Sweet Romance15 min read
How Do You Not Recognize Me?
ButterPicks12 views
I woke up in a sweat, my heart hammering so loud I thought someone was pounding on my ribs.
"Do you want me to stop if it hurts?" a voice, low and dangerous, whispered like a promise and a threat at once.
I blinked. The room was dim. My fingers were still clutching a silk tie; the memory of last night came back in hot flashes. Then there was a knock on the door so furious it felt like thunder.
"Dream! Dream, open the door! Open up!" the voice outside banged. "I told you to give that boyfriend up for your sister! Open the door!"
The door crashed inward and a woman stormed in like steam, screaming venom. She was red-faced and loud. "You think you have guts? You let that man ruin my daughter's reputation—you're the problem!"
I slid off the bed and felt my legs shake. "It was her fault!" I snapped before I could stop myself.
"What are you saying?" the woman hissed. Her words came faster now, like thrown knives. "You think we brought you home out of kindness? I told you months ago—you're not our birth daughter. We picked you from the orphanage because the biological girl has a disease. You were supposed to be her blood. That's all you were to us!"
I stood frozen. The room felt narrower. I had lived my life believing I belonged, bathing in their small comforts and their rules, never suspecting I was a tool. Tears crawled up my throat, hot and angry.
"You let him go to my sister! You made her try to kill herself!" the woman screamed. "I told you to hand over that boyfriend to my daughter. You ruined her! Now get out—get out of my house!"
I packed a bag without thinking. My hands moved on autopilot. I left their house with the simple, crushing feeling that my life had been rearranged by someone else's calculations.
"Is she really leaving?" a pale girl in the next room asked, her weakness as deliberate as her tear-stained cheeks. She clung to her hospital gown and played the part well. "Good. She never deserved anything."
The insults kept coming. I stepped out down the street, dragging my bag, and saw a black car gliding toward me. Exhaustion and the stupid habit of trusting people made me step inside without thinking.
The car drove me to a mansion I had never seen. I told myself it was a mistake. The driver did not reply. He opened the door and guided me into a grand hall.
"Call him 'Grandfather,'" the driver said, crisp like an order.
"Grandfather?" I breathed, confused.
An old man stood with white hair and a cane. The moment he turned he smiled and cried out, "My granddaughter! My granddaughter-in-law!"
"Not—" I began, hand on the door. I almost turned away.
A tall man came in then. He moved like someone who owned attention. He bent down slightly when he saw me, and his voice dropped to a velvet rumble.
"How? You don't remember me?" he said.
It was the voice from the hotel. The voice that had haunted my sleep. My face prickled.
"Who are you?" I asked, stupid question for the situation.
He smiled, slow and confident. "I'm Sterling Turner."
I should have known better than to step fully into another person's orbit. But I did. I let his hands touch my waist, his fingers steady and warm. There was a magnetism about him that made my spine tremble.
"You scared me!" the old man said, wagging his cane at Sterling. "Don't frighten my granddaughter-in-law away!"
"Granddaughter-in-law?" I repeated under my breath. My own life had been twisted and handed to me like a script I didn't write.
Sterling's gaze flicked toward a folder a servant held out. "She had a pregnancy test at the hospital yesterday," the servant said. "Four weeks."
My world stopped. The nausea I'd been feeling, the sudden taste of metal every morning—pregnancy? I had gone to the clinic and forgotten the results. The page in the folder told another story.
Sterling turned to me with a grin both gentle and commanding. "We should register the marriage. Right now."
"Wait, what? We barely—"
"You're right," he said. "We barely know each other. But we also barely need to. If you are carrying my child, you belong to this family now. We won't leave a child without a name."
The old man clapped. "Go register! Do it this instant. I won't have a grandchild as an unregistered orphan!"
"Sterling," I started, panic clawing at my words. "I got kicked out two minutes ago. I'm not ready to get married to a man whose name I just learned this morning—"
He closed the distance between us, his hand capturing my wrist. His fingers were strong and oddly tender. "You think I need an explanation. You came into my life. I don't want to leave you to the street."
"Money," I said, my voice a little savage. "Why not give me a pile of cash and send me away? That would be cleaner."
