The Wife He Forgot Was The One He Loved Most Chapter 01
A single car accident wiped me clean out of Ethan’s memory.
He couldn’t wrap his head around it—how could the CEO of Sinclair Group be married to a community college graduate who worked the front desk at his own company?
The day he was discharged, he slid a separation agreement across the table to me without ceremony.
“Anna. Let’s part on good terms.”
I nodded, eyes rimmed red, while inside my head, fireworks were going off.
Three years. This was the day I’d been waiting for.
I’m the kind of woman whose brain runs on aesthetics and off-color jokes, and somehow I’d ended up married to a straight-laced, monkish old-school boyfriend who might as well have taken a vow of celibacy. It had almost driven me insane.
The very next second, my best friend Chloe sent me a string of photos—all abs, no faces.
“You in?”
…
Ethan sat in the reception room with the air of a man conducting board business.
“Anna. Have a seat.”
I sat down obligingly, taking in his face—thinner than it had been before the hospital.
“I had legal draw up the agreement.”
He pushed the folder toward me. “The apartment is yours. This card is by way of compensation.”
I didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, eyes glassy.
He must have taken it for grief, and maybe he was worried I’d cling and drag it out, because after a beat of silence he added:
“I think you’ll find the figure satisfactory.”
I pulled the agreement out and flipped through it. Five million dollars.
My heart was doing cartwheels; I could barely keep my face straight. I bit down on my lower lip until it went white.
Ethan clearly read it as wounded feelings. He plucked a tissue from the box and handed it over, his voice softening a shade. “Don’t cry.”
I ran the math in my head. Five years at the front desk, salary under fifty-two thousand a year, rent and utilities eating most of it—I had maybe eight thousand and change in savings.
As I signed my name, I couldn’t help marveling: five million. Enough to take a break and really reconsider my life.
When Ethan gathered up the agreement, he glanced at me and asked if I wanted the driver to take me home.
I declined. He nodded and stood up to leave.
At the door, he paused. He didn’t turn around.
“When the separation is over, I’ll come get you. To make it official.”
“Okay.”
Once he was gone, I threw back a huge gulp of ice water, cold enough to make my teeth ache, and couldn’t help laughing out loud.
For three years, I’d been Mrs. Sinclair in name, but really it had been more like having a roommate. The number of times we’d been in bed together I could count on one hand.
He spent most of his time in his study. Even small talk was more than he could be bothered with.
Once, I deliberately paraded past him in a spaghetti-strap top. He’d lifted his head, given me a cursory glance.
Said mildly, “It’s cold out there. Put something on. Don’t catch a chill.”
Really? That was it?
For a while, I genuinely wondered if I’d married a monk.
Back at the apartment, I opened a bottle of rosé, ordered a plate of Buffalo wings, and settled in to binge-watch shows all night to celebrate.
I’d barely gotten a few bites down when my stomach flipped, and I bolted for the bathroom, throwing up until there was nothing left.
I crouched by the toilet, catching my breath, running through the day. Lunch had been the company cafeteria, afternoon just a swallow of ice water—nothing that should have done this.
That was when my phone rang.
Stella. Ethan’s sister.
“Anna, did you sign the separation papers?”
“Mm-hm.”
Her voice shot up. “What are you, The Flash? When Ethan remembers, he’s going to lose his mind!”
“Aren’t you the biggest fan of him and his college sweetheart? Weren’t you the one dead set against us getting married?” I rinsed my mouth. “What’s the panic now?”
That shut her up for a second. When she spoke again there was a note of hurt in her voice.
“Ethan practically tore the family apart to marry you. He almost got himself disowned. He wouldn’t want a divorce.”
“Stella,” I cut in, “before your brother lost his memory, we didn’t exchange ten sentences a month.”
Silence on the other end.
I hung up and sat back down on the couch. My appetite for midnight snacks was gone.
Chloe’s message came at exactly the right moment.
I hear Mrs. Sinclair got laid off?
Just separated. Not officially fired yet.
She sent back a wicked-grin emoji, then a screenshot of a profile.
The avatar was a deep blue expanse of sea. The bio read: Freelance photographer. Wind, sea, and everything in between.
I scrolled through his Instagram. Clean compositions, cool palette. He had something, actually.
Chloe’s voice memo followed. “Sean Callahan. My husband’s protégé. Funny, artsy. And most importantly—” her voice dropped conspiratorially, “he’s on a completely different biological plane from that watered-down monk you’re married to.”
I typed back screw off but hit Follow anyway.
I’d barely set the phone down when a push notification flashed across the screen.
I swiped it open. There, sitting large as life on X’s trending list, was Ethan’s name.
The photo underneath showed him walking out of JFK shoulder-to-shoulder with Vivienne, one hand pulling her suitcase.
I tapped into the hashtag. The comments were already on fire.
#SinclairAirportPickup
#PoorMrsSinclair
#ThreeYearsAsARebound
I stared at the picture for a long time.
A strange thought surfaced.
The divorce after the “memory loss”—what if it was a stage he’d set up in advance, so he could welcome Vivienne back?