The Man Who Stole My Name

Sophie's POV

“No… no… please”

I woke up suddenly, gasping for air like I had run a marathon. My night gown had immediately become drenched in sweat, even with the air conditioner sounding loudly above my head. My hands were trembling, and my throat was dry. Raw.

I recoiled and looked over the side of the bed, half hoping the seawater might have lapped up to my ankles, but when I looked down, there was nothing - just silk sheets and a cold floor.

This nightmare again? The same nightmare I have been having for three months now. A faceless woman struggling in the sea with her arms flailing and lungs crying out in need of air.

The worst part? I feel her pain as if it were mine.

I crept out of bed, putting my arms around me, and made my way down the dark hall of the mansion. The silence is not pleasant.

I knew exactly where to find him. He was never in our bed. Not since the day we said “I do” three months ago.

Our marriage was like a well-acted movie, perfect on the outside, empty on the inside. 

Cipher D’Amato, billionaire, tech mogul, and coldest man alive. To the world, we were the perfect couple. In reality, I was just his shadow.

I pushed the door into his study softly, and there he was as usual, his head over the desk surrounded by documents and folders, while his glowing tablet was still warm to his hand. His curly, dark hair covered his forehead. Even in his sleep, his jaw was still strained as if something was making him angry in his dream. 

He looked so human like this. He looked broken and tired.

I entered, even though I knew I shouldn't. He had told me never to come into this room.

“Cipher…” I said softly, brushing my fingers against his shoulder.

He shifted but didn’t wake.

I tried again, firmer this time. 

“Come to bed. You’ll hurt your neck like this.”

His eyes snapped open, and believe me when I tell you they were as cold as ice, sharp and empty.

If looks could kill, I would be six feet underground by now.

"How many times have I warned you to never step a foot in my personal space?” he said in a low, deadly voice.

“You weren’t in bed and—”

“And have I ever shared a bed with you?” he finishes for me, his tone is pure venom. “Why the hell would I want to start now?”

I stood frozen, words failing me.

“I had a nightmare and I thought maybe—”

“Your face is a nightmare.”

My heart cracked. I started blinking fast because I didn't want my tears to fall, but they betrayed me.

“Get the hell out,” he snapped. “And the next time you see me, it better be because we have a public appearance and not because you’re desperate for attention.”

And that was it.

I ran as fast as I could down the hall, up the stairway, and into our bedroom without looking back, and shut the door. I fell on the bed and put a pillow over my face.

"Ahhhhhh," I yelled my lungs out till my throat scorched.

I don't deserve this life. Why am I here? 

I cannot remember who I was before the accident that claimed my life. I do not remember my name or even my parents, not even a single friend. I just woke up in a strange house, with a new face and a man who swore we were about to be married when I crashed. I believed him purposely because I had nowhere to go.

All I had was his words, nothing else. No engagement pictures, no old photos of me. Nothing from my past. Cipher said my parents died in the same crash that took my face, memories, and almost took my life. I did a facial surgery, so this face I am carrying around isn't even mine. 

When i asked him how we got engaged, "It was an arranged thing between me and your father" was all the response he could mutter with the same voice someone uses to talk about business deals, flat, factual, hollow which makes me wonder if i was a rebel because Cipher is the kind of person you give to your child when you want to punish her. Maybe I offended my dad, and he thought this was the best way to teach me a lesson. 

That night, I cried until my body gave out.

In the morning, the mansion is quiet as always. Too quiet. This place didn't feel like home; it had never felt familiar. It felt like a mausoleum for the forgotten.

I pushed open the tall glass doors that led to the upstairs hallway and looked down. All I saw was marble floors, gilded railing, massive chandeliers, imported decor, and silence.

Everything screamed money and luxury, but none of it felt like mine.

I walked slowly to the dining room. The long glass table was already set, two plates, two glasses of juice, but only one had been touched. I stared at the used plate, the crumbs of toast, and the folded napkin.

He had already left. Of course, he had.

“Christina,” I called out, my voice still hoarse.

The maid appeared almost instantly, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“Yes, ma?”

“When did my husband leave?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

I nodded. “You can go.”

She bowed slightly and slipped away.

I was in my seat at the table and was not hungry, but I knew I needed to eat something, so I picked up a pancake and poured syrup on it. After I poured some juice halfway into my glass, the phone buzzed.

A message from: Husband.

“There’s a revolutionary launch event tonight. Be ready by 6:00 PM.”

No “hello.” No “how are you?” Just instructions. A schedule. A performance to prepare for.

Another night to wear the dress, smile at cameras, pretend we’re something we’ll never be.

I looked at the message again. Stared at it until the words blurred.

Who was I before this?

And why did it feel like the woman in my dreams was begging me to remember?