Sterling's mouth twitched. "You want money? You could have it. But money won't keep you warm at night. And it won't teach you how to live in a place like this, Dream."
"Don't call me Dream," I muttered. It slipped out. The name felt wrong on his tongue and right in my chest at the same time.
He released my hand and signaled to the driver. "Stay with her. We'll arrange the papers."
He carried me like an absurd contradiction—protective, impatient, amused. He set me gently on his bed, the mattress still fragrant with him. I remembered that first reckless night at the hotel and shivered at the thought of its intimacy. Now, legally bound or not, something new had begun.
The next morning, a tray of food was waiting like proof that I hadn't imagined it. My phone rang with an unfamiliar number. I let it go to voicemail until the call repeated.
"Hello?" I answered, cautious.
"You're awake." Sterling's voice, deep and smooth. "I'm sorry I had to run last night. Business called."
"Sterling?" I said, trying to keep my voice even.
"When can I pick you up? Ten o'clock? We'll go register."
"Register?" The word tasted heavy. "Are we serious?"
He paused, then said, "Are you?"
I laughed with nerves. "I… I don't know you."
"You will," he said. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."
I told my friends Jane and Beth, and they squealed like children. "You married a billionaire?" Jane squealed.
"Call him what you like," I said. "Just don't call him rich and arrogant in front of me. I like my chances to breathe."
But life with Sterling was nothing like my old life, nor like the Hollywood image of a rich man's spouse. He took me to the registry, steady as steel beside me. Callen—the man I'd loved for three years—showed up that day too. He arrived with an expression like a storm that had been told to simmer.
"You're marrying him?" Callen spat. The contempt was thick in his throat.
"Yes," I replied. I said the word, and something inside me breathed free.
"How could you?" Callen demanded. "You owe me—"
"I owe you nothing." My voice rang clearer than I'd expected.
Sterling's smile was quiet. "Congratulations," he said to me, and to Callen he said nothing at all.
I had expected cheap victory. I had not anticipated how easy it would feel to wipe away certain chapters like a fingerprint. Callen had been my center and my hurt; now, he had become a faint ache.
We married on a rainy, absurd afternoon. Sterling drove me back to his house in his black car. We drank milk at a bar because he preferred to keep me from drinking. He gathered his friends in a corner and made a point of clearing the room for me.
"Does it bother you?" I asked when he collected my hand in his like a claim.
"What?" he said.
"All of this. Being paraded. The jewelry." I flicked my fingers at the blue diamond ring he presented me with later that day.
He slid the ring onto my finger and watched the light hold in the stone. "I like that it is mine," he said, as if that were a small thing.
I wanted to be humble. I wanted to be grateful. I also wanted to be myself.
The next weeks were chaos in both gentle and savage measures. Sterling's grandfather, Foster Herve, doted on me like I was the rightful successor to every kind story he could conjure. Huo Group's patriarch, Grant Busch, and his son Fillmore Garnier, circled like wary eagles; the business world saw engagements, alliances, and the scent of opportunity.
At the office of Huo's new branch where I had applied, people who had mocked me found themselves forced into awkward courtesy. I kept my head low and my feet steady. The department head, an earnest man named High, admired my straightforwardness and the old man's blessing gave me leverage.
"You're doing fine," Jane told me one afternoon, looking proud.
"I'm trying," I said, buckling myself to routines, to the work of proving I belonged where I wanted to be.
But I could not escape ugliness. Haisley Burke and Leticia Coleman—my so-called family—sent a photo of two older, soot-streaked people they claimed were my birth parents. Their chosen cruelty was a public display. They laughed when they said it. They were certain they'd finished me.
I didn't deny them the chance to be cruel. Instead, I picked up a phone. I had learned how to make evidence count.
"You're sure?" I asked Jane, fingers trembling.
"Yes," she said. "I'll be there."
When we walked into the hall where Haisley meant to parade her revenge, she had arranged a small crowd of friends and neighbors to stare as if at a circus act. Someone snapped a picture of those grainy shots of two older workers and shoved it into my face.
"Here, Dream. Go meet your parents," Haisley sneered.
I took the pictures and smiled in a way that happened when I had made a decision. "This is a setup," I said. I pulled out my phone and recorder. "You staged this, didn't you?"
