Chapter 1
I was in a coma for three years. My husband, William Bennett, found a woman who looked just like me. She wore my clothes, slept in my bed, and pretended to be Mrs. Bennett for three years.
The day I woke up, he locked the door behind him and hurried out to make a call. I only caught one sentence. "Don't come over yet. She's awake."
The housekeeper called that woman "Mrs. Bennett" and me "the patient."
He settled me in the guest room, took my hand, and said, "You're still recovering. Don't worry about anything else."
My name, my home, my husband, everything about me had become "something else."
At our fifth wedding anniversary party, she sat at the head table, wearing my wedding ring.
Everyone toasted, "To Mrs. Bennett's recovery."
She smiled and toasted back.
I stepped out from the crowd. "Who's Mrs. Bennett? You're mistaken."
*****
"Don't come over yet. She's awake."
That was the first thing I heard after waking up from a three-year coma.
The voice belonged to William, my husband.
He stood with his back to me at the hospital room door, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low. But the room was so quiet that every word landed heavy in my ears.
"Yeah, she just woke up. Don't do anything yet. Wait until I figure things out."
He hung up, turned around, and saw me staring at him with my eyes open.
His expression changed.
It wasn't surprise.
It was the panic of someone caught in the act.
"You're awake?" he asked.
"I'm awake," I replied.
My voice was so hoarse it hurt, like my throat had been scraped raw.
"Who did you tell not to come over?" I asked.
He walked over, poured me a glass of water, and handed it to me, completely ignoring my question.
"The doctor said you might wake up today, so I've been waiting here. Three years you're finally awake," he said.
I took the water but didn't drink it.
"William, I asked you a question," I said.
He said, pulling the blanket up, "Don't worry about business. I'll go get the doctor."
He practically ran out of the room.
When the nurse came in to check on me, I asked, "How long was I out?"
"Three years and two months, Mrs. Bennett," she replied.
Three years.
I tried to wiggle my fingers, but my joints were stiff, like old, rusty hinges.
But my mind was sharp.
Sharp enough to remember every single detail before the fall.
Three years ago, I was working late at the office. I slipped on the stairs and slammed the back of my head against the marble steps.
When I opened my eyes again, it was now.
Three whole years had gone by.
William was out in the hallway, talking to the doctor. His voice drifted in through the door, broken up and muffled.
"Is she fully conscious? What about her memory? Can she be discharged? When can she be discharged?"
He wasn't worried about me.
He was just checking for time.
Three days later, I was discharged.
William came to pick me up.
The car was new. It was a black Maybach I'd never seen before.
The passenger seat had a soft cream velvet cover. There was a half-empty bottle of peach-flavored sparkling water in the cup holder, and a heart-shaped sticky note stuck to the glove box.
It read: [Wibb, you got this today!]
The handwriting was round, each letter had a playful curve to it.
It wasn't mine.
I tore the sticky note off.
"Whose is this?" I asked.
William's hand paused on the ignition.
"My assistant put it there," he said.
"Your assistant calls you Wibb?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He took the sticky note from me, crumpled it, and shoved it into his pocket.
He didn't say another word the whole ride.
The car pulled into the neighborhood and stopped in front of the villa.
I got out and stood at the bottom of the steps, feeling like something was off.
The iron flower trellis by the door had been replaced with a white wooden lattice, covered in ivy.
The doormat was now pink with a floral pattern instead of dark gray, and a fabric bunny was hanging from the doorknob.
I pushed the door open.
There was a row of flats in cream, blush, and beige lined up on the entryway shoe rack.
Not a single pair of my black stilettos remained.
The dark leather sofa in the living room had been replaced with a cream-colored fabric one.
There was a lace tablecloth on the coffee table, and a vase of pink dried baby's breath sat next to the TV stand.
The whole house looked like someone had put a soft-focus filter over my life. Every sharp edge that was mine was gone.
"Where's my stuff?" I asked.
"After you fell into a coma, we remodeled the house," William said, following behind me. "Your old style it was just too cold."