The VP’s Plus Size Captive

Kayla

Someone was following me again.

I had become familiar with that feeling over the past few weeks, ever since my face had been plastered across television screens and news websites, accompanied by accusations that I had killed a man on my operating table.

I had gone from being a respected, highly skilled surgeon to a woman strangers felt entitled to spit on, threaten, and condemn without knowing what had actually happened that night.

I was innocent, but nobody seemed interested in hearing that. I had stopped going to familiar places, changed where I slept, and learned to keep my head down whenever someone stared for too long.

So when I noticed the man behind me matching my pace, I told myself not to panic. It could have been a coincidence.

People walked in the same direction every day.

I crossed the road, paused outside a closed shop, and pretended to check my phone.

When I glanced over my shoulder, he was still there. My fingers tightened around the glass screen. Don’t be paranoid. Just keep walking.

I called my friend, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Kayla, where are you?” she asked the moment she picked up, her voice laced with concern. “Are you okay? You sound strange. Please, tell me where you are.”

“I’m on my way,” I whispered, trying to sound normal despite the terror choking my throat. “Can you stay on the phone with me for a few minutes? I think someone might be following—”

A sudden movement behind me caught my eye. The man had drawn closer, far too fast.

I quickened my pace, my eyes searching the dimly lit street for an open shop, a security guard, anyone who might be able to help if my suspicion proved right.

I never reached the next junction.

An arm locked around my waist like an iron vice, and a coarse hand clamped over my mouth before I could scream.

My phone slipped from my fingers, shattering against the curb as I was dragged backward into the narrow, dark passage between two buildings.

I fought with everything I had. I drove my heel down onto an instep, twisted hard enough to wrench my shoulder, and bit down savagely on the hand pressed against my lips.

Someone cursed, and the grip around me loosened just long enough for me to stumble forward.

I barely managed two steps before a second man seized my hair and yanked me backward. A fiery pain shot across my scalp.

“Let me go!” I yelled as his grip slipped from my mouth, my voice sharp despite the panic. “Get your hands off me!”

A sharp blow struck the side of my face, sending me crashing sideways into the brick wall.

For a moment, all I could see were bright spots dancing across my vision.

Three men surrounded me, their bare faces fully exposed under the streetlights, unbothered by the risk of recognition because they believed an accusation gave them permission to do whatever they wanted.

One of them crouched in front of me, his mouth twisting with disgust. “Look at her,” he spat. “The famous doctor.”

My stomach lurched. I knew that tone. I had heard it from strangers outside my apartment, from reporters who had shoved cameras into my face, and from men who felt no need to hide their features when terrorizing a woman the public already condemned.

“I’m innocent,” I snapped, raising both arms to protect my head. “I didn’t kill him! I did everything humanly possible to save his life!”

“Shut your mouth!” he barked. “You expect us to believe that rubbish? A man went into your operating room alive, and he came out dead.”

“I didn’t kill him!” My voice was raw, but I glared right back at his uncovered face through the gloom. “You don’t know what happened in that theater!”

The man standing behind me grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back until a sharp gasp escaped me. “A fat pig like you should never have been allowed near a hospital, much less a surgical theater!”

Another man gave a cold, grating laugh, his eyes sweeping over my body with deliberate contempt. “Look at the state of you! You couldn’t even control what you put in your own mouth, but you thought a fat cow like you had any right to decide who lives and who dies?”

“Look at all this useless weight,” the first man snarled, landing a hard shove that sent me stumbling onto the brick wall. “You don't deserve to hold a scalpel. You don't deserve to be in an operating room!”

Shame flared hot beneath my skin, but I refused to let their cheap insults break me. I had spent my life owning my curves, enduring the subtle judgment of a medical industry that assumed a plus-size woman couldn't possess discipline, and proving every single critic wrong through sheer brilliance.

“My weight has nothing to do with my skill in the theater,” I gasped, my chest heaving. “You don’t know a damn thing about me or what I did in that room!”

“Everybody knows what you did,” the man in front of me snarled. “You killed a man people loved, you fat murderer!”

He struck me again. I fell hard against the cold pavement, a blinding pain tearing through my side as I tried to break my fall.

They kept coming. A kick landed against my ribs, accompanied by vicious insults about my body, followed by another brutal blow that caught the side of my head. I curled inward, shielding my vital organs, gritting my teeth through the agony.

The years I spent saving strangers, working fourteen-hour shifts on my feet, making split-second decisions under pressure. None of that mattered to them. They had seen my face on the news, mocked my size, and decided I deserved to be beaten in an alley.

“Stop!” I demanded through gritted teeth, struggling to haul myself upright despite the pain. “I didn’t murder anyone!”

“We don't care if you killed him Fatty. Your face annoys me. Your weight is disgusting!” He shoved me away, and my head struck the asphalt.

