I woke up in the hospital and found a man in a charcoal suit sitting beside my bed with his head bowed over his clasped hands. When I asked politely, “Excuse me, sir, am I supposed to interview for the nanny position at your house today?” he looked up so fast that the color drained from his face.
Chapter 1
For several seconds, neither of us spoke. He was handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark hair, a tailored jacket, and the exhausted eyes of someone who had not slept in days. When he reached for my hand, I instinctively pulled it beneath the blanket.
“Please don’t,” I said. “I’m sorry if this is awkward. The doctor says I’ve lost part of my memory. I only remember that I was supposed to work for a wealthy family as a live-in nanny.”
His mouth opened.
“You don’t know who I am?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He stood and walked toward the window.
For a moment, I thought he might be angry with the doctor. Then he turned around.
“My name is Vincent Hayes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hayes.”
His eyes closed.
That was how I met my husband.
Not that anyone told me that at first.
Two days later, Vincent drove me from the hospital to an enormous stone estate outside Greenwich, Connecticut. The house had twelve-foot windows, limestone columns, and enough rooms to house three families comfortably. I spent the ride wondering what sort of nanny agency had placed me with people this wealthy.
A little boy came running down the front steps before the car had fully stopped.
“Mom!”
He threw himself against me.
I froze.
Then I carefully pushed him back.
“You must be Ethan.”
His smile vanished.
“Mom?”
I glanced at Vincent.
His jaw tightened.
“Ethan,” I said gently, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember very much right now.”
The boy’s face crumpled.
“I’m your son.”
I thought he had misunderstood.
Before I could answer, a beautiful woman in cream slacks came through the doorway.
“There you are,” she said warmly.
Vincent introduced her as Willow Price, an old family friend who had been “helping out.”
She smiled at me with extraordinary sweetness.
Too extraordinary.
“Well,” Willow said, “at least you’re home.”
Everyone looked at me strangely from the moment I stepped inside.
A housekeeper called me Mrs. Hayes.
The gardener tipped his cap and asked if I was feeling better.
Ethan followed me through the hallway like a wounded puppy.
Vincent barely spoke to me.
Since nobody offered a clearer explanation and I still believed I had once worked there, I asked where the nanny’s room was.
Vincent stared at me.
Then, with a bitter little laugh, he told one of the staff to show me.
The room was on the first floor near the laundry area. It was small but comfortable enough, and after a hospital bed I was grateful for anything private.
The next morning I woke before five.
If I was being paid to care for a father and son, I intended to earn my wages.
I found eggs, bacon, bread, and tomatoes in the refrigerator and made breakfast.
Vincent appeared in the kitchen while I was frying eggs.
He looked exhausted.
“Mr. Hayes,” I said, “you’re up early.”
He stared at me.
“Nice performance.”
I lowered the spatula.
“I’m sorry?”
“You think pretending you have amnesia changes what happened?”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Of course not.”
He walked closer.
“You demanded a divorce three days before the crash. Now suddenly you’re the household help?”
A cold sensation moved through my stomach.
“Divorce?”
“Keep acting, Sophia.”
I looked behind me, absurdly wondering if another woman had entered the kitchen.
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Don’t.”
“My name is Sophia?”
He laughed without humor.
“Unbelievable.”
He left me standing beside the stove.
At breakfast Ethan refused to look at me.
I placed a sandwich in front of him.
He whispered, “You used to cut the crust off.”
“I can do that.”
“I don’t want you to.”
Vincent pushed his plate away.
“Your cooking used to be better.”
“I don’t remember how I used to cook.”
“Convenient.”
I decided rich people were exhausting.
After they finished, I cleared the dishes and asked Vincent a practical question.
“What is my salary?”
He looked at me as though I had spoken another language.
“My what?”
“My salary.”
He actually laughed.
“Sophia, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Then he left for work.
The following days became increasingly strange.
Ethan alternated between following me and refusing to speak to me. Vincent treated every question as manipulation. Willow drifted through the house in expensive clothes, offering advice nobody had requested.
I concentrated on what I understood.
Meals.
Laundry.
Cleaning.
Routine.
Then I made a terrible mistake.
I cooked shrimp pizza for lunch.
Ethan ate two bites before his neck turned red.
He began scratching.
Vincent rushed him to the emergency room while I sat in the backseat holding an ice pack against Ethan’s skin, frightened by a panic I could not explain.
The doctor diagnosed a shellfish allergy.
Vincent turned on me in the hallway.
“You gave him shrimp?”
“I didn’t know.”
“He’s your son!”
The words hit me harder than his anger.
“What?”
“Enough, Sophia.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You expect me to believe a mother forgot her own child’s allergy?”
Willow came over after Vincent walked away.
Her voice was sympathetic.
“You should stop this.”
“Stop what?”
“Trying to win him back.”
“I’m not trying to win anyone.”
She gave me the kind smile people use on children.
“Vincent doesn’t love you anymore.”
That night, back at the estate, I searched my own name online.
Sophia Lancaster Hayes.
I found hundreds of results.
Heiress.
Philanthropist.
Only child of billionaire real-estate developer Charles Lancaster.
Seven years earlier, I had married Vincent Hayes, then a junior financial analyst with no family money.
After the wedding, I resigned from Lancaster Group.
Three years ago, my parents died.
I inherited almost everything.
I sat staring at the laptop.
“This is ridiculous.”
According to the internet, I wasn’t a nanny.
I owned the house.
Possibly half the city.
And the man treating me like an unwanted employee was my husband.
The next afternoon, while cleaning Vincent’s study, I found photographs of him and Willow.
Beach vacations.
Holiday dinners.
A ski lodge.
Seven or eight photographs displayed openly.
There was one photograph of me and Vincent, pushed behind a stack of books.
Then I found a journal.
My handwriting.
Why hasn’t he come home?
Willow stayed for dinner again. Vincent says I’m jealous for no reason.
Ethan told me he likes Aunt Willow better.
I waited until three in the morning and Vincent never called.
He says I’m suffocating him.
Page after page sounded like a woman disappearing inside her own marriage.
The last entry was only five words.
I want a divorce now.
I closed the notebook.
For the first time since waking in the hospital, I felt sympathy for the woman I had apparently been.
But I did not admire her.
That evening, Ethan looked at me across the table.
“Do you really not remember me?”
Vincent stopped eating.
Even Willow became still.
I answered honestly.
“No.”
Ethan cried and ran upstairs.
Vincent rose.
“You’ve acted long enough.”
After he followed Ethan, Willow remained.
“You were very different before.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“You hated me.”
“Did I?”
“You once flew to my parents’ house and begged them to convince me to leave Vincent alone.”
I stared at her.
“I begged?”
“You knelt.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Oh, God.”
Willow seemed pleased.
“You cried all night afterward.”
“Please tell me nobody recorded it.”
Her smile faltered.
Vincent had returned unnoticed.
He was standing in the doorway.
“You think that’s funny?”
“No. I think it’s humiliating.”
His expression changed.
“If I really did that,” I continued, “then hitting my head may be the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I agree. Apparently I used to beg people not to take a man who didn’t want me.”
His jaw tightened.
I picked up my cleaning cloth.
“Now, unless either of you plans to discuss my salary, I have baseboards to finish.”
Vincent stormed out.
Willow watched me with a different expression.
Not smugness.
Concern.
That night, I lay awake in the little nanny room thinking about one question.
If I truly was Sophia Lancaster Hayes, why was I asking my husband for grocery money?
