Stolen Bride: Trapped in His Arms

I kissed my mum goodnight, laid my baby down, and closed my eyes for what felt like only a second. The room smelled faintly of lavender, and the soft hum of the baby monitor was the last thing I remembered before everything went dark. Then, I was suddenly awake. But not in my room. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, smooth, and painted in soft cream with golden moldings catching the light. The walls glowed in warm amber tones, the kind of lights you see in expensive hotels or rich people's homes. My chest tightened. I tried to sit up, but panic coiled in my stomach, tightening like a fist. Every muscle in me screamed danger. A man stepped into the room. His jaw was sharp and defined, his suit half unbuttoned, the white shirt of his crop clinging to a sculpted torso. His eyes... oh, those eyes — they were stormy, unreadable, yet darkly intense. They held a mix of frustration, suspicion, and something that made my heart skip. He didn't push me hard, but he guided me back onto the bed like a doctor handling a fragile patient, his hands firm yet careful. "Behave," he muttered under his breath. His voice was low, commanding, almost dangerous. He said more, but I couldn't hear it. My ears buzzed, my mind scrambled. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know him. I didn't know this room. I didn't even know this body. And then he left. The door clicked. Locked. I shot up, my heart hammering in my chest. "LET ME OUT!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "Please! I don't know you — let me go!" I ran to the door and slammed my fists against it. My plan stung, my nails scraped against the polished wood, but it didn't budge. And then something hit me. Not the door, not him. A rush of memories that weren't mine. They smashed into my mind like lightning, scorching and raw. A girl's life I didn't live. Her heartbeat. Her fear. Her love. Her regrets. I stumbled back, clutching my head as the pieces clicked together painfully. I wasn't in my body. I was in hers. This girl... she had lived a life I could never have imagined. Married off to a ridiculously handsome tycoon for a family business alliance. Cut off from her family. Trapped in a world of wealth and rules she didn't understand and didn't want. She had someone she loved — someone forbidden — but she had been forced into a life that only benefited others. And for three years, she had been sneaking documents, feeding them to a man she trusted, a man she believed loved her, her crush, her weakness. Yesterday, she had overheard him boasting to his friends. Calling her stupid. Calling her lovesick, saying she could do anything for him, laughing that he hadn't slept with her because "it would be hard to throw her away later." I staggered back, my stomach twisting with her pain. She had stumbled in shock. missed a step on the staircase. Crashed down hard. The memory of her skull hitting the floor made bile rise in my throat. Her husband had found her, tracking her because she had been careless with the projects. He had followed her to a VIP club, only to find her bleeding and unconscious. And then I woke up. In her place. In her body. In the middle of her ruined life. I pressed my palm against the cold door, shivering. "We're the same," I whispered. Broken by love. Used. Thrown away. Except she didn't get the point I had — she hadn't been abandoned, pregnant, alone. A sad smile tugged at my lips. "At least she didn't suffer that much." I felt her pain mixing inside me. Her regret. My hurt. Our heartbreak. "I'll help you," I murmured under my breath. I'll continue your life. I'll fix what you couldn't." I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and screamed again. "OPEN THE DOOR!" Minutes passed. My throat burning. My palms stung from pounding the wood. My body ached. I sank back against the wall, breathing ragged. Every second stretched into eternity. Every sound — footsteps, a creak, the hum of the air conditioner — made me start. Then, finally — a key turned. The door swung open. And someone stepped inside. It was a middle-aged woman, her face lined with concern, but there was fear there, too. She looked me over, hesitated, then gestured to a man standing quietly behind her, dressed in a crisp doctor's uniform. "My name is Doctor Rowan," he said softly. "You've had a severe fall. We need to check your injuries." The woman's eyes flicked towards me, and for a moment, I felt a strange warmth in her gaze. "I'm Mrs. Lora," she said gently. "I... I'll help you settle." I opened my mouth to speak, to demand freedom, to scream, but my voice faltered. Doctor Rowan flashed a light in my eyes, checking pupils and reactions. Suddenly, flashes of another memory hit me, as a little girl, nearly drowned, saved by a boy with a rare birthmark on his chest. I gasped. The memories were fragments, but they were mine too... somehow tangled with hers. The doctor murmured to Mrs. Lora, their words partially muffled. "...temporary memory loss..." "...medications..." "...call if there's any change..." I swelled hard. My stomach growled. Hunger hit me like a physical force. "Can I...eat?" I asked, my voice weak. Mrs. Lora's face softened. "Of course, dear. Let's go downstairs." The kitchen was warm, the smell of herbs and roasted meat comforting. She explained quietly that the household rarely ate together — her husband came and went, leaving little food. She laughed softly at how rare it was to cook for someone at home. I felt a pang, realizing how empty the life I had fallen into really was. I ate, slowly taking in the environment, the strange luxury, the subtle tension in the air. Everything felt wrong and right all at once. I explored the house after eating, taking in the expensive furniture, the artwork, the way the staff moved silently, almost reverently. I felt their eyes on me, watching, judging, fearing. Then I heard it — the unmistakable roar of an engine. The sound of someone arriving. My heart stuttered. I tiptoed near the sitting room. I heard him speaking with Mrs. Lora, his voice low, sharp, commanding: "She might be pretending. Keep her close. Watch her move." I froze, realizing he thought I was lying. I retreated to the room and lay on the bed, pretending to sleep as the door opened. He watched me, his gaze cold, unreadable. And then...he left. The next morning, he was gone. For days, I learned from the staff, he could leave for the projects, rarely returning. And yet, the whole house held his presence—cold, intense, dangerous. I wondered, quietly, if I'd ever survive in the body, in this house, under this man's eyes. I pressed myself into bed, thinking of the girl I had replaced, thinking of my own life I had lost. And I whispered: "I'll survive. I'll fix this... even if it kills me."