The Man Who Forgot Her

My fiancé, Floyd Meyers, announced he was canceling our engagement.

He was proposing to Jaylah Ryan, an heiress, all because a psychic claimed I was the cause of his misfortune.

Jaylah then falsely accused me of tearing her expensive gown. Floyd ordered his guards to slap me fifty times and forced me to kneel in the snow all night to mend it.

When Jaylah's mother needed an emergency transfusion of my rare blood type, he dragged me to the hospital to be used as a living blood bag, without anesthetic.

He threatened my mother and my dog, forcing me to repair an architectural model for him.

When Jaylah engineered another incident, he threatened to burn my mother's hands unless I confessed to a crime I didn't commit.

My own mother, terrified, screamed at me to sacrifice myself.

With a numb heart, I chose my own hands, enduring the searing agony of hot coals until they were ruined and blackened.

As I lay dying, he appeared only to snarl, "I hope you die and rot in the ground. I never want to see your face again."

The truth shattered me when the psychic confessed Floyd had paid her to lie. He had orchestrated my downfall from the start.

When I confronted him, he forced champagne down my throat and drowned me in the pool.

But I woke up again, back on the day I first met Floyd Meyers.

Chapter 1

It was Elizebeth Rice' s first winter in New York. The snow in the backyard was thick, piling up in soft, white mounds. Elizebeth knelt in it, shivering.

Large snowflakes settled on her hair and brows, a cold, wet blanket. A gust of wind cut through her thin shirt, and she felt nothing but cold. Her body was cold, but her heart was colder.

The back door of the mansion opened. A housekeeper walked out, her face a mask of indifference. She threw a designer dress at Elizebeth' s feet, followed by a sewing needle so fine it was almost invisible against the white snow.

"Mr. Meyers said if you don't mend the dress, he won't let you in."

The housekeeper turned without another word and went back inside, leaving Elizebeth to the biting wind. The heavy door clicked shut.

Her heart ached. Everything that had just happened replayed in her mind. Floyd Meyers had returned home tonight and made two announcements.

First, he was canceling their engagement.

Second, he was proposing to Jaylah Ryan, the heiress of Ryan Holdings.

The reason? A psychic he' d hired told him Elizebeth was the cause of his family' s recent misfortunes. To reverse his bad luck, he had to marry into a powerful family. It was a simple business transaction for him.

She and Floyd had met in college. They fell in love. Five years ago, a car accident put him in a coma. She donated her neural interface to him, a dangerous procedure that left her with an artificial one, a constant, low-grade hum in the back of her mind.

She did it for love. She stayed by his side for years, ready to help the moment his body showed any sign of rejecting the interface. Floyd, driven by guilt, had promised to cherish her forever. He said he wanted her by his side for the rest of his life.

They were supposed to get married next month. Now, because of some psychic' s nonsense, he had thrown her away.

Tonight, Jaylah Ryan had asked Elizebeth to help her change into a different dress for the party. Elizebeth had agreed, her heart heavy. But as they went upstairs, Jaylah suddenly collapsed on the steps.

Jaylah immediately accused Elizebeth of tripping her, of tearing her expensive gown on purpose.

Floyd' s face had turned dark with rage. He didn' t even ask for an explanation. He just ordered his security guards to drag her out of the house.

"Slap her fifty times," he had commanded, his voice like ice. "Then make her mend the dress."

Elizebeth' s heart felt like it had turned to lead. But Floyd had only smiled at Jaylah, his voice full of doting affection.

"Don't worry, I'll buy you another one."

Before Elizebeth could say a single word, the guards grabbed her arms and dragged her into the courtyard.

Fifty slaps. The sound echoed in the quiet winter night. Her tears finally fell, freezing on her cheeks. With each slap, her face burned, a raw, stinging pain.

She collapsed onto the ground when they were done, her mind numb. She remembered him whispering to her once, years ago, that he would never let her suffer again, never let her cry. She had been a fool to believe him for so long.

