**Diary Entry – 12th June**
You never imagine something dreadful will happen to you. It was just an ordinary evening—driving home after meeting Sophie in Brighton, the radio playing, singing along without a care. Then, in an instant, everything changed. A car swerved recklessly around the bend and smashed into me. The impact was the last thing I remembered.
When I woke in hospital, the doctors told me I’d been in a coma for over a week. They said I was fortunate not to be permanently injured. But I didn’t feel lucky. I had partial amnesia—I remembered my family, my closest friends, my dog, Archie. Some memories lingered, but others were gone. I couldn’t recall my job or my exact address, though I knew the house.
Most unsettling of all, I didn’t remember *him*. The man who, according to the doctors, had stayed by my side every day. The man who greeted me when I woke—who claimed to be my fiancé. *Oliver*, he said his name was. I stared at him and felt nothing but confusion.
“Why doesn’t she remember me? She remembers everyone else—why not me?” Oliver asked the doctor.
“Partial amnesia can be selective,” the doctor explained. “She may recover those memories in time.”
“We’ve been together for over a year. We were planning our wedding. What am I supposed to do?” Oliver pressed.
“Talk to her, show her photos—it might trigger something,” the doctor suggested.
“*Might?* What if it doesn’t work?”
“She loved you once. Perhaps she will again.”
With that, the doctor left, and Oliver became relentless. He brought me photo albums, gifts he’d given me, stories of our dates, our life together. But none of it felt real.
“I’m sorry, I still don’t remember,” I admitted.
“It’s all right. We’ll get through this,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Mum, on the other hand, was sceptical. “I can’t believe you kept Oliver a secret!” she scolded.
“Mum, I don’t *remember* him. What do you want me to say?”
“He claims you were going to tell me after he proposed—but then the accident happened. Honestly, Emily, you’ve always been private, but this is too much.”
Days passed like this—Oliver spinning tales, Mum voicing doubts—until I was finally discharged. Oliver drove me home—or rather, *our* home, as he insisted.
The moment we arrived, Archie’s frantic barking echoed from inside. My heart leapt—I’d missed that little scamp so much. But as soon as Oliver opened the door, Archie lunged, snarling like a wild thing. He’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel—gentle, affectionate. I’d never seen him act this way.
“Get him off me! Control him!” Oliver shouted, shoving Archie away.
“Archie! *Enough!*” I snapped, scooping him up. He quieted briefly, but the second I stepped near Oliver, the growling started again.
“Put him outside,” Oliver demanded.
“What? No, he’s a house dog.”
“Well, he’s never liked me. While you were in hospital, I stayed with you—your mum looked after him. Maybe he’s forgotten me.”
That didn’t sit right. Archie hadn’t forgotten *me*. I spent an hour playing with him in the garden, his tail wagging madly. But the moment we went inside, the barking resumed, relentless.
“This isn’t normal,” I muttered.
“He’s a dog. Who knows what goes through their heads?” Oliver shrugged.
Later, I asked for my phone.
“It was destroyed in the crash. I’ll get you a new one tomorrow,” Oliver said.
“Fine, but I want to see Sophie.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Why not?”
“The doctor said you need rest.”
“He said no such thing.”
“Just—wait a bit longer.”
The unease grew. I didn’t remember Oliver. Archie despised him. Now I was barred from seeing friends. That night, I slept in the spare room with Archie.
“Why can’t he stay outside?” Oliver grumbled.
“Because he *doesn’t*. I’d never leave him out.”
“Well, *we* always did.”
Another lie.
Oliver bought me a new phone—with a new number. No way to contact Sophie. My social media passwords were a mystery. I felt trapped, dependent on him.
He kept pressing for a quick wedding. “I love you too much to wait,” he said. But how could I marry a stranger?
Then, one afternoon, I overheard him arguing at the door. “Not yet!” he hissed before slamming it.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Wrong address.”
Later, while Oliver was at work, Sophie turned up unannounced.
“I’ve been trying to reach you!” she said. “Emily—Oliver isn’t real.”
“What?”
“I’ve looked—there’s no record of him. You’ve never mentioned him. Either you kept it secret, or he’s lying.”
Before we could discuss it further, a courier arrived with a thick envelope. Inside was a marriage certificate—stipulating that in the event of divorce, Oliver would take half my assets.
My grandmother’s inheritance. A sizeable fortune.
“The *bastard*,” Sophie spat.
We called the police. Sophie hid while I waited for Oliver. The moment he stepped inside, Archie went berserk.
“Saw the contract?” Oliver asked brightly.
“Yes. You get half if we divorce?”
“Only if. I intend this to last.” He leaned in to kiss me—just as the police knocked.
They arrested him on the spot. He thrashed, screaming obscenities, blaming us for ruining his plan.
“How did he even know about my money?” I asked the officer.
“His real name is Gregory. He worked at a care home—specialising in wealthy patients.”
My grandmother spent her final days in one.
As the police car drove away, Archie bounded over, tail wagging. If not for him, I might never have doubted Oliver—Gregory—at all. Who knows what could have happened?
