Chapter 3: Stolen Identity

Zara’s POV

I didn’t know if I was dead or just dreaming, but I saw a memory of Cassian and I. Three months ago at my apartment with a movie playing on the screen. A love scene flickered.

“She’ll still cheat on him,” Cassian muttered.

I turned to him. “Wait… have you seen this movie before?”

“No,” he scoffed. “But that’s what women do. Good thing I don’t have a girlfriend.”

The air shifted. I sat up, my heart tightening. “Then why are you here? What is this… what are we doing?”

He blinked. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “You know I’ve said we should just get married, but you keep saying no.”

I folded my arms. “Because I have goals, Cassian. I’m building something. I want emotional and financial stability before I even think about marriage or kids.”

He leaned closer. “But I’m stable. I can take care of us.”

I rolled my eyes. “God forbid a woman wants her own stability.”

“I get it,” he said softly. “That’s why I want to invest in your restaurant, maybe once it's doing better, you’ll feel ready.”

That calmed me a little. I exhaled. “Well… I appreciate that.”

He smiled and opened his arms. “Come here.”

I hesitated. Then gave in, resting my head on his chest, his fingers threaded through my hair.

“I love you, Zara,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer. I never did. I just laid there, trying to ignore the heaviness that wouldn’t leave my chest. There had never been a confession, no ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’ No clarity, just collision.

We bumped into each other at my restaurant, exchanged a few words and something sparked. After that, it was phone calls till morning, dates, making love like newlyweds.

We blurred the lines, and somewhere in-between, I assumed it meant something. When I thought he’d finally define it, he didn’t. Just dropped a marriage comment like spare change. No ring or proposal, just vague permanence wrapped in charm.

The darkness pulled me under again. Somewhere in that abyss, a sound pierced through. A steady beep, mechanical like a heartbeat.

I tried to move, I felt my finger twitch. Then my eyes fluttered open. A shadow moved above me, but I couldn’t make out the face. It leaned closer, then vanished before my vision cleared.

The ceiling came into view, unfamiliar and high, adorned with ornate moldings. This wasn’t a hospital. I turned my head slowly, every muscle aching like I hadn’t used it in years. I was lying on a massive bed, draped in soft, expensive sheets. The room was sprawling, too pristine and luxurious for any house I've seen.

‘So… this is heaven?’ I thought.

Then the door burst open. A woman entered briskly, followed by a man in a white coat and a nurse in pale blue scrubs.

“Oh dear, you’re finally awake,” the man said cheerfully. “I had just finished administering an injection.”

Injection? This is not heaven, and definitely not a hospital. Where the hell was I?

“Can you see me clearly?” the man asked, his smile tight.

I blinked at him, my throat raw. “Who… who are you?”

My voice sounded off, lighter and softer, but I shoved that thought away.

“I’m the family doctor,” he said, his voice syrupy-sweet. “Doctor Henry, remember?”

Remember? I didn’t. Nothing about this was familiar. All I remembered was Cassian shooting me, the name escaped my lips.

“Cassian”

The doctor nodded. “Mr. Cassian will be back soon.”

My heart stuttered. So this was Cassian’s plan. To finish what he started, to make sure I disappeared for good, panic surged like a current through my veins. I bolted upright, yanking out the IV lines with trembling fingers. Blood trickled down my wrist, but I didn’t care.

I stumbled toward the door, but I froze in front of a full-length mirror, it was not me. I staggered closer, gripping the edge of a nearby table to steady myself.

It wasn’t my face staring back. It was Aria Everhart, the heiress. The face in every magazine spread, the golden girl. Big expressive eyes, delicate nose, sharp jawline, and a perfect body.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, just air and disbelief. The nurse and doctor tried to guide me back to the bed, their voices just noise, muffled and distant. Everything around me blurred at the edges.

What is happening? What trick is this?

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe that mirror… maybe it was a painting.

“Can I have a mirror?” I asked, my voice shaky but urgent.

The nurse moved quickly, walking over to the table and picking up a small hand mirror.

“Here, Mrs. Blackwell,” she said kindly.

I froze. Mrs. Blackwell? That name didn’t belong to me, that name belonged to Aria.

I gripped the mirror tighter and brought it to my face, and there it was again. Not my face. Aria Everhart stared back at me, flawless.

“I’m not hallucinating,” I whispered.

“Lucky for you, Mrs. Blackwell,” the doctor said, oblivious to the tremble in my hands. “The accident didn’t affect your face. Just a minor cut on your arm.”

Accident? What accident? Where am I?

“What is this place?” I asked, my breath quickening. “What’s going on?”

Before anyone could answer, the door opened, and a presence so commanding stepped in, tall, bald with beards. I’d seen that face on headlines, financial shows and magazines. Mr. Everhart. Aria’s father, a man built of power and legacy.

And suddenly, the weight of it all collapsed on me like an avalanche. I was inside her. Her body. Her life. And I had no idea how.

“She’s finally awake,” Mr. Everhart said, his voice low. “How is she doing?”

Before the doctor could respond, I beat him to it. My finger pointed toward the towering man.

“Who is this?” I asked.

The room stilled. A collective gasp cut through the silence, the nurse’s eyes widened, the older woman beside me let out a sharp inhale.

The doctor blinked. “Don’t you remember your father?”

I shook my head slowly.

“What is your name?” the doctor asked, a new seriousness in his tone.

I looked down. “I heard you say… Mrs. Blackwell?”

The older woman gasped again. “Oh dear,” she murmured, her voice shaking. “This is bad. This is very bad.”

I glanced at the elderly woman beside me, her features were warm, her skin was deep-toned, her accent faintly Indian. She wasn’t Aria’s mother. A nanny? A domestic staff member, perhaps.

“Yes… do you recognize Nana?” the doctor asked, following my gaze.

I looked at her again, then shook my head. “No.”

More questions followed. Simple things like names, dates, places. I answered each one the same way. No.

I wasn’t lying technically. I really didn’t know, but the moment I realized what was happening, I knew one thing for certain: I had to pretend. Until I understood this situation, I would play the part.

The doctor straightened, removing his stethoscope. “It’s likely temporary amnesia. Shock from the accident,” he said confidently. “Her memories should return soon. I promise.”

Mr. Everhart’s gaze was like a blade. “Fix this,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

Then he turned and walked out without another word, no concern or affection. Why was he angry? His daughter had survived. Shouldn’t that be a relief? But his anger wasn’t my problem. Not yet.

The doctor ran more checks, eyes, reflexes, and pulse. His brows furrowed as he scribbled something on his notepad.

“You seem stable,” he murmured. “Let’s hope this really is temporary. The memories may return with rest.”

My mind was spiraling after being left alone. The woman the doctor called Nana appeared again, carrying a silver tray with food. I didn’t wait for permission. I ate like a woman who hadn’t tasted food in weeks.

“How long have I been unconscious?” I asked, swallowing quickly.

“Since the 12th,” she said gently. “That’s two weeks now.”

My hand froze mid-air. The 12th. That was the same day Cassian shot me. So Aria had her accident that day too?

This wasn't a coincidence, this was something else. A soul swap perhaps. Then the question hit me like ice: Where is Aria now? Is she in my body? Is she dead? Or watching me through a crack in reality?

I didn't know how long I had inside her life, this body, but I was certain of one thing: I didn’t come back by accident. I came back for revenge.

But Cassian wasn’t alone that night. I remembered it clearly. It wasn’t just his hand that threw me into the river, there were four hands, someone else was with him.

But who?