Haisley opened her mouth, then closed it. "We made them look similar," she said dangerously. "So what if we did?"
"You picked people with the right blood type?" I asked. "You didn't test DNA. You forged a story out of spite."
She turned red, unsure now. "What are you implying?"
"I'm implying you would commit fraud to ruin me," I said.
"That's not—"
I stopped her. "I recorded you, Haisley. You told someone to spread this to ruin me." I reached for the string of messages and the livestream option on my phone. I flooded social media with the truth: the staged pictures, their drunken laughter, the line confirming they had chosen a substitute pair. The evidence came down like a curtain.
People gasped. My humiliation had been intended for the world. I made sure the world watched the truth.
Haisley tried to claim innocence, but the crowd shifted like sea. For a moment, I let the world see her unravel.
"You're insane!" she cried. "You will pay—"
"You already paid," I said. "For a long time you were an accomplice in a lie. Today, you are exposed."
The crowd murmured, phones up. "Look," someone whispered. "They planned it."
Haisley squinted, rage flaring to panic. "You're lying! You're lying—"
"No," I said softly. "Watch yourself."
She started to talk fast, then louder. "I told the truth about her being adopted—"
"Yes," I said. "You told the truth to hurt me."
"You're a thief of family," she cried. "You broke us—"
She lunged, but the guards pulled her back. I realized the power of public space: once a lie is outed, people collect and hang like flies. Haisley stumbled, the carefully cultivated composure gone. Her face crumpled, then harden to a mask.
"You will beg my forgiveness," she cried like a child. "Please, forgive me. I'm sorry!"
"No one liked by cruelty asks for help without consequence," I said.
Her mother, Leticia, had been writing messages to a list of acquaintances. When the footage of their staged adoption evidence played across phones, she grasped the edges of the truth and then plummeted.
"Please," she begged, voice trembling. "Everyone—"
People started to record everything. They snapped photos of Haisley and Leticia, who tried to cover their faces, who had planned humiliation and now demanded mercy.
At that moment the scene changed from a small, private hurt to a public reckoning. Haisley stood on a little step, trembling, while many around her whispered and recorded. She ran through stages—first confident, then worried, then enraged, then pleading.
"Turn off your phones!" she screamed to no one. She pounded a fist into her palm. "You will regret this!"
A man close by laughed and held up his phone. "You rigged this," he said. "You chose to make her small. People want to know what kind of mother you are."
Haisley tried to deny. "I didn't say that!" she blurted. "I didn't mean—"
Her words were leaking like a dam. As she babbled, the crowd's reaction changed from shock to scorn to a kind of satisfied applause. A woman I did not know—one of the neighbors—stepped forward and spat, "How could you? You pretended to be holy and you use a child."
Around her a couple of people began to chant: "Lie! Lie! Lie!"
"Shut up!" Haisley screeched, but the chant turned into laughter.
I walked past the chaos to the center of the ring. Flashbulbs popped. I felt the old hot sensation in my chest—the one that made me want to shout, to throw things. Instead, I breathed and spoke.
"Everyone," I said, voice steady even as my stomach dipped, "this family used me as a blood source. They lied about who I was so their child could get privileges. They planned humiliation. That's the truth. The rest you can decide."
Haisley covered her mouth when the cameras zoomed in, and people filmed as she marched down the steps. She went from a conspirator to a spectacle in five minutes. Once the footage went online, the tides turned hard for them. Friends backed away. People used to laugh with them now recorded Haisley's collapse, her voice cracking and then trembling into a thin plea.
She sobbed, then stood, and then she dropped to her knees. "Please," she begged, voice thin and raw. "I can't lose them. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
For a long time she rocked in public attention, the kind that does not forget. Cameras clicked; phones streamed; people took pictures, whispered, and some even applauded.
It was ugly and it was necessary. If cruelty had a public mirror, she had broken it on herself. The world watched her go from power to pleading.
"Are you happy?" someone shouted.
I was not. I had not wanted this. But I had wanted truth. And truth was the only way out.
"Not happy," I said into the sea of faces. "But free."
