Chapter 4 Fake Amnesia, Real Obsession

# Chapter 4: Fake Amnesia, Real Obsession

For a moment that stretched like taffy, Darren maintained his vacant stare. Then, like a mask being removed, his expression transformed. His eyes sharpened, focusing on me with unnerving intensity. His posture straightened almost imperceptibly. The change was subtle yet absolute—from helpless patient to commanding presence without moving a muscle.

"Pretense," he repeated, his voice low and smooth. "An interesting choice of words from a woman who married me for my money."

My cheeks burned. "At least I was honest about my motivations. You've been lying since the moment we met—though I suppose we actually met years ago, didn't we? When you started stalking me?"

A ghost of a smile played at his lips. "I prefer 'observed from a distance.' Stalking has such negative connotations."

"Because it's a crime!" I hissed, gripping my water glass so tightly I feared it might shatter.

"Is it a crime to admire someone's potential before others recognize it?" He lifted his own glass with steady hands—hands that were supposed to be paralyzed—and took a delicate sip. "I saw what you could become long before you did, Vanessa."

"So you what—decided to collect me? Like one of your companies?"

"I decided to invest in you." His gaze never wavered. "And now we're here."

"Under false pretenses! You made me believe you were—"

"Vegetative?" He shrugged one shoulder elegantly. "A necessary deception. Would you have agreed to this arrangement if I'd approached you directly? 'Hello, I've been following your career for years and would like to marry you'?"

My stomach turned at his casual acknowledgment. "You're insane."

"I'm efficient," he corrected. "Your brother needed treatment that only money—my money—could provide. I needed a wife. The solution was elegant."

"Elegant?" I sputtered. "You manipulated me into marriage, drugged me, wheeled me around while I was unconscious—"

"I've never harmed you," he interrupted, his tone suddenly sharp. "The sleeping medication was administered by the doctor for your insomnia."

"I don't have insomnia!"

"You do according to the medical records my team created," he replied smoothly. "Just as I have a traumatic brain injury according to mine. Documentation makes everything legitimate, Vanessa."

The server entered with our first course, and Darren immediately slumped in his chair, resuming his vacant expression. The transformation was so seamless it would have been impressive if it weren't so disturbing.

When we were alone again, he straightened, continuing as if there had been no interruption. "Your brother's condition is improving, but his treatment is far from complete. The specialists arriving next week are essential to his full recovery."

The threat was implicit: leave, and Jacob suffers.

"Why me?" I asked, the question that had been burning since I discovered his surveillance. "Of all the women in the world, why fixate on a struggling designer with nothing to offer you?"

Something darkened in his eyes. "You have everything to offer me."

"What does that even mean?"

"You'll understand in time." He gestured to my untouched plate. "Eat. The chef prepared this specifically to your tastes."

Of course he knew my tastes. He probably knew everything about me.

"I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself." He continued eating, watching me with that unsettling focus. "We have matters to discuss beyond my supposed deception."

"Like what?"

"Like your plans to leave." He said it so casually, as if commenting on the weather.

My blood ran cold. "I never said—"

"You've researched flights. Contacted old friends about staying with them. Checked your bank balance repeatedly." He dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Really, Vanessa, if you're going to plot an escape, you should use a private browser."

Panic fluttered in my chest. "You're monitoring my computer?"

"I'm monitoring everything." He said it without a hint of shame. "This is my home. My network. My security system."

"And I'm, what? Your prisoner?"

"My wife," he corrected firmly. "There's a difference."

"Not much of one, from where I'm sitting."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. "You signed a contract, Vanessa. One year of marriage in exchange for your brother's treatment and financial security. Three weeks have passed. You have forty-nine weeks remaining."

I pushed back my chair abruptly, standing on shaky legs. "I didn't agree to marry a stalker who fakes medical conditions!"

"The contract doesn't specify my mental or physical state," he replied calmly. "Only the duration and your obligations. Which, I should remind you, you've been neglecting."

"What obligations? Being paraded around as your pity project? The poor designer who married the vegetable billionaire?"

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Sit down."

"No." I folded my arms across my chest. "I want out. Now. Find yourself another wife to obsess over."

"Sit. Down." His voice was quiet but vibrated with such authority that I found myself sinking back into my chair against my better judgment.

"Your obligations," he continued once I was seated, "include representing the Allen family at social functions. Maintaining the appearance of a devoted wife. And most importantly, staying."

