Chapter 1 Memory Reset, Arch-Nemesis Becomes "Fiancé"

# Chapter 1: Memory Reset, Arch-Nemesis Becomes "Fiancé"

My head pounded with the force of a thousand jackhammers. The antiseptic smell hit me first, followed by the rhythmic beeping of machines that seemed to match the throbbing in my skull. Hospital. I was in a hospital.

"She's waking up!" A man's voice, deep and relieved.

I forced my eyelids open, immediately regretting it as fluorescent lights stabbed my retinas. When my vision finally adjusted, I found myself staring into a pair of familiar hazel eyes—eyes that had once glared at me across debate stages and student council meetings. Eyes that belonged to the one person I absolutely despised.

"Terry Walker?" My voice came out as a rasp. "What are you doing here?"

The confusion on his face might have been comical if I wasn't so disoriented. He exchanged glances with a doctor standing nearby.

"Jacqueline," Terry said carefully, taking my hand. I immediately tried to pull away, but I was too weak. "What's the last thing you remember?"

I frowned, sifting through the fog in my brain. "Graduation. You stole my valedictorian speech slot with your stupid legacy donation." The memory of that betrayal still stung fresh. "Where's my mom? Why are you here?"

The doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Ms. Alvarez, you were in a car accident three days ago. You suffered a concussion that appears to have affected your memory. What year do you think it is?"

"2009," I answered confidently. "I just graduated from Westlake Prep."

Another exchange of glances between Terry and the doctor. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Jacqueline," Terry said softly, "it's 2023. You're 32, not 18."

I laughed. It had to be a joke—a cruel, elaborate prank orchestrated by my high school nemesis. "Very funny, Walker. Did you bribe the hospital staff too? Like father, like son."

But Terry wasn't laughing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone—a sleek device I didn't recognize—and showed me the date. Then he switched to the photo gallery, turning the screen toward me.

Pictures of us. Together. Smiling. His arm around my waist. Me looking at him with... was that affection? My stomach dropped.

"This isn't real," I whispered.

"We've been together for four years," Terry explained gently. "We're engaged to be married in three months."

The doctor—Dr. Chen, according to her name tag—explained that I had retrograde amnesia, losing approximately fourteen years of memories. The last concrete memory I had was from high school graduation, and everything after that was a blank slate.

"This happens sometimes with head trauma," she explained. "The good news is that in most cases, the memories return gradually over time. Familiar surroundings, routines, and people often help trigger recollection."

I stared at Terry, unable to process the information. Engaged? To HIM? The boy who had tormented me throughout high school with his arrogance and privilege? The same Terry Walker who had sabotaged my science fair project junior year and constantly one-upped me in every class?

"I need to see my mother," I demanded.

Terry's face fell slightly. "Your mother passed away five years ago, Jacqueline. Breast cancer."

The news hit me like another car crash. Mom was gone? I'd lost her, and I couldn't even remember her final years?

I felt the tears coming before I could stop them. Terry reached out, but I jerked away.

"Don't touch me! I don't know you—not this version of you. I can't be engaged to someone I hate."

The hurt in his eyes seemed genuine, but I couldn't trust it. This was Terry Walker, master manipulator, heir to Walker Industries, and my sworn enemy.

Two days later, after countless medical tests confirmed I was physically fine aside from the memory loss, Terry drove me "home"—a stunning penthouse apartment in downtown that apparently belonged to both of us. Everything about it felt foreign: the modern furniture, the abstract art on the walls, the panoramic view of a city skyline I recognized but didn't connect with.

"Your clothes are in the walk-in closet," Terry said, maintaining a careful distance. "I've been sleeping in the guest room since you came home."

I nodded stiffly, still struggling to reconcile this considerate man with the teenage adversary embedded in my memory.

"I have something for you," he added, retrieving a leather-bound book from a drawer. "I thought it might help."

He handed me what appeared to be a journal. Opening it, I found dated entries detailing our relationship—first dates, anniversaries, inside jokes, arguments, and reconciliations.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Our love diary," Terry explained. "We started it about three years ago. We both write in it, marking important moments."

I flipped through the pages, reading random entries:

*"2019.3.14 – You kissed me first today. Finally! After months of me trying to make the first move, you grabbed my tie during dinner and shut me up mid-sentence. Best business dinner interruption ever. – T"*

*"2020.7.20 – You said you love me more than anything today. I'm keeping this entry as evidence for when you claim I'm being too clingy. – T"*

*"2021.5.20 – You said my handwriting looked like a child's, but you still accepted my love letter. Progress! – T"*

The entries were predominantly in Terry's handwriting, with occasional notes in what was supposedly mine—though I couldn't remember writing any of it.

"I thought reading this might trigger some memories," Terry said hopefully.

I closed the book, feeling overwhelmed. "I need some time alone."

Later that night, I examined the penthouse more carefully. Photos of us were everywhere: hiking in what looked like Peru, dressed up at galas, casual Sunday mornings with coffee. In every picture, we looked... happy. Genuinely happy.

My phone was another mystery box. The contacts included friends I recognized from high school, but also dozens of names I didn't know. My email revealed I was now a successful architectural designer at a prestigious firm—a career I had indeed dreamed about during high school.

And then there were the texts with Terry. Years of conversations, inside jokes, heart emojis, and intimate exchanges that made me blush. It was surreal reading messages I had apparently written to someone I only remembered despising.

I found myself staring at a photo on the nightstand: Terry and me at what appeared to be an engagement party, his arm around my waist, my left hand prominently displaying a stunning emerald ring—the same ring currently on my finger.

"This can't be real," I whispered to myself, though the evidence was becoming harder to deny.

That night, I dreamed of high school Terry—smirking when he scored higher on tests, organizing parties I wasn't invited to, dating the girls who bullied me. I woke up sweating, confused by the contrast between my memories and my apparent reality.

The next morning, Terry was making breakfast when I entered the kitchen.

"How did we get from hating each other to... this?" I asked, gesturing vaguely around the apartment.

Terry poured me a cup of coffee—prepared exactly how I liked it, with oat milk and a touch of cinnamon.

"It's a long story," he said with a sad smile. "But the short version is: we ran into each other at a charity gala in 2019. You were the guest architect, I was representing Walker Industries. You walked right up to me and said—"

"'Terry Walker, it's not too late to get to know me, right?'" I finished, the words coming from nowhere.

Terry's eyes widened. "Yes! That's exactly what you said. Do you remember that?"

I shook my head, disappointed. "No. It just... felt right. Like déjà vu."

Hope flickered across his face. "The doctor said that would happen. Little moments might come back before the full memories do."

I nodded, taking the love diary again and reading more entries. Some details weren't adding up—places we'd supposedly visited that I'd never wanted to go, preferences I supposedly had that contradicted what I remembered about myself.

Terry watched me anxiously, like a man waiting for a verdict.

"I'm trying," I told him, not entirely sure if I was.

After all, the last clear memory I had of Terry Walker was him smirking as he took the graduation podium that should have been mine. How had that boy become the man who apparently held my heart?