My Stalker Says We're Married

I, Judith Cornelia Beaucamp, woke in a hospital believing I was eighteen. Everyone around me insisted I was twenty-eight.

The doctors told me the year I remembered had ended nearly a decade ago. According to them, I had graduated from university, built a life of my own, and become a woman whose face I recognized only when I looked in the mirror.

They showed me a phone that unlocked beneath my thumb but contained hundreds of photographs I did not remember taking. There were unfamiliar cities, expensive restaurants, private celebrations, and countless moments involving people whose names meant nothing to me.

A nurse called me Mrs. Devereux.

A diamond ring rested on my left hand.

When Dr. Ramirez asked whether I recognized the name Alexander Laurent Devereux, I searched through every memory I possessed and found nothing.

No face.

No voice.

Not even the faintest sense that the name had once mattered.

I asked my family about him as soon as they were permitted to visit. Mother stared at me blankly before asking where I had heard the name. Aunt Evelyn shook her head and claimed she could not recall anyone named Devereux among our acquaintances, while Uncle Richard dismissed it as a misunderstanding caused by the hospital records.

None of them appeared to recognize him.

At least, that was what I believed at first.

I asked my family about Alexander Laurent Devereux as soon as they were permitted to visit me. They told me he had once been one of my grandfather's protégés—a man who had gradually made himself indispensable, gained Grandfather's trust, and involved himself far too deeply in both the Beauchamp company and my life. According to them, Alexander had taken advantage of Grandfather's declining health, and of the woman I had become during the ten years I could no longer remember.

Uncle Richard had been especially firm. "If Alexander Devereux contacts you, you are not to meet him alone. You do not answer his calls, and you do not believe anything he tells you. You come directly to us. Do you understand?"

All I did was nod.

But I never stopped wondering why a man my family supposedly did not know had somehow given me his surname.

I remembered being eighteen.

I remembered graduating from high school, arguing with Mother about university, and falling asleep in the bedroom I had occupied since childhood.

Everything after that was gone.

Ten years of my life had vanished, leaving behind only photographs, documents, and strangers who expected me to accept that they knew me better than I knew myself.

~

Alexander's POV

Dr. Ramirez quietly closed the hospital room door behind him.

I was already on my feet before the latch clicked into place.

For nearly three hours, I had remained outside Cornelia's room, refusing to leave despite every nurse assuring me there was nothing more I could do. Waiting was the only thing left to me. It was also the hardest.

One look at the doctor's expression told me everything.

Even so, I found myself asking the question I already knew the answer to. "How is she?"

Dr. Ramirez removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. 

"Physically?" I remained silent.

He understood. "She's stable."

The tightness in my chest eased, if only slightly.

Then, he continued. "She believes she's eighteen. The trauma caused retrograde amnesia. At this point, the last ten years appear to be completely inaccessible to her."

I lowered my gaze. It wasn't the diagnosis that hollowed me out. It was everything those ten years had held.

The apartment we chose together after arguing over paint colors for an entire afternoon. Our first Christmas, when she laughed because I had burned dinner and insisted we order takeout instead. The rainy evening she came home carrying a soaked stray kitten beneath her coat, declaring that we were keeping it whether I agreed or not. The night I slipped a wedding ring onto her finger beneath the cherry blossoms she loved so dearly. The quiet mornings when she stole my coffee because she always insisted mine tasted better than hers.

Every ordinary moment that had quietly become the foundation of my life was... gone.

"And..." Dr. Ramirez's voice softened. "...she doesn't remember you."

My Cornelia... couldn't remember me?

For one unbearable moment, breathing became an impossible task. I closed my eyes, not because I wanted to escape the truth, but only because I needed a second to stop it from showing on my face.

"Sir." Mason's voice came quietly from behind me.

I opened my eyes and looked through the narrow window set into the hospital room door. Cornelia sat upright on the bed, staring at the phone in her hands with the same confusion a stranger might have while looking through someone else's life.

Fear lingered in her eyes. So did disbelief.

She looked utterly lost. Those were the very expressions I had spent years trying to keep away from her.

Now... I was the reason she wore them.

