He couldn't recognize me after my face was disfigured by the fire

In college, I, Sarah Stewart, used money to sustain my relationship with Thomas Hamilton for three years.
The day my family went bankrupt, I forced him to spend one last night with me.
That night, a fire broke out at the hotel. To save him, half my face was burned, and I lay unconscious in the hospital for three days.
The first thing I did after waking up was drag my still-healing body to find him.
But just outside his hospital room, I heard his friends celebrating.
"She was ugly to begin with, and now with her face ruined and her family bankrupt, she's even less worthy of Thomas."
"Thomas, didn't you apply for that exchange program abroad? What a perfect chance to get rid of her. Why are you still tangled up with her?"
That familiar, cold voice responded indifferently: "Just fooling around, that's all."
I froze in place, my gaze falling on the glass tiles that reflected my disfigured face.
My chest felt as if it had split open with a bottomless chasm, cold wind howling through it, making my heart heavy and bitter with pain.
I left New York, thinking I'd never see Thomas again.
Five years later, to scrape together tuition for my daughter Esther, I was introduced to work as a tutor in an affluent neighborhood.
Fate brought me face to face with him once more.
He was gently instructing a boy: "I have to go to work now. Listen to your teacher, okay?"
After all these years, he had built a family and career.
And I had shed my scars and subtly altered my appearance.
He turned and nodded at me politely, not recognizing me.
*****
The moment I stepped into the living room, I froze completely.
Thomas rose to greet me, rimless glasses perched on his straight nose, making him appear even more distinguished and aloof.
"Hello, you must be Ms. Fields. Please come in." His tone was polite, his expression calm and unruffled.
Only then did I realize that Thomas was my employer.
The impoverished student I had once controlled with money, forced into submission, had now achieved success.
And apparently, he had a child too.
"Samuel, say hello to Ms. Fields." He gently patted the boy's shoulder, his voice tender.
I suppressed the urge to turn and flee, steadying my voice: "Hello, Samuel. I'm Ms. Fields, and I'll be teaching you piano."
I couldn't help but look at Thomas.
His gaze remained on the child, a smile playing at his lips, completely different from his earlier detachment—clearly a loving father.
I was led to the music room, and the moment I pushed open the door, my breath caught.
In the center of the room sat a piano. It was the birthday gift my grandfather had won for me at an Italian auction.
Inside the lid, a faint scratch was barely visible.
I had carved it with my fingernail as a child during a tantrum about practicing.
Later, when my family went bankrupt, this million-dollar piano was seized and sold.
Now it appeared here, like an absurd reunion.
Memories flooded back like a tide. I forced down my churning emotions and began today's lesson.
Samuel was cheerful and suddenly looked up at me: "Ms. Fields, could you play something else? I'm tired of hearing all these pieces."
I nodded, and the moment my fingers touched the keys, it felt like awakening sleeping memories.
A familiar melody flowed from my fingertips.
It was an obscure pop song—one I had insisted Thomas play with me during our relationship.
When the piece ended, I looked up in a daze to find Thomas standing in the doorway.
Half his face was hidden in shadow, his expression unreadable.
"Ms. Fields," his voice was cold as frost, "why did you choose that piece? It's not really suitable for a beginner, is it?"
Samuel hugged Thomas's leg, explaining innocently: "Dad, I already learned everything Ms. Fields taught me today! I asked her to play something random."
After a pause, he added: "But what a coincidence—you know how to play this song too, right?"
My heart clenched painfully, regretting that I'd gotten too carried away and forgotten my place.
Thomas was silent for a moment, then said coldly: "I don't know it. It's nothing worth listening to anyway."
In that instant, it felt like someone had stomped on my chest.
To him, that relationship had been nothing but a humiliating transaction.
As I was leaving, he suddenly said: "Where do you live? I can give you a ride if it's on my way."
"No need." My refusal was almost instinctive. "I can get home on my own."
He insisted: "It's hard to get a cab around here, and it's far from the subway station. I was heading out anyway."
With him putting it that way, I had no choice but to get in his car.
The car was quiet. He focused on driving while I closed my eyes and pretended to rest.
When we reached my destination, he politely opened the door for me, just as Esther came to meet me.
I instinctively moved to shield her behind me.
He glanced at Esther, then at me, asking calmly: "She's your daughter? She looks about the same age as Samuel."

I kept my head down and said, "Yes, she's four years old. She just started kindergarten this past Christmas."
The Christmas Esther was born, I fled abroad, and didn't register our marriage until a year later.
Actually, Esther is already five years old.
As soon as I finished speaking, someone suddenly wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me out from under Thomas's umbrella and into a familiar embrace.
