The Stand-In Game

At Andrew's order, the bodyguards advanced toward me. He didn't recognize me, and neither did anyone around him.

We had lived almost like a secret marriage for years, and he never once named me in public, so almost no one knew what I looked like. Naturally, the bodyguards took me for the villain.

Fists and boots rained down, each blow driving a white-hot blade of pain through my body. The agony swallowed everything else, and a bloodcurdling scream tore out of me, my voice ringing through the empty warehouse.

Even so, not one person spared me a shred of mercy. Blow after blow, I became nothing but a mangled, blood-smeared heap, until the agony burned itself down to numbness.

I had no idea how long it went on. The bodyguards didn't stop until I was barely breathing.

In that moment, Andrew stared at me like I was his mortal enemy, as if I had committed the unforgivable. He raised his boot and ground its heavy leather sole across my face.

He warned me, his voice as cold as steel. "This is what happens when you hurt Ivy. Don't you ever forget!"

Weak and helpless, I choked out, "Andrew, do you know who I am?"

Even if he couldn't place my face, he should've known my voice. But I was wrong. He hadn't even flinched at my screams a moment ago. He wasn't going to respond to my voice now.

Sure enough, his hard, indifferent reply ground the last of my hope to dust. "Your voice is familiar. Even so, that changes nothing. If you hurt anyone who belongs to me, that makes you my enemy!"

Andrew faced the bodyguards. "Toss her into the sea and let fate decide if she lives or dies."

Two bodyguards dragged me away and hurled me into the sea, leaving the waves to carry me off.

When the water closed over my head, I felt no fear of dying. I felt free. That was when I remembered this life had once been Andrew's gift.

When I was 15, I ran away after a fight with Mom and Dad and wandered the streets alone. I wasn't watching as I stepped off the curb, and a car was coming my way.

Andrew, who had been 16 back then, lunged, shoved me aside, and took the hit himself. The car sent him flying. Terrified, I begged passersby for help, but no one dared lay a hand on him, who was drenched in blood.

So, I hauled him onto my back and staggered to the hospital. He was so heavy, causing me to fall more than once, but I never let him go.

He told me, saying, "You have a good heart. I'll repay you when I grow up. I'll marry you."

Teenage me fell hard for that kind, brave boy, so I said, "I'm going to marry you when I grow up."

By some miracle, Andrew survived the crash. I clung to our promise and made it my reason to breathe.

When I was grown and stood before him again, swallowing my pride to beg for his love, he had already forgotten that vow and dismissed me as a clingy, shameless woman.

I was dying, and Andrew was the reason why. So be it. He sent me to my death with his own hands and cut every debt between us. Whether in heaven or in hell, we would never meet again.

…

Andrew hadn't seen me for a month. Assuming I was still upset about his prosopagnosia, he went to a psychologist.

After hearing him out and learning that the condition dated back to the crash, the psychologist started hypnotherapy.

During the session, the psychologist had him describe the girl's face, guiding him step by step until he relived every detail of the crash.

Andrew figured it would be easy. He was sure the image would be Ivy. But when he looked at the sketch the psychologist drew from his description, he froze.

"How could it be her?"

The psychologist glanced at the sketch and said with quiet certainty, "I drew exactly what you described."

On the page, a slightly chubby girl in a red dress stared back. The fabric was stained, but her big, bright eyes seemed to bring her whole face to life.

Andrew gripped the page so hard it crinkled, disbelief written across his face. "Are you sure you didn't get it wrong?"

Stung by the doubt, the psychologist rose and delivered a firm rebuke. "How dare you question my clinical judgment! If you don't believe me, see someone else."

Watching the psychologist storm out, the light in Andrew's eyes died. The sketch wasn't Ivy. She looked painfully familiar, but he couldn't place where he'd seen her.

Back home, despite himself, he asked the butler, Gary Doyle, if he had ever seen the girl in the drawing.

Gary took one look and was startled. "Mr. Connolly, that's Mrs. Connolly. Don't you recognize her?"