With a loud thud, the mansion's gate was slammed shut. The last sliver of light from the house vanished. She was surrounded by darkness, the wind and snow her only companions. They seemed to freeze her heart solid.

She picked up the fine needle. Her fingers were stiff with cold. She began to mend the delicate fabric of the dress. Each stitch was a tiny prick of pain. For the fine, detailed embroidery, she had to strain her eyes, holding the dress close to her face to make sure the needle passed through cleanly.

The snow fell harder. The wind grew more relentless. Dressed only in a thin shirt, she knelt on the ground, her body shaking uncontrollably. Her fingers started to bleed from the needle pricks, but the pain just made her feel numb. She focused only on the task, on the dress.

The sharp pain from her fingers was nothing compared to the pain in her heart.

She remembered the first scarf she had ever owned. Floyd had knitted it for her himself. She was always frail, especially sensitive to the cold. He would wait until she fell asleep, then quietly get up, turn on a small lamp, and sit at the foot of their bed, knitting.

He told her, "With me here, your winters will never be cold again."

Elizebeth kept sewing. Blood mixed with the delicate thread. A hot tear fell onto a cut on her hand. It burned, making her flinch.

Whenever she felt like she was about to collapse from the pain and the cold, a housekeeper would come out and drag her back into a kneeling position, forcing her to continue.

The cold wind seeped through her collar, making her teeth chatter. She curled into a tight ball, trying to preserve what little warmth she had left. The night wore on, long and torturous.

Under the swirling snow, she sat and sewed all night.

By the time the first ray of morning sun pierced through the mist, the dress was finished. Elizebeth shakily rose from the ground. Her fingers were a bloody mess, raw and swollen.

She stood at the door, trembling, and knocked. Her heart ached with a desperate, fading hope.

The people inside seemed to be deliberately ignoring her. There was no sound, no movement.

The cold intensified. Her breath frosted in the air. Her vision blurred. Instinctively, she tried to curl up again for warmth, but her legs gave out. She fell to the ground, unconscious.

A sliver of sunlight warmed her face. Elizebeth slowly opened her eyes. For a moment, she felt a fleeting sense of warmth, a brief illusion of hope.

Then she looked up.

Floyd and Jaylah were standing on the second-floor balcony, looking down at her. Floyd held a cup of coffee, his expression unreadable. Jaylah clung to his arm, a smug smile on her face.

He looked at her as if she were a piece of trash on his pristine lawn.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

Elizebeth forced herself to sit up, suppressing the wave of humiliation and pain that washed over her. Her body was stiff and sore, her face still burning from the slaps.

"The dress is mended," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Jaylah pouted, feigning concern. "Oh, Elizebeth, your hands... they' re bleeding all over it. How can I possibly wear this now?"

She took the dress from Elizebeth' s weak grasp. Her eyes scanned the fabric, and a look of disgust crossed her face. "There's blood on the seams. It's ruined."

"Jaylah is a perfectionist," Floyd said, his tone still cold. He didn't even glance at Elizebeth's bleeding hands. "You should have been more careful."

He looked at her with contempt. "You can't even do a simple task right."

He gestured to a housekeeper. "Take her to the guest room. Don't let her wander around."

Then he turned to Jaylah, his voice softening instantly. "Don't mind it, my love. We'll go shopping today. You can have any dress you want."

The contrast was like a knife to Elizebeth's heart. He treated his dog with more affection than he showed her.

As the housekeeper pulled her to her feet, Jaylah spoke again, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Floyd, darling, I feel a bit chilly. Could you get my scarf?"

Jaylah pointed to a soft, cashmere scarf draped over the balcony railing. It was a familiar shade of gray.

Elizebeth froze. She knew that scarf. She had spent a month knitting it for Floyd's birthday two years ago, choosing the finest yarn, her fingers aching as she worked on the intricate pattern. It was a symbol of her love, a piece of her heart.