"Daddy!" Esther looked up with her little face, calling out happily.
I froze, turning to meet Rafael Wright's smiling eyes.
Thomas frowned slightly, looking at me: "Your husband?"
I didn't answer. Rafael and I only had a marriage of convenience, just to make it easier for Esther to attend school.
But Rafael smiled and responded, nodding politely to Thomas: "Thank you for bringing my wife home. It's raining pretty hard—drive carefully."
He handed me the umbrella, scooped up Esther with one arm, and wrapped his other arm around my shoulders as we turned toward the residential complex.
I didn't dare look back until we reached the apartment building.
The entrance was empty—Thomas had already driven away.
The following days passed peacefully, and I never saw him again.
Until that day when I went to class and happened to run into Samuel fussing for food, acting cute in Thomas's arms: "Daddy, I want to eat your homemade spaghetti!"
Thomas had no choice but to get up and go to the kitchen.
Samuel pulled me along to follow.
When the stove ignited with a "pop" and the flames leaped up, my whole body went rigid. I instinctively crouched down, covering my ears tightly with both hands.
"Ms. Fields, what's wrong?" Samuel hugged me in panic.
I stared wide-eyed as the dancing flames in my vision seemed to transform into the inferno that had consumed everything that night.
The searing pain on my face, the fire on my body that wouldn't go out no matter how I tried to put it out... memories flooded back like a tide.
My throat tightened, and I almost screamed out loud.
Suddenly, the flames went out.
Thomas stood in front of me, his voice low and clear: "You're afraid of fire?"
He helped me sit down at the dining table.
In that moment, the figure who had rescued me from the fire overlapped with the man before me.
I shuddered violently, struggling to suppress the surging emotions, my voice hoarse: "I'm fine, I just need to rest for a moment."
He didn't leave, just stood there. Under his stern features, his deep gaze locked onto me: "Ms. Fields, have you experienced a fire? Post-traumatic stress disorder?"
My heart raced wildly, my breathing so rapid I could barely control it: "It was something from childhood, long past."
He paused, seeming to accept this explanation, and didn't press further.
A moment later, Thomas finished making the spaghetti.
Samuel stood on a little stool to add seasoning, and I got up to help.
Carrying two plates of spaghetti back, I unconsciously placed one plate in front of Thomas.
"Mr. Hamilton, thank you for letting me stay for dinner." I said politely, just wanting to finish the lesson and leave as quickly as possible.
But I didn't notice that Thomas's body stiffened slightly.
He looked at me quietly, his voice low and measured: "Ms. Fields, my spaghetti—you didn't add parsley to it, did you?"
I was stunned, looking down at the parsley flakes on my own plate of spaghetti.
I suddenly understood—I had forgotten to add it because I was used to his preferences. He didn't like anything added, especially parsley.
Thomas looked at me, his gaze profound.
I quickly explained: "Sorry, Mr. Hamilton, I was focused on Samuel's portion and mine, and overlooked yours. Do you eat parsley? I'll add some right away."
I smiled awkwardly, but my heart was already pounding frantically, afraid he might notice something unusual.
"No need," he said quietly, "coincidentally, I don't eat it."
He picked up his fork and gently tossed the spaghetti.
I quietly breathed a sigh of relief, keeping my head down and silently stirring my spaghetti, not daring to look at him again.

Over the next few days, I keenly sensed Thomas testing me step by step. That day when he drove me home, he asked casually as I got out of the car: "Ms. Fields, is your husband very busy?"
My body stiffened, and I mumbled a vague "Mm-hmm," then hastily added: "It's just a short walk, I can make it back on my own." My voice was so soft it was almost like talking to myself.
He didn't respond, just silently rolled up the window. After walking a few steps, I noticed the car behind me still hadn't started. Through that opaque glass, I could feel his gaze fixed intently on me. I lowered my head and quickly texted Rafael, urging him to come down and pick me up.
When Rafael came rushing breathlessly out of the building entrance, I immediately threw myself into his arms, wrapping my hands tightly around his waist with a brilliant, happy smile on my face. We walked into the residential complex together, and I glanced sideways toward the street corner—sure enough, Thomas's car had disappeared.
In that moment, I felt like a drowning person who had finally crawled ashore, gasping desperately for air as my whole body went limp with relief.
Ever since Rafael and I started appearing together more frequently, Thomas had noticeably grown much quieter. Until that day when I took Esther to the amusement park and happened to run into Thomas and Samuel at the entrance. The two children immediately grabbed hands and ran off happily to play together.