There were consequences beyond shame. Legal claims were filed. The university groups that once liked and then gossiped about me found a new story: one of manipulation and staged evidence. Haisley and Leticia's plan to humiliate me was now returning to them, magnified by the attention they had sought to control.
As for Callen—he was not spared. When he realized the depth of the exposure, he tried to play the wounded man, to align with Haisley in damage control. He walked into a company charity ball the following week, head high, certain his face would not be tarnished.
He did not account for Sterling.
A large projector beam flooded the ballroom. Callen gave a speech about regret and policy, voice measured. Then the screen behind him flickered and a video began to play—messages, screenshots, the hotel photos, the texts Callen had sent to Haisley. The crowd fell silent. The messages scrolled: "My wife is just an ATM," "Once I get the money, I will leave her," "I'll make sure she gets out of the way."
Callen's face shifted from smug to puzzled to pale. "Turn that off," he barked.
"Stop the projection," someone hissed. But the crowd watched. A woman in pearls gasped. Phones rose like a tide. The flash of cameras filled the hall.
Callen's fingers curled at the podium. "This is—"
"Is this true?" Sterling's voice echoed across the ballroom. Sterling stood, an enormous shadow in a tailored suit, and walked to the podium as the video continued. People craned for a better view.
Callen's smugness did what smugness does: it smashed. "No," he blurted. "This is a setup. This—"
The denial was automatic. For the first split second, he looked like a man who could still control the narrative.
"Turn the lights," Sterling said softly. "Look at the screen."
Callen's face crumpled from control to fear. The crowd whispered. Some hissed. Someone started recording and the soundboard began to hum with outrage.
"Callen," Sterling said, voice precise as a scalpel, "how many times did you promise?"
Callen's jaw worked. "I didn't—"
"Stop," Sterling said more sharply. "Don't lie here. Not to everyone."
The reaction followed the pattern: surprise, incredulity, ridicule. Callen's mouth opened, closed. He tried to laugh it off. His cheeks flushed; the skin at his temple pulsed. He reached for the podium as if it could anchor him, then slid down to his knees.
"Please," he begged, voice small and raw. "Please don't do this."
No one moved to help. People took out their phones, filming. Voices rose, not in mockery now, but in a chorus—some in anger, some in pity. But his confidence, the one that loomed when he used me and discarded others, had shattered into shards.
He went through the same stages the crowd had witnessed Haisley go through: arrogance to confusion to denial to collapse to pleas.
Someone laughed, sharply. Someone else began to clap slowly. Then the clapping built into a chorus of scorn and victory.
"Get out," Sterling said finally, his voice low and enormous. "Get out of my sight."
Callen stood, knees trembling. He stumbled away, shoulders hunched. People parted like the sea for him. There were mutters about character and ripples of commentary sending the night into a feed of gossip and condemnation.
He begged for mercy. He denied. He begged again. He grabbed at Sterling's sleeve once when Sterling passed him, looking for a path back. Sterling did not look at him. Callen fell to his knees under the chandeliers, pleading in front of hundreds, his voice breaking into raw notes.
"Please! I'm sorry! I never—"
No one answered. Phones kept filming. The video of his begging spread the next morning faster than any official statement.
Public humiliation is not a punishment by law, but it has teeth of its own. The man who had treated me like a placeholder for his pleasures now had nothing but his outcry and the memory of his own cruelty. People who had once counted him as reliable now posted his messages and laughed bitterly. He tried to explain, to prove he had changed, to rally sympathy.
There was a thread of truth: regret can be real. But the larger truth was that he had choices and had chosen wrong. In front of hundreds, he stared at the floor while strangers filmed him as if he were a spectacle. He went from predator to pitiful figure in the space of minutes.
"Don't touch me," I told the cameras as I left the ballroom. "Watch your words. Watch your deeds."
The world is a mirror that can be merciless. I had only wanted to be left alive. Instead, I had dragged my past into the light, and the light burned.
Sterling stayed by me through the aftermath, complicated and steady. He never waved a sword, but he always stood at my side. His protection was not a cage but a steady wall.
"Do you regret it?" I asked him one quiet night, the blue ring heavy on my finger like an answered prayer.
"Only that you had to lose a life to find a better one," he said. He tightened his hand on mine. "I regret anything that hurt you."
