**Diary Entry – A Stranger Claimed to Be My Fiancé After I Lost My Memory – But My Dog’s Reaction Uncovered the Truth**
You never imagine disaster will strike—until it does. It was just an ordinary evening in London. I’d been at a pub with my best mate, singing along to some old tunes, driving home with the windows down. Then, in a blink, everything shattered. A speeding car swerved around the corner and ploughed straight 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 lucky—no permanent damage. But luck felt like a cruel joke. My memory was patchy. I knew my family, my closest friends, my dog. I could picture my flat in Camden, but not the address. But the worst part? I didn’t recognise *him*.
The man who’d apparently never left my side. The man who claimed to be my fiancé. Oliver, he said his name was. To me, he was a stranger.
“Why doesn’t she remember *me*? She remembers everyone else!” Oliver demanded of the doctor.
“Selective amnesia works that way sometimes,” the doctor replied calmly. “Fragments remain, others vanish.”
“We’ve been together two years. Engaged. Wedding planned. What am I supposed to do now?” Oliver’s voice cracked.
“Talk to her. Show her photos. Rebuild the memories,” the doctor suggested before leaving.
From then on, Oliver arrived daily with evidence—photos of us in Brighton, tickets from West End shows, even the engagement ring. But no matter how many times he recounted our first date at a cosy café in York, my mind stayed blank.
“I’m sorry,” I said, frustrated. “None of this feels familiar.”
“We’ll get through this,” he promised, squeezing my hand.
Mum, of course, was relentless. “How could you keep Oliver a secret?” she hissed during visiting hours.
“Mum, I *don’t remember*,” I snapped.
“He says you were waiting to tell me after the proposal. But you’ve always been cagey.”
Days passed in a blur of Oliver’s stories and Mum’s scepticism until the doctors finally discharged me. Oliver drove me home—*our* home, apparently.
All I cared about was seeing Baxter, my border terrier. The moment we pulled up, his frantic barking echoed from inside. But as Oliver opened the door, Baxter lunged, snarling, teeth bared.
“Get him off me!” Oliver shouted, shoving Baxter away.
“Baxter! *Enough*!” I commanded, scooping him up. He quieted, trembling in my arms, but the moment I stepped near Oliver, he erupted again.
“Put him in the garden,” Oliver snapped.
“Why? He’s never acted like this before.”
“He’s never liked me. Your mum looked after him while you were in hospital—maybe he’s forgotten me.”
That didn’t sit right. Baxter hadn’t forgotten *me*. I spent an hour in the garden with him, tossing his favourite squeaky toy, but the second we went inside, the barking started again.
“This isn’t normal,” I muttered.
Oliver shrugged. “Dogs are unpredictable.”
Later, I asked for my phone. “Smashed in the crash,” he said. “I’ll replace it tomorrow.”
“Good. I want to see Emily.”
Oliver stiffened. “Not yet. You need rest.”
“The doctor never said that.”
“Just—wait a bit.”
That night, I slept in the spare room with Baxter. Oliver insisted he usually slept outside, but I’d *never* have allowed that. Something was off.
The new phone Oliver gave me had a different number. I couldn’t access my socials—no passwords. I was trapped, chaperoned everywhere.
Then, one afternoon, I overheard Oliver arguing at the door. “Not yet!” he hissed before slamming it shut.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Wrong address.”
Later, alone, I rifled through his things—nothing. Then, a knock. Emily stood there, pale. “I’m scared,” I blurted.
“He wouldn’t let me near you,” she whispered. “Kate… Oliver doesn’t exist.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“I searched. No records, no photos. Either you hid him from everyone, or he’s lying.”
Before she could finish, a courier delivered an envelope. Inside—a prenup. If we divorced, Oliver got half my inheritance.
“Bloody hell,” Emily breathed.
“How did he even *know* about Gran’s money?”
We called the police. Emily hid while I waited. Baxter’s furious barking signalled Oliver’s return.
“Got the paperwork?” he asked cheerfully.
“You’d take half my assets?”
“Only if we split. But we won’t.” He leaned in—then the door burst open.
The police arrested him on the spot. He screamed, thrashing, hurling curses.
“His real name’s George,” an officer explained. “Ex-nurse. Worked at a care home.”
A chill ran through me. “Gran stayed at one before she passed.”
“That’s how he targeted you.”
As they drove him away, Baxter licked my hand. Without him, I’d never have doubted Oliver—*George*. God knows what might’ve happened.
