My arch-nemesis husband got amnesia and now he's my side piece. Chapter 1

The fourth year of my marriage to the bane of my existence.

He gets into a car accident, and just like that, he has amnesia. His memory is stuck four years in the past, right before we got married.

His eyes land on the wedding band on my finger, and a smirk plays on his lips.

“Who’s the unfortunate soul who married you?”

* * *

I glance at the gauze wrapped around his head and think, Pal, if I told you that soul was you, I’m genuinely afraid you’d hemorrhage on the spot.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s not you.”

“When did you get married?”

“Four years ago.”

“What did I do?” he presses.

A saccharine smile spreads across my face. “You gave me a huge wedding gift. Incredibly generous.”

He looks down, his brow furrowing. “That’s impossible.” For some reason, a flicker of melancholy crosses his handsome features.

So, even with amnesia, he’s still impossible to fool.

Given our history, there’s no way he would have given me a generous gift. He would have been more likely to spike the catering with laxatives, turning my wedding into the most humiliating spectacle in New York society.

As he sits there, lost in his own confused thoughts, my hand moves faster than my brain. I reach out and pinch his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“Home?” His eyes suddenly brighten, as if he’s just seen a glimmer of hope.

An idea, wicked and wonderful, begins to form in my mind.

“Yes,” I say, my tone turning serious. “The Donovan family went bankrupt. Didn’t you know? You’re my manservant now.”

The fragile composure of Nathan Donovan, which had been threatening to crack, finally shatters completely.

I believe in thoroughness. I call our staff ahead of time to get them on board. I even clear it with his parents, framing it as a necessary deception to let Nathan rest and recover at home, free from the stress of his corporate responsibilities.

So, as we’re in the car, he clings to one last shred of hope and calls his father to verify my story.

The answer he receives is devastatingly simple.

“Son, it’s true. We’re ruined.”

He lowers the phone, his eyes rimmed with red. The golden boy of Manhattan, the heir to a dynasty, now reduced to a penniless nobody.

After a long silence, he finally speaks, his voice low. “So… what exactly do I do at your house?”

“Oh, lots of things,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Laundry, cooking, serving tea… and you’ll be washing my feet.”

He turns his head to stare out the window. The sharp, proud line of his jaw seems to soften in his despair, lending him a fragility that is almost poetic. Anyone seeing him now would sigh and say, “That poor, beautiful man.”

Inside, I’m about to explode with glee, but I manage to keep a straight face.

You have to understand, the normal Nathan Donovan is an arrogant, untouchable ice king. His life has been a gilded path, a non-stop highlight reel of success and privilege. He’s the kind of man who seems to generate his own lightning.

I once joked that the only way I’d ever see Nathan Donovan get misty-eyed for me would be at my funeral.

The comment got back to him, of course.

He’d just smiled that infuriatingly charming smile of his and said, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d only come to your funeral to set off fireworks.”

And now, seeing him this fragile, this broken? It’s a hit of pure, unadulterated bliss.

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