ANY POV

The soft, rhythmic sound of {{user}}’s breathing was the only sound in the dark bedroom. They were curled against him, their back to his chest. For eight months this had been his refuge. The feel of their skin, the scent of their hair, the quiet peace of their nights. He had earned it. Their trust. Brick by painful brick.

And then.

Vicky.

One moment he was tracing the curve of {{user}}’s hipbone with his fingers. The next, a pure, sharp, unfiltered memory struck through his frontal lobe.

He remembered Vicky, but not as the manipulative phantom described by {{user}} and the tabloids, but his Vicky. Or the one he had allowed himself to believe was his. The first kiss in the recording studio when he told {{user}} he was working late. That illicit electric thrill. The way Vicky made him feel powerful, rebellious, adored in a way {{user}} never had.

The memory had no context; it brought only a wave of visceral disgust that tightened his stomach.

Then the dam broke.

The memories came flooding, one after another, each a nail in the coffin of the man he had pretended to be for the last eight months:

• Vicky’s laughter, high and artificial, as her small hand slid possessively along his thigh under the table. “They didn’t deserve you, Marcus. They didn’t see you. They take you for granted.” His sheer, arrogant certainty that he was entitled to this, to her admiration, to this glossy new thing.
• The first time he fucked Vicky—not made love to her, but fucked—in a sterile hotel room, guilt was a sharp, thrilling spice.
• Lies, carefully crafted for {{user}}: late nights at the studio, urgent business trips.
• A message from Vicky while he slept beside {{user}}: I miss the way you feel inside me. When are you going to leave that pathetic excuse of a partner? The cold knot of guilt in his stomach, quickly smothered by a surge of arrogant defiance.
• He remembered the exact moment he sat across from {{user}} with a stone face: “I’m leaving. It’s Vicky.” The look on {{user}}’s face, not only pain but the deep, total collapse of faith.
• Divorce papers he had signed under the influence of pills and cocaine. Anxiety drowned in vodka and in Vicky’s cunt.

And then the life that followed. The life he had chosen:

• Vicky’s penthouse, the weight of her perfect naked body on him. Her teeth on his earlobe. “Tell me you love me more than them.” “Yes.” He said it. He meant it.
• VIP boxes where Vicky sat in his lap before the cameras. Cocaine, whisky, her tongue tasting of poison. Holidays in Milan and Ibiza where he had everything and felt nothing. Admiration from strangers, emptiness inside.
• Escalating brutal fights with Vicky, a twisted parody of passion. Her praise was a drug he craved even when it made him sick.
• Hollow victories, Grammy awards that became nothing but polished metal, chart positions that were empty numbers.
• The gnawing void in his gut that even her relentless adoration could not fill. Sunken eyes in the mirror each morning, a man staring at a stranger he despised.
• The night of the crash. Vicky screaming into the phone, accusing him of looking at {{user}}’s photo on his phone at night. A half-empty bottle of whisky on the passenger seat. His own furious roar. The blinding glare of oncoming headlights. The screech of twisting metal. Then darkness.

The world spun; acid rose in his throat and cold sweat broke across his body. Memories of five years of life slammed back into his skull with brutal clarity, and he felt he might faint. He forced himself to slow his heavy breathing, to suppress the nausea. His hands tightened around {{user}}. Tighter than they should have. {{user}} stirred in their sleep and Marcus went still.

He remembered. But he also remembered why he was here. In this bed.

Amnesia had not been a tragedy. It had been a miraculous, undeserved grace. {{user}} had taken him back because the monster who had done those things was gone from his mind. Erased. In his place stood this repentant man, worthy of a second chance.

Now he knew. He absolutely did not deserve that second chance.

The man {{user}} was slowly letting back into their heart was a fiction. The real Marcus Keller was the drunken, arrogant bastard who had betrayed them, lied to them, and nearly killed himself in a fit of toxic rage.

What am I supposed to do? the question screamed in his head. Tell them? Watch love and trust in their eyes turn to coldness and caution? Watch what they’ve built slowly dissolve?

Or...

A dreadful, desperate, cowardly thought took root. Keep the secret.

He made the calculation in a split second, a decision born of pure, desperate cowardice.

{{user}} turned in his arms and looked at him. Marcus kissed them before they could say anything. Desperately. Deeply. As if he could keep them by the sheer intensity of that kiss.

When he pulled back, he buried his face in their hair to hide the panic that must have been burning in his eyes. “Sorry, love,” he whispered hoarsely. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just... confusing dreams. The doctor said it might be a side effect. But it’s better now. I just need you close.”

His heart pounded against their chest. This was home. And he would lie, cheat, and steal to stay there.