Floyd glanced at it dismissively. "That old thing? It doesn't suit you, Jaylah. It's cheap."

"But it's so soft," Jaylah cooed, wrapping it around her neck. She looked directly at Elizebeth, her eyes glinting with triumph. "I found it in a box in your closet. You were going to throw it away, weren't you?"

Floyd shrugged. "It's just some old junk. I don't even remember where it came from."

Elizebeth wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him, I made that for you. It took me a month. Don't you remember?

But her voice was stuck in her throat.

"I don't like it," Floyd said, pulling the scarf from Jaylah's neck. "It looks tacky." He turned to the housekeeper. "Throw this out."

The housekeeper took the scarf. Elizebeth watched, her eyes wide with disbelief, as the woman walked to the edge of the balcony and simply dropped it. The gray scarf fluttered down, landing in a dirty pile of melting snow and mud by the curb.

The last piece of her love, discarded like garbage.

The pain in her heart was so intense it felt physical. It was as if his hands were squeezing her lungs, crushing the air out of them.

The housekeeper grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the house. Elizebeth didn't resist. She was an empty shell, all hope extinguished.

Elizebeth watched as a garbage truck drove by later that morning, its mechanical arm scooping up the trash bags from the curb. The gray scarf, her scarf, disappeared into its grimy depths.

She sank to the floor of the small, cold guest room, a silent scream trapped in her chest.

Jaylah appeared at the doorway, leaning against the frame with a triumphant smirk. "Did you see that? He doesn't care about you. He never did. All those little gifts, all those memories... they mean nothing to him."

Floyd then appeared behind Jaylah, his face hard. "It was just a scarf, Elizebeth. Get over it. You're so dramatic."

He didn't understand. He didn't know that the scarf was made from yarn she had bought with her first paycheck from a part-time job in college. He didn't know she had unraveled it three times to get the pattern just right. He didn't know it was meant to keep him warm, just as he had once promised to keep her warm.

Just then, Floyd' s phone rang. His expression changed as he listened.

"What? Are you sure?" He looked at Jaylah, his brow furrowed with concern. "Her mother?"

Jaylah's face crumpled. "What is it, Floyd? What's wrong with my mother?"

"She collapsed," he said, his voice urgent. "She needs an emergency transfusion. They said... she has a very rare blood type." He hung up the phone and looked directly at Elizebeth.

Elizebeth felt a cold dread creep over her. She knew what was coming. She had the same rare blood type. It was one of the first things they had discovered about each other in college.

Floyd grabbed her arm, his grip like iron. "Come on. We're going to the hospital."

For a split second, a foolish, desperate hope sparked within her. Was he taking her because he was worried about her health after the night in the snow?

His next words crushed that hope into dust.

"Jaylah's mother needs you," he said, his voice flat and commanding. "You're going to donate blood."

The world tilted. He wasn't taking her to be treated. He was taking her to be used. She was no longer a person to him, just a resource. A living, breathing blood bag.

At the hospital, the scene was chaotic. Jaylah was crying hysterically, clinging to Floyd.

"Please, Elizebeth," Jaylah sobbed, her tears looking completely fake. "Please save my mother. I'll do anything."

Floyd stood over her, his arms wrapped protectively around Jaylah. He looked at Elizebeth with cold expectation.

"It's just a little blood, Elizebeth. It's the least you can do after what you did to Jaylah's dress. Consider it an apology."

He was bartering with her lifeblood.

The last flicker of light in Elizebeth's eyes died. The man she had loved, the man she had sacrificed a part of herself for, was a stranger. A monster.

Two nurses came forward with a gurney. They looked at her with a mixture of pity and professional detachment.

Elizebeth didn't fight them. She let them lead her to a sterile, white room. She closed her eyes, and a single, silent tear traced a path down her cold cheek.

Floyd Meyers, she thought, her heart a numb, aching void. If I survive this, I hope I never see you again.