The days settled into their own rhythm. I worked at Huo's office, determined to be more than a story in someone's gossip. People watched me, some with curiosity, most with the new respect that comes from fog clearing.
One afternoon, while I was filing papers, the department filled with the rustle of whispers. Someone motioned me to the front desk. "There's a delivery for you," High said.
Two men carried boxes to our desks, distributing gift packages from my husband—Sterling Turner. Each box bore a simple card: "From Dream's husband."
My coworkers squealed, opening ribbons. I felt ridiculous and warm. The blue diamond flashed like an impossible sky.
You learn to live in two worlds at once—the world that was stolen from you and the world you build for yourself. I learned to be patient. I learned to say no to a thousand small humiliations. I learned to answer insults with better work and greater patience. I learned to choose who to trust.
But there was one last humiliation I owed myself to recover from. At a corporate banquet in which Haisley and Leticia tried to salvage reputation, I stood up and told the truth with a quiet voice.
"You made money into religion," I told the room. "And you used people as tithe. That isn't family. It's currency."
The room listened. Phones were out. People watched.
Haisley tried to respond, hysterical with shame, but the camera had already turned her into an exemplar. Her implosion was public and instructive. She went through the same stages—smugness, denial, panic, collapse, plea—each captured on the edge of a million screens.
"Don't forget," I told the cameras afterward, "that cruelty often falls on those too weak to defend themselves. If you have a voice, use it for those who do not."
Sterling squeezed my hand in the crowd, proud without being showy. He had given me the room to fight my demons and the armor to stand straight.
At home, there was the ring, and the old man's cane, and the quiet late nights where Sterling and I spoke in whispers about what we'd do for the child we had yet to meet. We would teach honesty. We would teach strength.
Sometimes I still dream about the hotel room. Sometimes I wake and feel the ghost of another woman's hand in my hair. Then I look at the blue diamond and I think of proof—of the night we claimed each other when the world had decided I belonged to someone else.
Months passed in the small miracles of firsts. I found myself learning to trust my body, to count its rhythms and its betrayals. Sterling was never cruel; he was patient, complicated, warm. He kissed my forehead when the nausea hit. He hummed soft songs he had invented. He was sometimes annoyingly confident about everything, but his touch was a harbor.
When Callen tried to slither back into my life one last time, public judgement waited for him. People remember cruelty longer than you hope. He begged in empty rooms. Cameras filmed. The world had changed for him.
I stood at a gallery opening, Sterling to my right, the blue diamond catching a spotlight. The man was there—Callen—trying to speak with me in a gentler voice than he'd ever used.
"Dream," he said, voice small. "Please. I'm sorry. I was a fool."
I smiled in a way that was both tender and implacable. "You had every chance to be a man," I said. "You chose not to."
He went pale like someone with a fever. "Please—"
"No." The word was soft and the finality of it felt like a hand on a heart, steady and secure. He staggered as if struck, then lowered his head.
Around us, the gallery hummed. My life with Sterling was not perfect but it was honest. We walked home that evening past the river, and I held his hand like a declaration.
"Do you ever think we met before?" I asked him lightly, because sometimes the edges of my memory slipped into the sense that things had happened before.
He squeezed my hand. "Sometimes I think I always knew you."
We reached the front door. There on the hallway table Sterling had placed a small, antique watch. He winked when he handed it to me.
"I want you to remember tonight," he said. "Tick by tick."
I slid the watch into my palm. It chimed like a promise.
I keep the ring in a drawer now. Not because I will throw it away, but because sometimes I need to see it in the light and remember the moment I stopped being someone else's plan.
"Do you regret any of it?" Sterling asked me once as we stood looking at the city.
"I regret that you had to see my pain," I said. "But I don't regret standing up."
He kissed my forehead. "Good. Then keep your head high."
At night, when everything else is quiet, I sometimes reach into that drawer. The blue gem warms in my hand. It is not what saved me. It is a reminder that I was brave enough to step out of a false life and into something I could call mine.
And if anyone ever asks me what saved me, I will say: the courage to speak, the men who sheltered me, the friends who believed, and the ring that became a promise—not of ownership, but of being chosen.
The End
— Thank you for reading —