"May I see her?"

Dr. Ramirez hesitated. "You can." Hope stirred inside me. "But I don't think you should." I looked at him, creasing my forehead. "If a complete stranger walks into that room and insists he's her husband," he said gently, "I'm afraid it will only frighten her."

A complete stranger.

The words settled heavily inside my chest. That was what I had become.

Not the man who had memorized every smile she wore.

Not the husband who knew she hated cinnamon in her coffee.

Not the person she once reached for without thinking.

Just... a stranger.

I looked at Cornelia one final time before stepping away from the door. "I understand..."

Dr. Ramirez gave me a sympathetic nod before quietly leaving us alone, and the hallway fell silent once again.

Only then did Mason step closer. "The emergency petition has been prepared, sir." I didn't answer. "As Mrs. Devereux's legal husband, you have every right to take her home today."

I knew.

Every lawyer I had spoken with since dawn had reminded me of that fact.

Legally, Cornelia was my wife.

Legally, no one could keep us apart.

Reality, however, was far less forgiving.

"They have no legal grounds to stop you."

"No."

Mason frowned. "Sir?"

"They're the only family she remembers." I heaved out a sigh.

"They're lying to her."

"I know."

"They'll convince her that you manipulated her."

"I know."

"They'll make her hate you."

A faint smile touched my lips. Not because I found any of it amusing. Only because I had accepted that possibility long before today. I rested my hand against the cool glass separating us. "If I force her to come with me..." My voice barely rose above a whisper. "...then everything they've told her about me becomes true."

Silence settled between us.

After a long moment, Mason asked the question neither of us wanted to hear. "What if she never remembers?"

I watched Cornelia brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She had always done that whenever she was nervous. Some habits survived memory.

Perhaps... love could as well.

"I don't need her memories." My reflection stared back at me from the glass, while hers remained just beyond it. "I need her choice."

~

Judith's POV

Three weeks later, I returned to the Beauchamp mansion and discovered that my family had become strangers too. The mansion itself had changed very little.

The same pale stone walls rose behind the iron gates, partially concealed by rows of manicured trees. The circular fountain remained in the center of the driveway, its marble cherubs still pouring water from their pitchers. Even the climbing roses along the eastern wall had survived, though they had grown thicker and wilder than I remembered.

I had expected coming home to awaken something inside me.

A forgotten memory. A sudden sense of recognition. Anything that might prove the missing years were still somewhere inside my head, waiting to be uncovered.

Instead, I felt as though I had stepped into a carefully preserved imitation of my childhood.

The mansion looked familiar.

The people inside it did not.

"Have some more eggs, Judith." Mother reached for the serving spoon before I could answer and placed another portion onto my plate.

I stared at it. "I'm still eating the first one."

"You've barely touched it."

"I've only been sitting here for five minutes."

Helena Beauchamp offered me an anxious smile before returning the spoon to the silver platter. "You need to regain your strength."

That was what everyone kept saying.

I needed to rest.

I needed to eat.

I needed to avoid stress.

And, apparently, I needed to stay away from Alexander Laurent Devereux.

I lowered my gaze to the breakfast arranged before me. There were freshly baked rolls, soft scrambled eggs, sliced fruit, smoked salmon, and a bowl of strawberries placed close enough that I did not have to lean forward to reach them.

All my favorites.

Or at least, the foods I remembered favoring when I was eighteen.

Across the table, Aunt Evelyn stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea. "Did you sleep well?" she asked.

I looked at her in surprise.

Aunt Evelyn had never asked how I slept before. She rarely asked me anything unless my answer could be repeated at a social gathering or used to correct my behavior.

"I slept," I answered cautiously.

"Any headaches?"

"Only when everyone asks whether I have a headache."

My cousin, Damien, lowered his coffee cup, concealing what might have been a smile behind its rim.

Mother did not appear amused. "Judith."

"What?" I glanced around the table. "I'm answering honestly."

A strange tension followed my words. That tension had become another permanent presence inside the mansion. It surfaced whenever I mentioned the hospital, the accident, or the ten missing years no one seemed willing to discuss in detail.