The impact left a high-pitched, strange ringing in my ears. I tried to crawl toward the light of the street, my palms scraping raw against the rough pavement. I could barely breathe, but my fingers clawed at the ground, refusing to give up.

“Please,” I whispered, my vision swimming. “I’m innocent--"

Someone muttered a final curse. Then a brutal blow landed at the base of my skull, and the world tilted violently around me.

Darkness crept rapidly across my vision, swallowing the streetlights whole.

When I woke, a steady, rhythmic electronic beep was the first thing I heard.

My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and a dull, relentless ache throbbed inside my skull. I tried to move, but pain flared through my side and head, forcing a sharp breath through my teeth.

Blurred white ceiling tiles hovered above me. The air smelled strongly of antiseptic, and a thin clear tube ran from my hand to a bag of saline. I stared at it, taking in the IV bag and the blue gown covering my body.

My chest heaved into a knot of sheer disorientation. Why am I here? What happened to me? I tried to reach back into my mind, but my thoughts hit a terrifying, absolute blank wall.

The door clicked open, and a doctor entered holding a tablet. “You’re awake. That’s good. Please don’t try to sit up yet.” He checked the wall monitor before looking down at me. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

“My head hurts,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “And my side. Everything hurts. What happened to me?”

He pulled a chair closer. “My name is Dr. Harris. You were brought in with a severe head injury, bruised ribs, and extensive soft-tissue trauma. We had to stabilize your blood pressure quickly. Can you tell me your full name?”

I opened my mouth, but the answer didn’t come. I searched my mind, waiting for a name, an address, a face—anything. Panic spiked hot and sharp up my neck.

“I don’t know,” I breathed, my eyes widening with sudden, suffocating terror.

Dr. Harris paused. “You don’t know your name?”

“No.” My fingers dug frantically into the edge of the cotton sheet. “I know I have one, but I can’t reach it. It’s just... gone.” Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and humiliating. “Doctor, why can’t I remember? What happened to me?"

Dr. Harris explained gently that the blow to my head had induced retrograde amnesia, though he couldn't yet say how long it would last.

“So I might never remember who I am?” My voice cracked, small and utterly defenseless.

“I’m not saying that,” he reassured me. “We need to monitor you and run tests. Some memories come back with time, but I can’t promise you when.”

I shook my head, tears spilling down my bruised cheeks. “You don’t understand. I don’t know if I have a mother or a father. I don’t know if there’s anyone out there looking for me, or if I’m completely alone in this world. What am I supposed to do if I don’t even know who to look for?”

He urged me to breathe and rest, but the fear remained, cold and paralyzing, before he stepped out to review my charts.

After he left, I asked the attending nurse for a handheld mirror.

When I lifted it, a stranger stared back. Her hair was matted, a bandage wrapped around her scalp, and dark bruises bloomed across her cheekbone. Her lips were split and swollen. I recognized the reflection as my own physical form, but there was no history attached to it.

“Has anyone been looking for me?” I asked the nurse, my voice breaking. “Did anyone call?”

“I haven’t heard anything yet, but the doctor is checking your details,” she murmured gently. “A gentleman did bring you to the trauma bay, though. He left his details and said he’d be back.”

I held onto that tiny thread of hope. An hour later, distinct, deliberate footsteps stopped outside my room.

The door pushed open, and a man entered, flanked by two armed guards.

The lead man was massive, broad-shouldered, imposing, dressed in a dark jacket over a black shirt.

Dark ink covered his forearms and climbed up his neck. His dark hair was neatly cut, but his posture radiated cold, dangerous authority.

He approached the bed, his eyes scanning my face, taking in my bandaged head and swollen lip.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. His voice dropped low, rough, and threaded with a quiet command.

“Terrified, if we’re being completely honest,” I answered, swallowing hard as I tried to mask my trembling hands with a show of defiance. “Are you the one who brought me in?”

“Yes.” He pulled a chair over and sat down, resting his forearms on his knees.

I studied him sharply, searching my blank mind for a single spark of recognition. Nothing. “Do you know who I am?”

His gaze held mine, unblinking. “You don’t remember?”

“If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here crying over a blank memory,” I shot back, my voice wavering despite my best efforts to sound strong. “The doctor says I have amnesia. Please... if you know me, tell me anything.”

He studied me for a silent, agonizing beat.

“Your name is Anya.”

I tested the sound in my head. Anya. It felt light, empty, completely foreign.

“Anya what?” I demanded, gripping the sheet.

“Anya Bellamy.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed, narrowing my eyes. “Because that name doesn't trigger a single firing neuron in my brain.”

“You suffered a traumatic brain injury,” he noted smoothly. “You're confused.”

“I might have amnesia, but I’m not stupid,” I countered, my frustration flaring through the fear. “Who are you? Are we friends? Do I have family?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the two men guarding the door before returning to mine with unyielding intensity.

“I’m your husband, Anya. And as far as I know, I’m the only family you have left.”