Chapter 1: Divorce Papers and Amnesia

My husband lost his memory. He tossed a thirty-million-dollar check at me and told me he wanted a divorce. All I could do was sign the papers, tears stinging my eyes so sharply I thought I might drown in them. How did it come to this? My hands shook as I scrawled my name, the ink blurring for a second as I blinked hard. I could taste the salt at the corner of my lips, and for a moment, the world felt like it had tilted off its axis.

The memory of that day still makes my jaw clench. I can still see it—the way he slid the check across the marble counter, cool and clinical, like he was settling a tab at some fancy restaurant instead of ending a marriage. The pen in my hand weighed a thousand pounds. As I signed, the room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, heavy and uncertain. It was the kind of silence that hangs in the air before a storm, and I remember thinking: so this is how love ends.

The second the ink dried on the certificate, I marched Adam and his new flame right out of the house—took everything back that was mine. The look on his face? Absolutely priceless. He was stunned, jaw slack, as if he’d just been hit by a truck. His girlfriend’s eyes went wide, her mouth hanging open as her heels sank into the thick rug. I handed them two suitcases, pointed to the door, and didn’t even blink. The locksmith was already on speed dial, and the alarm code was changed before they reached the curb. For the first time, Adam looked at me not as a pretty accessory, but as a force of nature—like I was the hurricane that had just blown his life apart.

Wasn’t it you who said I was just your trophy wife? The words echoed in my head, bitter and sharp. Ha. Three years together and you didn’t even have to buy me a single thing. That’s a steal, isn’t it? I hope you enjoyed the discount.

I almost laughed—maybe I did, the sound raw and half-crazed. Three years, and not a single vacation, not one diamond necklace, just the occasional dinner at some chain steakhouse when he remembered. He’d call me his lucky charm at parties, but really, I was just another piece of furniture in his perfect life. He thought he was getting away with something. Joke’s on him.

Then came the news: Adam Whitaker had been in a car crash. I swear my heart stopped. I dropped everything and tore through the city, running two red lights on my way to the hospital. By the time I got to his room, my mind was a mess—was he alive? Dead? I heard a woman sobbing from inside, and my blood went ice-cold. Was my husband gone? My vision swam with tears, hands and feet numb as I pushed open the door.

The hospital corridor hit me with the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee. My heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe. I didn’t even notice the chill of the linoleum under my shoes as I hurried in. The woman’s crying was sharp, almost like a bad actress in a soap opera, echoing through the sterile hallways and straight into my bones. My hand fumbled for the door handle, and I found myself praying and cursing at the same time.

“Adam... you died?” The words came out of me in a wail, maybe a little too loud, maybe exactly as loud as I felt.

My voice was raw, scraping my throat. The words just spilled out, louder than I’d meant, bouncing off the cold tile. I couldn’t help myself. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze, like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for someone to confirm my worst fear.

The woman stopped crying on a dime. She looked up at me, mascara running down her perfectly painted face. And there was Adam, flat on his back in the hospital bed, staring at me like I was an apparition. Gauze wrapped around his forehead, skin pale as paper—but very much alive!

Her makeup was a mess, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. Adam blinked, confusion and irritation flickering across his face. Even the heart monitor seemed unimpressed, beeping steadily, as if to say, “Yeah, he’s still here.” My knees almost gave out. Relief and disbelief hit me all at once.

“Adam, you’re not dead?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

It was out before I could think. My voice cracked, stretched between relief and disbelief. I felt like I’d sprinted a hundred miles, only to find out the finish line wasn’t real.

Adam’s eyes went even wider. He could still glare, all right. Guess he was just fine. I let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

The way he looked at me—like I was some stranger barging in—hurt more than I’d expected. But if he could shoot daggers like that, maybe he wasn’t as broken as I’d feared. I took a breath, feeling the tension in my chest loosen just a little.

Then Adam interrupted, impatience crackling in his voice. “Ma’am, who are you?”

His tone was so cold and formal, it sent a shiver through me. He’d never called me anything but pet names, not even at our first awkward dinner.

Ma’am? Three years of marriage and he always called me “babe,” “honey,” or “darlin’” when it was just us. Now he actually called me ‘ma’am’?

I could feel the blood drain from my face. That word hit like a slap. There was a time he’d whisper sweet things into my hair at night, his voice soft and close. Now, I was just a nobody.

My voice came out shaky: “What did you just call me?”

It was barely more than a whisper. I didn’t trust myself to say more. My hands trembled, so I balled them into fists, fighting to keep it together.