My family had become unbearably attentive since my return.

Mother visited my bedroom several times each day. Aunt Evelyn accompanied me whenever I walked through the gardens. Damien had somehow developed the habit of appearing whenever I attempted to leave the estate without telling anyone.

Even the household staff watched me as though I might disappear the moment they looked away.

At eighteen, I had often felt invisible in my own home.

Mother had been more concerned with appearances than affection. Evelyn had barely tolerated my presence. My eldest uncle, Richard Beauchamp, had treated conversations with me as obligations to be completed as efficiently as possible.

Now every person at the table monitored each bite I took. It should have comforted me. Instead, it made me wonder what they were afraid of.

At the head of the table, Uncle Richard folded the financial newspaper he had been reading and placed it beside his untouched coffee. He had aged more than anyone else.

The uncle I remembered had possessed dark hair and an imposing confidence that made everyone lower their voices whenever he entered a room. The man sitting before me now had silver at his temples and deeper lines around his mouth, though his authority remained unchanged.

"We need to discuss what happens next," he announced.

I placed my fork down. "Am I finally allowed to leave the mansion?"

Mother stiffened beside me. "You've only recently returned from the hospital."

"I've been here for three weeks."

"You're still recovering."

"The doctors said walking outside won't cause my brain to collapse."

"Judith," Uncle Richard warned.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms.

There it was.

For a fleeting moment, he sounded like the uncle I remembered. Uncle Richard reached for a dark leather folder resting on the chair beside him and placed it on the table. "We have spoken with your doctors about establishing a routine," he said. "They believe familiar activities may help you adjust."

I glanced at the folder but made no move to take it. "What kind of activities?"

"You were preparing for university before the period you currently remember ended."

"I know."

I remembered the application forms scattered across my desk. I remembered Mother insisting I choose a degree that would benefit the Beauchamp family. I even remembered secretly considering a university far enough away that I would no longer have to eat breakfast beneath the suffocating scrutiny of my relatives.

Uncle Richard pushed the folder toward me. "We've arranged for you to enroll."

I stared at him. "In university?"

"You will attend several introductory courses while continuing your medical treatment. Nothing demanding. Your professors have already been informed about your condition."

I rested my fingers against the edge of the folder. Something about the arrangement felt too convenient. "You decided this without asking me?"

"We believed you would be pleased."

"I might have been, had anyone bothered to include me in the decision."

Mother reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. "We're only trying to help you return to the life you remember."

I looked down at our joined hands. I could not recall the last time Mother had reached for me with such tenderness. That frightened me more than Uncle Richard's announcement. "Which university?" I asked.

"Auremont University," Richard answered.

I did not recognize the name. "That wasn't one of the schools I applied to."

"It is better suited to your present circumstances," Aunt Evelyn explained. "The campus is private, secure, and close enough that you won't need to live in a dormitory."

Meaning they could continue watching me.

I withdrew my hand from beneath Mother's and opened the folder.

Auremont University's silver crest was embossed on the first page. Beneath it rested a formal letter confirming my enrollment as a special-status student. My courses had already been selected. A schedule had been prepared. Even my identification photograph had been attached.

They had arranged everything.

Without me.

I turned the page. I studied the address printed beneath Auremont University's crest. The campus was on the opposite side of the city. I looked up from the folder. "How long does it take to get there from here?"

Uncle Richard hesitated just long enough to make me suspicious. "Travel time will depend on traffic."

"That wasn't my question."

Damien leaned back in his chair. "An hour and a half on a good day." Mother sent him a sharp look. "What, auntie?" he said. "She was going to find out eventually."

I stared at the schedule in front of me. Several of my classes began early in the morning, while others ended late in the afternoon. Even without traffic, I would spend hours every day traveling between the mansion and the university.

"You said the doctors wanted me to establish a manageable routine."

"They do," Uncle Richard replied.

"And you think waking before sunrise, sitting in traffic for hours, attending classes, and returning here exhausted will help my recovery?"

"We will provide a comfortable vehicle," Mother said. "You can rest during the journey."

"That isn't the point."

