Seven Years Gone: A New Me

The first thing I felt was a dull throb, the smell of antiseptic, and the piercing brightness of a hospital room. A nurse informed me I was Olivia Vance, and my husband, Alexander Vance, wasn't there.

Then she mentioned another "accident" and a woman named Sophia, saying, "You'd think a man like him would have better things to do." My nurse, Emily, told me I had a concussion and a fractured wrist, and that she'd seen me a "dozen times" for pulling "stunts to get his attention."

I looked down at a wedding band on my left hand – a cruel joke. I was told it was 2025. My last memory was 2018. Seven missing years. And an unfamiliar face stared back from the reflection-thin, tired, broken. My phone, filled with pictures of a cold mansion, smiling strangers, and a dangerous-looking Alexander Vance, confirmed I was married to him.

Then I found the contract: an agreement signed in 2020 to be his public wife for five years in exchange for a settlement. The term was up. Scrolling through desperate, one-sided texts to him, I found a chilling message from two days ago: "He will never love you. You're just a substitute. He's with me tonight."

A violent memory hit me: a yacht, Sophia Miller's poisonous voice telling me, "He's tired of you, Olivia. You were just a placeholder." Then her hands on my chest, a sudden shove, and the cold water engulfing me. The bruises, the fractured wrist, the aching ribs – all for a stranger I had apparently loved.

My past was a living nightmare, but now, with a blank slate, I knew one thing: I was not bringing that broken woman back.

The first thing I felt was a dull throb behind my eyes, a steady beat against my skull. The smell of antiseptic burned my nose, sharp and clean. I tried to open my eyes, but the light was too bright, a stabbing white that made me squeeze them shut again.

"She's waking up, Mr. Vance," a woman's voice said, flat and tired. There was a pause. "No, he's not here. Of course he's not. Said he had a meeting."

The voice dripped with something I couldn't place. Annoyance? Pity?

"Yeah, the usual. Another 'accident.' Crying and screaming about some woman named Sophia. Honestly, the drama with this one never ends. You'd think a man like him would have better things to do."

I cracked my eyelids open again, blinking until the room came into focus. It was a hospital room. White walls, a single window, a beeping machine beside the bed. A nurse in blue scrubs was on the phone, her back to me.

"No, I don't know when she'll be discharged," she said, her voice low. "Just tell him his wife is awake. He can deal with it from there."

Wife? Mr. Vance?

The name meant nothing to me.

The nurse hung up and turned, her expression souring when she saw my open eyes.

"So, you're finally with us," she said, her tone as sterile as the room. "Don't try to get up. You have a concussion and a fractured wrist."

"Who... who are you?" I whispered. My throat felt like sandpaper.

She sighed, a long, suffering sound. "I'm Nurse Emily. We've met. A dozen times, in fact. Usually after you've pulled some stunt to get his attention."

"Whose attention?"

"Your husband's. Alexander Vance." She looked at me like I was a particularly difficult puzzle she didn't want to solve. "Are you going to pretend you don't remember him this time? That's a new one."

My head swam. I looked down at my hands. My left hand had a simple, elegant wedding band on it. My right wrist was wrapped in a thick white cast.

"What year is it?" I asked, a cold dread creeping up my spine.

Nurse Emily rolled her eyes. "It's 2025, Mrs. Vance. Now stop the act. The doctor will be in soon."

2025.

No. That wasn't right. The last thing I remembered was graduating from architecture school. I was celebrating with my friends. It was 2018.

"I... I don't understand," I said, my voice shaking. "Seven years..."

She ignored me and checked the IV drip connected to my arm. I pushed myself up with my good arm, my whole body aching. I caught my reflection in the dark screen of the television mounted on the wall.

The woman staring back at me wasn't the 22-year-old I remembered. Her face was thin, her eyes shadowed with a deep, settled sadness. There were fine lines around her mouth that hadn't been there before. She looked tired. She looked broken.

My phone was on the bedside table. My hand trembled as I picked it up. The face ID worked, which was a small miracle. My gallery was filled with photos I didn't recognize. A huge, cold-looking mansion. Parties with smiling strangers. And him. Alexander Vance.

He was in dozens of photos. Tall, dark hair, eyes that were sharp and cold even when he was smiling for the camera. He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous. I didn't know this man. But according to my phone, I had married him.

I went to my email, my heart pounding. I found a folder labeled "Personal." Inside was a single document. A contract.

It was a marriage agreement between Olivia Reynolds and Alexander Vance. Term: five years. In exchange for marrying him and acting as his wife for public appearances, I would receive a generous settlement upon the dissolution of the marriage. The contract was signed in 2020. Five years. The term was up.