I swallowed hard. "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll be forced to reconsider my investment in your brother's health."

The casual cruelty of the statement stole my breath. "You would let Jacob die to keep me here?"

"I would do whatever necessary to enforce our agreement." His expression softened marginally. "But it needn't come to that. You could try, Vanessa. You might find being my wife has advantages beyond the financial."

"Like what? Being watched constantly? Having my every move controlled?"

"Like having a partner who truly knows you. Who values your talent. Who can give you the resources to create without limitations."

I laughed bitterly. "A cage made of gold is still a cage, Darren."

"Then consider it a gilded workshop," he countered. "I've had a design studio built for you in the east wing. Every material, every tool you could possibly need. Complete creative freedom."

"Except the freedom to leave."

"For forty-nine more weeks." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine before I could pull away. "Is that really such a terrible sentence? To live in luxury, pursue your passion without financial constraints, while your brother receives the best medical care in the world?"

Put that way, it sounded almost reasonable. And that terrified me more than his threats.

"I need time to think," I said finally.

"Of course." He nodded as if he'd expected this response. "Take the night to consider your position. But know this—I've invested too much to let you go easily."

The rest of the dinner passed in tense silence. When it concluded, Darren resumed his vegetative act as the staff cleared the table. A nurse appeared to wheel him back to his medical suite, leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I paced my room, considering my options, which seemed to dwindle with each passing hour. Running wasn't viable—not with Jacob's life in the balance. Exposing Darren would be my word against his, and he clearly had resources to fabricate whatever documentation he needed.

By dawn, I had formulated a desperate plan.

If I couldn't escape physically, perhaps I could create emotional distance—become someone Darren wouldn't want. Someone who didn't remember him or the marriage or anything that might feed his obsession.

At breakfast, I put on my best performance.

"I'm sorry," I said to the nurse attending Darren. "But who are you again?"

Her brow furrowed in concern. "I'm Nurse Collins, Mrs. Allen. I've been caring for your husband since before your marriage."

I blinked at her in feigned confusion. "Husband? I'm not married."

The nurse exchanged alarmed glances with the butler. "Mrs. Allen, are you feeling unwell?"

"Why do you keep calling me that?" I pressed a hand to my forehead. "My name is Vanessa Mitchell. I'm a design student. I need to get back to campus for my final presentation."

The charade worked better than I'd anticipated. Within an hour, I was being examined by the family physician, who diagnosed a "stress-induced dissociative episode." Perfect.

"She doesn't remember the marriage at all," I overheard the doctor telling Mr. Peters outside my room. "Could be temporary, could be permanent. Hard to say with these cases."

Peters looked concerned. "Should we inform Mr. Allen?"

"I already have," the doctor replied. "He's requesting to see her immediately."

When Darren was wheeled into my room, I maintained my confused expression, staring at him as if he were a stranger.

"Who is this?" I asked the doctor.

"This is Darren Allen," the doctor explained gently. "Your husband."

I shook my head emphatically. "No, that's impossible. I'm not married. I've never seen this man before in my life."

If I expected Darren to be distressed by my apparent amnesia, I was sorely disappointed. Instead, as soon as the doctor and Peters left us "to reconnect," his expression changed from blank to calculating.

"Amnesia," he said flatly. "How convenient."

I maintained my innocent confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Vanessa." His voice was dangerously soft. "If you think pretending to forget our marriage will release you from your obligations, you're sadly mistaken."

"I want to leave," I said, still in character. "I don't belong here."

"You belong exactly where I put you." He wheeled closer, his eyes hard. "Now drop the act before I become... disappointed."

Something in his tone sent a chill down my spine, but I pressed on. "I'm filing for divorce. Whatever arrangement we had is clearly over if I don't even remember making it."

For a moment, he simply stared at me. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached for a priceless crystal vase on the bedside table and hurled it against the wall. The crash was deafening in the quiet room.

I jumped, my heart racing as he maneuvered his wheelchair until he was directly beside the bed, close enough that I could feel his breath when he spoke.

"Need I remind you what's at stake?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Your brother's treatment? His life? Would you sacrifice him for your freedom?"

"This is insane," I whispered back, dropping the amnesia pretense. "You can't keep me prisoner forever."

"Not forever," he agreed. "Just until you understand that leaving isn't an option."

The door burst open as Peters and security rushed in, responding to the sound of breaking crystal.