I closed the folder and slid it back onto the table. "If you want me to attend Auremont, I need somewhere closer to the campus."

The concern on Mother's face hardened into immediate refusal. "No."

"I haven't even finished."

"You are not living alone."

"I'm twenty-eight, according to everyone in this room."

"You don't remember being twenty-eight," Aunt Evelyn reminded me.

"Then, which is it?" I asked. "Am I an adult when it suits you and a helpless child whenever I ask for something?"

Aunt Evelyn's lips tightened.

Mother reached for my hand again, but I pulled it away before she could touch me. "You've all spent the last three weeks telling me I need to return to a normal life," I continued. "Normal people do not spend half their day being driven across the city because their family refuses to let them live near their university."

"This is not about controlling you," Uncle Richard said.

It was difficult not to laugh. Since returning to the mansion, I had not walked beyond the gates without someone following me. Mother checked on me several times a day. Evelyn accompanied me through the gardens. Even the household staff seemed to report every meal I failed to finish.

Perhaps they called it concern.

It felt remarkably similar to imprisonment.

"A condo near the university," I said. "That's my condition."

Uncle Richard's expression darkened. "You are in no position to give conditions."

"Then, I won't attend Auremont."

The words escaped before I had fully considered them, but once they were spoken, I refused to take them back.

The dining room fell quiet.

I held Uncle Richard's gaze even as my pulse quickened beneath my skin. He wanted me at that university. I could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his fingers pressed against the folded newspaper beside him. For reasons no one had bothered to explain, returning me to university mattered enough that they had arranged my admission without consulting me.

I intended to use that. "You said this would help me recover," I reminded him. "If that's true, you shouldn't have a problem making it practical."

Mother turned toward him. "Richard, surely we aren't considering this."

"Auremont has residences nearby," Damien said. "Some of the buildings have private security."

"No one asked you, Damien," Aunt Evelyn snapped.

He lifted his coffee with an indifferent shrug.

Uncle Richard remained silent for several moments. When he finally spoke, his tone left no doubt that he had already begun turning my request into another set of restrictions. "You will have a driver."

I kept my expression neutral. "Fine."

"A housekeeper will visit every day."

"Twice a week."

"Every day."

I clenched my jaw. "Fine."

"You will answer whenever one of us calls. You will not leave the building alone after dark, and security will be informed that no visitor is permitted upstairs without approval."

"Your approval?"

"Mine or your mother's."

Of course.

"And you will return to the mansion every weekend," he continued. "If your doctors believe the arrangement is affecting your recovery, you will move home immediately."

The conditions pressed down on me one after another, turning independence into another carefully monitored enclosure. Still, it would be an enclosure without my family seated outside my bedroom.

"I agree."

Mother looked at me as though I had betrayed her. Uncle Richard leaned back in his chair, but his expression remained severe.

"One more thing."

I already knew what was coming.

"If Alexander Devereux approaches you at the university—or anywhere else—you will contact me immediately. You will not speak to him alone. You will not enter his vehicle, follow him anywhere, or believe anything he tells you."

The warning sent a familiar chill down my spine.

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Uncle Richard."

He watched me for another moment before giving a curt nod. "Then, arrangements will be made."

By Sunday evening, my belongings had been transferred into a furnished condominium fifteen minutes from Auremont University. Mother inspected every room twice before she was satisfied. Aunt Evelyn questioned the building manager about the security cameras, while Damien tested the locks as though someone might attempt to break in the moment they left.

Uncle Richard repeated every condition from breakfast. The driver would arrive at seven each morning. The housekeeper would check on me every afternoon. I was expected to answer every call. And if Alexander Laurent Devereux attempted to contact me, I would inform my family immediately.

I agreed to everything.

An hour later, the door finally closed behind them. For the first time since waking in the hospital, I was alone. The silence should have unsettled me.

Instead, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to breathe. No anxious glances followed my every movement. No one asked whether my head hurt or whether I needed to lie down. No one hovered close enough to stop me from opening a door or looking through a drawer.

For the first time in three weeks, I almost felt free. I wandered into the kitchen and found the refrigerator already filled with fresh fruit, bottled water, and prepared meals arranged inside neatly labeled containers with reheating instructions.