Why was I still here?

I scrolled through my texts, a sick feeling growing in my stomach. Desperate messages, all from me to him.

Alex, please come home tonight.

I made your favorite dinner.

Can we just talk? Please?

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Just please don't leave me.

One-sided conversations. He rarely replied. Scrolling back further, I found a message from an unsaved number.

He will never love you. You're just a substitute. He's with me tonight.

The message was from two days ago. Then, a memory hit me, sharp and violent.

A yacht. The smell of salt and champagne. A woman with a sweet smile and cold eyes. Sophia Miller. She was saying something, her voice like poison.

"He's tired of you, Olivia. You were just a placeholder until I was ready to come back."

I remembered the feel of her hands on my chest, a sudden, hard shove. The shock of cold water engulfing me. The dark, silent pressure as I sank.

I looked down at my body, at the cast on my wrist, at the bruises peeking out from under the hospital gown. I felt the deep ache in my ribs.

Was loving this man, this stranger, worth all this pain?

I didn't have an answer. All I knew was that the woman who had lived those seven years was gone. And I had no intention of bringing her back.

The day I was discharged, Nurse Emily practically pushed me out the door.

"Your ride is here, Mrs. Vance," she said, not bothering to hide her relief. "Try to stay out of trouble this time, will you? We're busy enough as it is."

I didn't answer. A black car was waiting for me, the driver silent and impassive. He held the door open, and I slid into the leather seat. The car moved smoothly through the city, and I watched the world go by like a movie I didn't recognize.

We pulled up to a massive gate, which swung open to reveal a long driveway leading to a house that was less a home and more a modern art museum. It was all glass and sharp angles, cold and imposing. My home.

The driver opened my door, and I stepped out, my legs unsteady. The front door opened before I could reach it. A housekeeper in a crisp uniform gave me a brief, uninterested nod.

"Welcome home, madam."

I walked into the vast, marble-floored entryway. It was silent, the air still and heavy. Then I heard footsteps on the grand staircase.

Alexander Vance descended the stairs. He was even more intimidating in person. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his expression unreadable. He stopped a few feet from me, his eyes sweeping over me, taking in my cast and the pale, drawn look on my face.

"So the show is over," he said, his voice a low, cold hum. "What's the new act? Amnesia? That's a bold choice, even for you."

My heart, which had been beating a nervous rhythm, went still. This was the man I had apparently destroyed myself for.

"It's not an act," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I don't remember you. I don't remember the last seven years."

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Of course you don't. How convenient. So you don't remember trying to throw yourself off my yacht? Or you don't remember screaming at Sophia?"

"I remember being pushed," I said quietly.

His face hardened. "Don't you dare try to blame her. I'm warning you, Olivia. Leave Sophia out of your games. You're lucky you didn't die. It would have saved us all a lot of trouble."

The casual cruelty of his words hit me like a physical blow. He didn't care. He truly, genuinely, did not care if I lived or died.

"I want to leave," I said, the words coming out stronger than I expected. "The contract is over. I'll pack my things."

He stared at me, a flicker of something-surprise? annoyance?-in his cold eyes. "You're not going anywhere. Not until I say so. Go to your room. And stay there."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into a room I assumed was his study. The housekeeper was still standing there, her face a blank mask.

I found my way upstairs to what was clearly my bedroom. It was huge and lavish, but it felt like a hotel suite, not a personal space. There were no books, no art, no sign of the person I used to be. Just expensive furniture and a lingering scent of expensive perfume.

I sank onto the bed, the silk comforter cool against my skin. Overwhelmed. The word wasn't big enough. I was lost in a life that wasn't mine, married to a man who hated me. I buried my face in my hands, trying to breathe.

The door opened without a knock. Alexander stood there, loosening his tie. He saw me on the bed, my shoulders shaking, and his lip curled in a sneer.

"What now?" he said, his voice laced with contempt. "Are you trying to seduce me? Is that the next part of the performance? Playing the vulnerable, broken little wife?"

I looked up, my vision blurry with tears I refused to let fall. "Get out."

He walked further into the room, his presence filling the space, suffocating me. "This is my house, Olivia. My room. I'll leave when I want to."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against my uninjured arm. I flinched back like I'd been burned.

"Don't touch me," I spat, my voice raw with a sudden, hot anger. "You don't care that I almost died. You don't care that I'm hurt. All you care about is your precious Sophia."

He dropped his hand, his eyes narrowing. "You're right. I don't care. You brought all of this on yourself."

He watched me for a moment longer, a cold, clinical observation. Then he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. The sound was more final, more damning, than if he had slammed it.

I was alone again, in a gilded cage I had apparently built for myself.