promise everything will be clear then." His words were smooth, practiced, designed to placate.

Just then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up, displaying a name that made my stomach clench: "Arleen."

Dawson' s eyes darted to the phone, then back to me, an almost imperceptible hesitation. But it was there. The hierarchy was clear. He snatched the phone, his practiced smile instantly returning, a forced cheerfulness in his voice. "Arleen? Darling, is everything alright?"

His tone shifted, becoming laced with a tenderness, an urgent concern that he had never, not once, shown to me. He sat up fully, his back to me, completely engrossed in the call. "What? No, no, don't worry, I'm coming right away. Stay calm. I'm on my way."

He swung his legs out of bed, grabbing his clothes. He didn't spare me a glance, didn't offer a word of comfort, not even a fleeting apology for leaving. Arleen's distress, whatever it was, completely eclipsed my pain, my tears, my shattered world. He rushed out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone in the vast, silent darkness.

I curled into a ball, clutching the sheets, feeling utterly exposed and hollow. The bed, once a sanctuary, was now a cold, empty tomb. The super blue blood moon, a silent witness, cast its silvery light through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The faint, ancient whisper of my past called to me, louder now, a desperate plea for escape. He might have been my entire world, but he had betrayed that world. There was nothing left here for me. Nothing but the gnawing ache of a broken heart and the cold, hard certainty that I had to leave.

And I would. Soon.

The next morning, Dawson returned, acting as if nothing had happened. He breezed into the bedroom, a cheerful whistle on his lips. "Morning, sleepyhead," he said, pulling back the curtains, letting the harsh sunlight flood the room. "Arleen had a little mishap last night, clumsy as ever. Needed me to play knight in shining armor." He winked, as if this were a charming anecdote, not another stake through my heart. "But all's well that ends well. She's fine now, just a sprained ankle."

I stared at him, my face devoid of emotion. He didn't notice, or pretended not to.

"Listen," he continued, oblivious to the chasm between us. "Arleen wants to meet you. Said she's worried about you, after my mother mentioned your little 'funk' in the last few days." He smiled, a perfectly sculpted, empty gesture. "You know how she is, always so caring. She insisted we have lunch today. My treat, of course."

My stomach churned. Meet Arleen? The woman he was "pure" for, the woman who was the reason for my three-year-long emotional torture? "I... I don't think I can, Dawson," I said, my voice flat. "I'm still not feeling well."

His smile faltered. "Dora, don't be difficult. Arleen is looking forward to it. It's just lunch. Besides, you know how important it is for you to make a good impression on her. She's family, in a way." His tone hardened subtly. "You wouldn't want to displease her, would you? Or me?"

He was no longer asking; he was commanding. The dependent Dora might have obeyed, but this broken, newly awakened Dora felt a surge of defiance. "I said I can't," I repeated, firmer this time.

His eyes flashed with annoyance. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Enough of this nonsense, Dora. You're coming. You owe me this much." He pulled me out of bed, his eyes blazing. "Get dressed. Now."

I stumbled, my body a puppet on his strings. There was no escaping him. Not yet. I would play along, for now. But my mind was already miles away, planning my escape.

An hour later, I was seated opposite Arleen Coffey in a chic, sunlit restaurant. She was impeccable in a cream-colored silk suit, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. She exuded an aura of refined elegance that made me feel even more acutely aware of my own awkwardness, my own raw edges.

"Dora, darling," Arleen purred, her smile warm, yet her eyes held an unsettling glint I hadn't noticed before. "Dawson told me you've been feeling under the weather. You poor thing. But you look absolutely radiant today, despite it all."

Her compliment felt like a thinly veiled insult. I glanced at Dawson beside me. He was beaming at Arleen, a look of utter adoration on his face, a look I had once believed was meant for me. It was a stark, brutal contrast to the cold, distant gaze he'd given me earlier. The realization solidified in my gut: I was not radiant to him. I was merely a prop, a temporary fixture in his life, and he was making sure I knew it.

Dora POV:

The lunch was a torture. Dawson, my supposed lover, barely acknowledged my presence. His entire attention was fixated on Arleen. He refilled her water glass before it was half empty, cut her steak into bite-sized pieces, and leaned in attentively every time she spoke, his gaze never leaving her face. He hung on her every word. It was a devotion so absolute, so profound, it made my stomach churn with a bitter mixture of jealousy and utter devastation.

"Dawson, darling," Arleen chirped, reaching across the table to gently pat his hand. Her touch lingered, overtly affectionate. "You're spoiling me."

Darling. The word, intimate and possessive, sliced through me. I remembered how I once tried to call him "my darling" in a moment of tender vulnerability. He had gently, almost imperceptibly, pulled away, his expression unreadable. "Just Dawson, little bird," he'd said, a faint frown creasing his brow. "It suits me better." The memory of that small rejection now felt like a gaping wound.

Arleen then launched into a nostalgic retelling of Dawson's childhood, a stream of anecdotes about his mischievous pranks and adorable antics as a boy. "Oh, Dawson, remember that time you tried to bake Mom a cake and put salt instead of sugar? You were such a little terror!" She laughed, a tinkling sound that filled the elegant restaurant.

Dawson chuckled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He listened, utterly captivated, a soft, fond smile on his face, as if reliving the cherished memories. That was the smile I had always craved, the genuine warmth that had been so conspicuously absent when he looked at me. He was completely at ease with her, completely himself.

My heart ached, a sharp, physical pain. He had never spoken of his childhood with me. Never. Every inquiry I had made, gentle and tentative, had been met with a vague shrug or a quick change of subject. He wanted no past with me, because in his mind, I had no future with him.

