I woke up in a hospital, my past a blank beyond my 18th year.
The doctor said I was 27, even a talented architect, and married.
But the woman they introduced as my wife, Sophia, was a cold, stunning stranger.
She looked at me with thinly veiled contempt.
She spoke of my nine lost years as a descent into breakdowns and "pathetic" dependence.
My supposed best friend, Ethan Vance, was her true confidante, a smirking rival.
Disgust curdled in my gut.
This wasn't me.
My 18-year-old self, full of ambition and drive, recoiled from this emasculated shadow of a man they described.
How could I have become a "kept man," constantly ridiculed, chasing the approval of an ice queen?