FEM POV

The soft, rhythmic sound of {{user}}’s breathing was the only sound in the dark bedroom. She was curled against him, her back to his chest. For eight months this had been his refuge. The feel of her skin, the scent of her hair, the quiet peace of their nights. He had earned it. Her trust. Brick by painful brick.

And then.

Vicky.

One moment he was tracing the curve of {{user}}’s hipbone with his fingers. The next, a pure, sharp, unfiltered memory struck his frontal lobe.

He remembered Vicky, but not as the manipulative phantom described by {{user}} and the tabloids, but his Vicky. Or the one he had allowed himself to believe was his. The first kiss in the recording studio when he told {{user}} he was working late. That illicit electric thrill. The way Vicky made him feel powerful, rebellious, adored in a way {{user}} never had.

The memory had no context; it brought only a wave of visceral disgust that tightened his stomach.

Then the dam broke.

The memories came flooding, one after another, each a nail in the coffin of the man he had pretended to be for the past eight months:

• Vicky’s laughter, high and artificial, as her small hand slid possessively along his thigh under the table. “She doesn’t deserve you, Marcus. She doesn’t see you. She takes you for granted.” His sheer, arrogant certainty that he was entitled to this, to her admiration, to this glossy new thing.
• The first time he fucked Vicky—not made love to her, but fucked—in a sterile hotel room, guilt was a sharp, thrilling spice.
• Lies, carefully crafted for {{user}}: late nights at the studio, urgent business trips.
• A message from Vicky while he slept beside {{user}}: I miss the way you feel inside me. When are you going to leave that boring bitch? The cold knot of guilt in his stomach, quickly smothered by a surge of arrogant defiance.
• He remembered the exact moment he sat across from {{user}} with a stone face: “I’m leaving. It’s Vicky.” The look on {{user}}’s face, not only pain but the deep, total collapse of faith.
• Divorce papers he signed under the influence of pills and cocaine. Anxiety drowned in vodka and in Vicky’s cunt.

And then the life that followed. The life he had chosen:

• Vicky’s penthouse, the weight of her perfect naked body on him. Her teeth on his earlobe. “Tell me you love me more than her.” “Yes.” He said it. He meant it.
• VIP boxes where Vicky sat in his lap before the cameras. Cocaine, whisky, her tongue tasting of poison. Holidays in Milan and Ibiza where he had everything and felt nothing. Admiration from strangers, emptiness inside.
• Escalating brutal fights with Vicky, a twisted parody of passion. Her praise a drug he craved even when it made him sick.
• Hollow victories, Grammy awards that became nothing but polished metal, chart positions that were empty numbers.
• The gnawing void in his gut that even her relentless adoration could not fill. Sunken eyes in the mirror each morning, a man staring at a stranger he despised.
• The night of the crash. Vicky screaming into the phone, accusing him of looking at {{user}}’s photo on his phone at night. A half-empty bottle of whisky on the passenger seat. His own furious roar. The blinding glare of oncoming headlights. The screech of twisting metal. Then darkness.

The world spun, acid rose in his throat and cold sweat broke across his body. Memories of five years of life slammed back into his skull with brutal clarity and he felt he might faint. He forced himself to slow his heavy breathing, to suppress the nausea. His hands tightened around {{user}}. Tighter than they should have. {{user}} stirred in her sleep and Marcus went still.

He remembered. But he also remembered why he was here. In this bed.

Amnesia had not been a tragedy. It had been a miraculous, undeserved grace. {{user}} had taken him back because the monster who had done those things was gone from his mind. Erased. In his place stood this repentant man, worthy of a second chance.

Now he knew. He absolutely did not deserve that second chance.

The man {{user}} was slowly letting back into her heart was a fiction. The real Marcus Keller was the drunken, arrogant bastard who had betrayed her, lied to her, and nearly killed himself in a fit of toxic rage.

What am I supposed to do? the question screamed in his head. Tell her? Watch love and trust in her eyes turn to coldness and caution? Watch what they’ve built slowly dissolve?

Or...

A dreadful, desperate, cowardly thought took root. Keep the secret.

He made the calculation in a split second, a decision born of pure, desperate cowardice.

{{user}} turned in his arms and looked at him. Marcus kissed her before she could say anything. Desperately. Deeply. As if he could keep her by the sheer intensity of that kiss.

When he pulled back, he buried his face in her hair to hide the panic that must have been burning in his eyes. “Sorry, love,” he whispered hoarsely. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just... confusing dreams. The doctor said it might be a side effect. But it’s better now. I just need you close.”

His heart pounded against her chest. This was home. And he would lie, cheat, and steal to stay there.

.