Thomas stood in front of a small booth, his gaze falling on a cat plushie, when he suddenly turned to ask me: "Ms. Fields, do you like cats?"
I froze, unable to answer. He looked away, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth: "I never really liked cats before—they annoyed me whenever I saw them. But my wife loves them, so gradually I started to like these little creatures too."
He gestured to show the size, his tone gentle: "You know what? We have a little cat at home that she raised, and it's grown this big now."
My heart sank heavily. I knew what he was referring to. Back in college, I had found a skinny stray cat on a stormy night, foolishly thinking that raising a life together would deepen our bond. But before long, the cat disappeared. I frantically asked him where the cat had gone, and he only said coldly: "I don't like cats. Don't bring that kind of thing home again."
So it wasn't that he didn't like cats—he just didn't like me.
Time quickly passed to noon, and Thomas checked his watch, suggesting we take the children out for lunch together. Seeing Esther's hungry expression, I nodded in agreement. The table was laden with dishes, but I couldn't taste anything, just wanting this ordeal to end quickly.
Finally, as we were about to leave, I was preparing to take Esther's hand when suddenly there was a loud "bang" from the kitchen. Upon hearing the explosion, my whole body shuddered, and the next moment I was frozen in place. Thick smoke kept billowing toward us like countless giant hands choking my throat, suffocating me completely.
The crowd erupted in screams, and panicked people surged like a tide, pushing and shoving me to the ground.
"Run! There's a fire!"
I couldn't make out who was speaking. Esther seemed to be crying, but her voice sounded muffled, as if filtered through a thick curtain of water. The scar on my face suddenly tore with searing pain, as if that fire had never been extinguished and was still burning my flesh.
Just as my consciousness was about to collapse, a hand broke through the smoke and gripped my wrist firmly and powerfully. His deep voice rang in my ear:
"Sarah, let's go!"
Within seconds, the alarm was lifted and the fire was brought under control. Thomas supported my shoulder, his voice kept low: "It's okay now. Are you hurt?"
I was stunned, my heartbeat skipping a beat. Because he had called me "Sarah."
I wondered: "Does he recognize me? Or was it just my imagination?"
I didn't dare think deeper and immediately lowered my head, hastily excusing myself under the pretense that the child was frightened. To avoid him, I even took time off voluntarily. [Sorry, Mr. Hamilton, Esther hasn't been feeling well lately. I won't be able to come for lessons the next two days.]
Thomas stared at his phone screen, his brow furrowed. He couldn't understand why he would sometimes have fleeting moments where he mistook this complete stranger for Sarah. Sarah had been gone for five years now. During these five years, he had scoured every street and alley in New York, using all his resources to search for any trace of her, but found nothing. She bore no resemblance to Sarah whatsoever—she couldn't be Sarah. He let out a self-deprecating laugh, crushing that absurd thought, and started the engine to leave. But his hand suddenly froze.
He saw Rafael sneaking out the door, and a few minutes later, a man approached to meet her. When their eyes met, Rafael's face showed undisguised shyness and joy, then took the man's hand. Thomas felt a chill run through his entire body, a cold dread shooting from his feet to the top of his head, followed by a surge of rage.
Kayla's husband was gay? How dare he? As a father, as a husband, he was actually cheating on his family, secretly meeting with another man? His chest heaving violently, Thomas gripped the steering wheel tightly. He made a phone call, speaking through gritted teeth: "I want you to investigate. Dig up everything about Rafael and Kayla's marriage. How did they get married? When? Is their registration even legitimate? I want it all uncovered!"
*****
I didn't see Thomas again until seven days later. He had sent a message saying he wanted to take Samuel out, so lessons would be suspended for a few days. That suited me perfectly. But when I finally pulled myself together and stepped into Thomas's house again, I discovered Samuel wasn't there. In the vast living room, only Thomas sat alone, holding a cup of cold coffee.
"Mr. Hamilton," I forced myself to remain calm, "is Samuel in the music room?"
He slowly looked up, his voice cold as ice: "He's not home."
At his words, I instinctively shuddered. He stood up and walked toward me step by step. His tall figure, backlit, completely enveloped me in shadow. Unease wrapped around my heart like vines, tightening with each moment. I instinctively stepped back twice, forcing a smile: "Since he's not here, I'll head back then."
"Sarah." His voice was heavy, carrying a barely perceptible tremor.
I froze in place, my blood seeming to turn to ice. In the silent living room, only his heavy breathing echoed through the air. After a moment, he suddenly let out a cold laugh, his voice hoarse: "No, I should still call you Kayla, shouldn't I? Did you enjoy playing me for a fool all this time?"

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