That woman jumped in, her voice syrupy sweet. “Ma’am, did you come to the wrong room? This is my boyfriend’s room, not your husband’s.” She pressed herself closer to Adam, staking her claim.

She sounded so smug, practically purring. Her perfume clouded the air—expensive, thick, and way too much. She wrapped her arm around Adam’s, her nails pressing in just enough to make sure I got the message.

Adam actually pulled her in tighter, like he was putting on a show.

The sight twisted something inside me. He used to do that to me at parties, drawing me close when the crowd got too loud. Now he looked at her with the same protectiveness he once saved for me. The betrayal tasted metallic at the back of my throat.

My anger exploded, hot and sudden, like a fuse burning up. Cheating on me right in front of my face? He might as well have stayed in that crash.

My vision went red. The nerve—after all we’d been through, after the accident, this was what I got? I wanted to scream, to throw something, to make them feel just a sliver of my pain.

“I’ll count to three. Let her go, right now!” I fixed Adam with a glare that could cut glass. “One!”

My voice was pure steel. I stared him down, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ached. I dared him to test me.

Adam just held her tighter.

Not even a flicker of hesitation. His eyes told me everything—he wasn’t going to budge. Not for me. Not for anyone.

“Two!”

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, loud and wild. The air was thick, charged, like a storm about to break.

The woman leaned in and kissed Adam on the cheek.

She did it slow, like she was daring me to react, her gaze locked on mine the whole time. It was a direct challenge.

“Three!”

I didn’t even pause to think. The word shot out, along with the last of my patience. My body moved before my mind caught up.

They started making out like I wasn’t even in the room.

It was obscene, honestly. Their lips mashed together, hands roaming, as if I’d vanished into thin air. A nurse glanced in, eyebrows raised, then wisely kept moving. Even the heart monitor seemed to beep louder, like it was sick of the drama, too.

I slapped Adam. Hard. The sound cracked through the air, sharp as a whip. Again. And again. Then I grabbed the woman’s hair and yanked her toward the door, her shrieks ringing in my ears.

Each slap landed like a period, sharp and deeply satisfying. Adam’s head snapped to the side, his expression pure shock. The woman screamed, her heels scraping the floor as I dragged her. The nurses at the station gasped, but I barely noticed.

“Adam! Save me!” she shrieked, flailing for effect.

Her voice pitched up, pure panic. She clawed at the doorframe, mascara running in messy rivers. The whole thing looked like a bad audition for a daytime drama.

Adam snapped. He shoved me hard, his eyes wild in a way I’d never seen before.

His grip was rough, shoving me back with enough force to steal my breath. There was something unhinged in his eyes—anger, confusion, maybe even fear. For a second, I didn’t recognize him at all.

I crashed into the metal bed frame with a bang, the impact rattling my teeth.

A dull thud echoed as I hit the bed. The cold metal bit into my back, and for a split second, I couldn’t breathe. Pain radiated up my spine, sharp and electric.

Adam didn’t even look at me. He just turned to Rachel Carter, cupping her face and wiping away her tears with his thumb, gentle as anything. “Rachel, don’t be scared. I’m right here.”

The way he soothed her cut deeper than any slap. He cradled her face, thumb brushing away the tears I’d caused. I stood frozen, watching him whisper to her like she was the only person in the world.

So, this was Rachel Carter. Adam’s first love.

The name was sour and familiar. She was the one from his college days, the ghost in our marriage. I’d seen her name pop up in his texts—always deleted in a hurry. Now she was here, clinging to him like he was the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

Rachel lifted her face, lashes wet, and gently touched Adam’s bruised cheek. “Adam, I’m fine. What about you? Does it hurt?”

Her voice trembled, all concern, as if she hadn’t just been yanked out of the room by her hair. She dabbed at the red mark on his cheek, fingers light, eyes shining with adoration. Adam seemed to melt into her touch.

The two of them hugged tight, locked together like nothing else mattered. I almost didn’t want to break the spell—even though I was still his wife, at least on paper.

They clung to each other, lost in their own little world. I stood there, invisible, my wedding ring digging into my finger so hard it left a mark.

The doctor came in and explained: Adam’s head injury caused retrograde amnesia. His memory was stuck four years ago, before we’d even met. Back then, he and Rachel were still inseparable. The doctor said the amnesia could last weeks, months, maybe years. No one knew.

The doctor’s words were cold, all clinical detachment. He said Adam’s brain was like a scratched CD, skipping the last four years. I tried to wrap my head around it, but all I could hear was: he might never remember me. My marriage—our whole life together—gone in a blink. There was no fixing it.