Mother's doing, undoubtedly.

At least... that was what I assumed.

Perhaps Mother truly had been trying to make the transition easier.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I wandered farther into the kitchen. The refrigerator had already been stocked with fresh fruit, bottled water, and neatly labeled meal containers. Everything had been arranged with meticulous care, as though someone had anticipated my every need before I even stepped through the door.

It was thoughtful.

Unexpected, but thoughtful.

Curious, I opened one of the upper cabinets.

Rows of coffee capsules greeted me, organized by flavor. Beside them sat an assortment of teas, jars of sugar, honey, and creamers, all arranged with almost obsessive precision.

My gaze lingered. Something was... off. I frowned, scanning the shelves again. Then, I realized what was missing.

There wasn't a single jar of cinnamon.

That couldn't be right.

Mother adored cinnamon. She insisted it made everything taste better, sprinkling it over coffee, oatmeal, and pancakes. She had even convinced herself it belonged on buttered toast. 

If she'd been the one preparing this place, cinnamon would've been the first thing she'd bought.

Yet the spice rack held every seasoning imaginable... except that one.

A strange uneasiness settled over me. Slowly, my eyes drifted toward the coffee machine. A small white card rested neatly against it, as though it had been placed there for the sole purpose of being found.

I picked it up. Written across the front in elegant handwriting were five simple words.

No cinnamon. You hate it.

The air caught in my throat. Wait... Mother didn't know that. At least, not the mother I remembered.

I turned the card over. Only one word had been written on the back.

Cornelia.

The name meant nothing to me.

And somehow, that frightened me more than the note itself.

~

Alexander's POV

Night had already settled over the city by the time I returned to my office.

The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected little more than the lights stretching endlessly across the skyline, yet my attention never lingered on them.

Instead, I walked toward the desk and tapped a single key on the keyboard.

The security feed appeared on the monitor.

Unit 2308.

The kitchen came into view.

Cornelia stood motionless beside the coffee machine, the small white card trembling slightly between her fingers.

She had found it.

My gaze softened.

For a long moment, I simply watched her stare at the word written on the back.

Cornelia.

Her second name she had never allowed anyone else to call her.

Except me.

Almost without thinking, my fingertips came to rest against the screen, tracing the outline of her face. Cold glass. That was all that separated my hand from the woman who used to instinctively lean into my touch.

It was foolish.

Cold glass could never replace warm skin. Yet, for one selfish moment, I allowed myself to pretend.

"My Cornelia..." I whispered, my voice barely audible within the empty office. "...you still hate cinnamon." A faint smile touched my lips.

Some things hadn't changed. She still tilted her head whenever she was confused. She still absentmindedly tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear while thinking. She still frowned exactly the same way whenever something refused to make sense.

Ten years had disappeared from her mind, but not from mine.

My thumb traced the outline of her cheek on the screen. God... I wanted nothing more than to walk into that kitchen, pull her into my arms, and kiss her until she remembered every promise we had ever made under the cherry blossoms.

To tell her she was home.

To hear her call me Xander again.

Cornelia slipped the card into her pocket before leaving the kitchen. For a few seconds, the room remained empty.

Then, I pressed a key on the keyboard. The monitor shifted to the hallway camera.

She appeared again, moving slowly through the apartment, her fingertips brushing over the unfamiliar furniture as though she were trying to convince herself it was real.

Another click.

The living room.

She paused before the bookshelf, absently running her fingers along the spines.

Another.

The dining area.

She lingered there for only a moment before disappearing from view again.

I switched to the bedroom entrance. It was empty.

She hadn't gone inside yet.

Good.

My gaze remained fixed on the screen, following her from one camera to the next with practiced familiarity.

Three weeks without seeing her smile.

Three weeks without hearing her call my name.

Three weeks without holding her.

Every passing day had tested the limits of my restraint.

I could wait longer. But patience should never be mistaken for surrender.

Cornelia was still my wife.

Whether she remembered it tomorrow, next month, or years from now, I would make certain no one took her from me again.