Amnesia & Matrimony Chapter 1

It was the fourth year of my marriage to my arch-nemesis when he got into a car accident.

He lost his memory, his mind resetting to the time before we were married.

When his eyes landed on my wedding ring, his voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Who had the misfortune of marrying you?"

* * *

I glanced at the gauze wrapped around his head and thought, Pal, if I told you that someone was you, I was genuinely worried you’d have an aneurysm on the spot.

"Don't worry about it. It wasn't you."

"When did you get married?"

"Four years ago."

"And what did I do?"

A sly smile spread across my face. "You gave me a huge wedding gift. A very fat check."

His gaze dropped, a flicker of something like melancholy crossing his handsome features. "That's impossible."

Even with amnesia, he was still impossible to fool.

Given our history, he would never have given me a generous gift. He would have been more likely to spike the punch at the reception, just to turn my wedding into the biggest joke of the century.

Watching him stand there, lost in thought, my hand moved faster than my brain. I reached out and pinched his cheek. "Come on, let's go home."

"Home?" His eyes suddenly lit up, as if he'd just been handed a sliver of hope.

I quickly fabricated a story. "Right. The Thorne family business went bankrupt, you know? You're my servant now."

Bart Thorne, who had always seemed unbreakable, finally shattered into a million pieces.

I committed to the role completely, calling ahead to brief the household staff. I even cleared it with his parents, explaining that we'd keep up the pretense for a while to let him recover without the stress of worrying about the company.

So, as we sat in the car, he clung to one last shred of hope. He called his parents to confirm.

The voice on the other end was grim. "Son, it's true. We've lost everything."

He lowered the phone, his eyes rimmed with red. The golden boy, the prince of the city, was now a penniless nobody.

After a long silence, he spoke, his voice low. "So, what exactly do I do at your house?"

"Oh, all sorts of things. Laundry, cooking, serving tea… and washing my feet."

He turned his head to stare out the window, his sharp, handsome profile now etched with a profound sense of loss, giving him a kind of broken beauty. Anyone would have looked at him and thought, Oh, that poor, handsome devil.

Inside, I was about to burst with glee, but I managed to keep a straight face.

You have to understand, the usual Bart Thorne was the imperious, untouchable ice king. His life had been a gilded path, a destiny written in the stars. He moved through the world like he owned it.

I once joked that the only time I'd ever see Bart Thorne get misty-eyed for me would be at my funeral.

The comment got back to him, of course.

He'd just smirked and said, "Don't flatter yourself. The only thing I'd bring to your funeral is fireworks."

Seeing him this vulnerable now? It was absolutely priceless.

I spent the entire ride home fighting back a triumphant grin.