"Is everything alright?" Peters asked, eyeing the shattered vase.

Darren instantly resumed his vegetative state, his face going slack.

"I—he—" I stammered, looking between Darren and the broken vase.

"Mrs. Allen appears agitated," Peters smoothly interjected. "Perhaps she needs a sedative."

"No!" I objected forcefully. "No more drugs. I'm fine. The vase... fell."

Peters didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "If you're certain. Mr. Allen should return to his suite for his therapy now."

As they wheeled Darren away, he turned his head slightly—just enough for me to see his expression. A cold smile played on his lips as he mouthed words only I could see:

"Do I need to kneel on the shards to make you remember?"

The threat lingered in the air long after he was gone.

That afternoon, I packed a small bag—just essentials. The amnesia ruse had failed spectacularly, but I couldn't stay another night under the same roof as Darren. Jacob would understand. We would find another way to fund his treatment.

I waited until the house quieted for the evening, then slipped out through a service entrance I'd scouted earlier. The grounds were expansive, but I'd studied the security patterns over the past days. There was a ten-minute window when the garden path to the helipad was unwatched.

Heart pounding, I made my way through manicured hedges and flowering trees, staying in shadows whenever possible. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the salt scent of the nearby ocean.

I reached the helipad without incident and used the access code I'd memorized from watching a pilot enter it earlier that week. The helicopter sat waiting, fueled and ready—Darren's personal transport, used daily to take him to "medical appointments" that I now knew were business meetings.

Just as I approached the aircraft, floodlights blazed to life, illuminating the helipad with blinding intensity. The whoop of security alarms split the night.

I froze, momentarily blinded, clutching my bag to my chest.

When my vision cleared, I saw them—helicopters, at least ten, descending in a circle around the helipad, their rotors whipping my hair into a frenzy.

And there, emerging from the house, was a figure I recognized immediately. Not in a wheelchair, but standing tall, walking steadily toward me with purposeful strides.

Darren.

He moved with the confidence of a predator, no trace of disability in his fluid motion. His suit jacket billowed slightly in the wind from the helicopters, his expression one of cold fury as he approached.

I backed away until I hit the edge of the helipad, nowhere left to retreat.

He stopped a few feet from me, hands casually sliding into his pockets.

"Game over, Darling," he said, his voice carrying despite the helicopter noise. "Did you really think I wouldn't anticipate this?"

I stared at him—at his legs, perfectly functional, supporting his weight with ease. "You can walk," I stated the obvious, shock making my voice small.

"I can do many things." He closed the distance between us in two quick steps. "Things you haven't begun to imagine."

"Let me go," I pleaded. "Please, Darren. This isn't love—it's obsession. It's sick."

"Love, obsession." He shrugged elegantly. "Labels don't interest me. Results do. And the result I want is you, here, fulfilling our contract."

"I'll scream. I'll tell everyone what you've done!"

His laugh was soft, almost gentle. "Who would believe you? The grieving wife, traumatized by her husband's condition, having delusions that he can secretly walk? The security footage shows only a devoted husband in a wheelchair. The medical records confirm my diagnosis."

As if to punctuate his point, a medical team emerged from one of the helicopters, wheeling a gurney.

"Your choice, Vanessa," Darren said, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "Walk back to the house with me now, or be sedated and carried. Either way, you're staying."

I looked around desperately. Security guards positioned at every exit. Helicopters blocking any aerial escape. The ocean too far to reach.

Defeated, I let my bag slip from my fingers to the ground.

"Fine," I whispered. "You win. For now."

Something like satisfaction flickered in his eyes. He gestured toward the house, and I walked ahead of him, acutely aware of his steady footsteps behind me.

Just before we reached the door, he stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"When we enter," he murmured, "I'll be back in the wheelchair. This moment—me standing—never happened. Understand?"

I nodded numbly.

"Good girl." His fingers trailed down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Now smile for the cameras. Mrs. Allen has just been caught sleepwalking again."

As we stepped inside, Peters waited with the wheelchair. Darren sank into it with practiced ease, his expression immediately going vacant, his body slumping into the familiar pose of disability.

The perfect performance resumed, the curtain falling on the brief glimpse of truth I'd been allowed to see.

I was trapped in a marriage to a man who could stand but chose to sit, who could speak but chose silence, who watched me constantly from behind a mask of helplessness.

And I had forty-nine weeks left in his company.