Suddenly, Arleen gasped, her hand flying to her finger. "Oh, clumsy me!" she exclaimed, a tiny drop of red blooming on her perfectly manicured nail. She had nicked herself on the edge of her fork.

Before anyone could react, Dawson was on his feet, rushing to her side. He took her hand, examined the minuscule cut, his face contorted with genuine alarm. Then, with a tenderness that stole my breath, he brought her finger to his lips, gently kissing the tiny wound. "Does it hurt, my love?" he murmured, his voice laced with such profound concern, such raw devotion, that it physically hurt to witness.

My mind reeled. He had never once shown me such unrestrained affection, such unguarded panic. Not even when I had accidentally cut myself badly in the kitchen, slicing my finger to the bone. He had merely handed me a bandage and told me to be more careful.

Then, to my horror, I saw it. A subtle but undeniable tightening in Dawson' s trousers. His body was reacting to Arleen, not just with concern, but with raw, primal desire. The blood drained from my face. I was just a prescription. Arleen, his 'goddess,' was the real thing. The truth, in that moment, was a humiliation so profound it threatened to consume me. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, trying to keep my composure, to stop the tremor in my hands.

After Dawson had adequately fussed over Arleen's tiny cut, he presented her with a small, velvet box. "Happy early birthday, darling," he said, his eyes shining with adoration. Inside lay a diamond necklace, glittering under the restaurant lights. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and undeniably expensive.

Arleen gasped with delight, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, Dawson, you shouldn't have! It's exquisite!" She leaned in and kissed his cheek, a lingering, intimate gesture. "You always know just what I like."

Dawson watched her, his gaze unwavering, full of a love so potent it was almost tangible. It was a gaze I had always yearned for, but had never received.

As Arleen fastened the necklace around her slender neck, her eyes caught on my wrist. "Oh, Dora," she said, her voice dripping with careful kindness. "What a beautiful locket you have. Is that an antique?"

My hand instinctively went to the silver locket on my wrist. It was an heirloom, passed down through generations of women in my family. The only tangible link to my past, the only thing I had woken up with in this modern world. It was simple, unadorned, but infinitely precious to me. "Yes," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. "It belonged to my mother."

Dawson, who had been basking in Arleen's glow, turned to me, his expression suddenly stern. "It's quite lovely, isn't it?" he said to Arleen, ignoring my explanation. "Dora, why don't you let Arleen try it on? I'm sure it would look even more stunning on her."

My heart plummeted into my stomach. Give my mother's locket to Arleen? The symbol of my lost family, the only piece of my true identity? "I... I can't, Dawson," I stammered, my voice barely audible. "It's very old, and very special to me. It's... a family heirloom."

Dawson's jaw tightened. His eyes, usually so charming, turned cold and flinty. "Don't be silly, Dora. It's just a trinket. Arleen admires it. It would be rude to refuse." He reached for my wrist, his fingers closing around the locket. "Come on, be a good girl."

I pulled my hand away, my heart pounding. "No, Dawson. Please. It's truly important to me." My voice was firm, a sliver of defiance cutting through my fear.

His face darkened instantly. "Dora," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't make a scene. Arleen wants it. Give it to her."

Arleen, ever the diplomat, placed a gentle hand on Dawson's arm. "Oh, Dawson, don't be cross with her. It's quite alright. I wouldn't dream of taking something so sentimental from Dora. Perhaps she can loan it to me for a short while, just to admire it properly?" Her words were honeyed, but her eyes, when they met mine, held a sharp, triumphant glint. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Dawson, still fuming, nodded curtly. "See, Dora? Arleen is being gracious. Just for a loan." He gave me a look that promised severe repercussions if I continued to resist.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. The locket felt heavy, burning against my skin. The casual dismissal of its value, the blatant demand to hand over my only link to my past, was a fresh wound. I knew then, with chilling clarity, that I meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.

The rest of the meal was a blur. I sat in numb silence, the forced conviviality around me an unbearable mockery. My appetite was gone. My love for Dawson, once a roaring fire, had dwindled to a few dying embers, now extinguished completely.

As we were leaving the restaurant, a sudden, torrential downpour erupted. Fat raindrops hammered against the pavement, quickly turning the street into a chaotic mess. Dawson rushed to open the door for Arleen, shielding her with his expensive umbrella. "Careful, darling," he murmured, his voice full of concern.

He then turned back to me, his face still etched with residual anger from the locket incident. "Get in the car, Dora," he ordered, his voice sharp.

I moved to open the back door, but he slammed it shut an inch from my fingers. "Don't you ever defy me again," he hissed, his eyes blazing with fury. With a terrifying click, he locked the doors from the inside.

"Dawson, wait!" Arleen called out, her voice laced with what sounded like genuine concern. "What are you doing? She'll get soaked!"

Dawson turned back to her, a chilling smile on his face. "She needs a lesson in obedience, Arleen. Sometimes, a little discomfort teaches a great deal." He then climbed into the driver's seat.

Arleen watched me with a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, a mixture of pity and smug satisfaction. She gave a small, helpless shrug, then turned away.

Dawson started the engine, a roar that drowned out the pounding rain. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes cold and unforgiving. He then sped away, sending a wave of dirty rainwater splashing over me as the car disappeared into the downpour.

I stood there, drenched, shivering, and utterly alone, the icy rain mimicking the tears that streamed down my face. My mind flashed back to a memory, a false promise he had once given me. "I'll never leave you in the cold, little bird," he had whispered, holding me close. "Never."

The lie echoed in the emptiness of the street, a cruel testament to his deception.