The Wife He Forgot Was The One He Loved Most Chapter 08
Three days later, every trending topic on X about “receptionist traps CEO with baby” vanished overnight.
I woke up in the morning and opened the app to a clean feed. In their place, a pinned statement from Sinclair Group’s official account:
The marital status of Mr. Ethan Sinclair and Ms. Anna Whitmore is a private matter. Any rumor, defamation, or violation of the parties’ rights of reputation will be pursued through legal channels. Additionally, Mr. Sinclair and Ms. Vivienne Ashford are simply former classmates. This is to set the record straight.
Immediately after, Ethan’s personal X reposted the statement, with only three words attached.
That’s enough.
The comments blew up.
Wait—just classmates? People were saying they dated?
My brain can’t keep up with the reversals. So this whole time it was Vivienne riding on his coattails?
Is the CEO defending his wife right now? “That’s enough” is so alpha oh my god.
So the “stand-in” thing was made up? She was never a stand-in?
I tapped into Vivienne’s Instagram. Her whole feed had been wiped. All that remained was a post from half an hour earlier: black background, white text.
My conscience is clear.
Chloe messaged me first thing, three thumbs-up emojis in a row:
Your man’s protective streak is no joke. Trending topics scrubbed clean. Even the hashtags her stan accounts had been pushing got locked. My husband says Ethan personally called someone high up at X.
I stared at That’s enough, and something like a feather kept brushing back and forth against my chest. I couldn’t tell what I felt.
Was it for the baby? For the Sinclair family’s face? Or—
I didn’t dare finish the thought.
That evening, Ethan came back.
I was heating milk in the kitchen when I heard the gate. I turned and there he was in the foyer, drops of rain scattered on the shoulders of his overcoat, tie hanging loose, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
“See the statement?” He stood in the doorway, not stepping in.
“I saw it.”
“No one will spout nonsense from here on.”
I set the milk cup down and leaned against the counter. “Ethan. Why did you do it? For the baby? Or for something else?”
He was quiet for a long time. In the silence, the hum of the radiator was loud.
“I don’t know.” His voice was hoarse when it finally came. “But there was one trending topic I had scrubbed specifically. The one calling you a stand-in.”
“You’re not a stand-in.”
I gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. “How do you know?”
He frowned. There was a stubbornness inside the blankness of his expression. “I don’t remember why I know. But I’m sure the conclusion is correct.”
When he said “sure,” his brow furrowed slightly, as if he were fighting to keep hold of something slipping through his fingers.
I looked at those bloodshot eyes and suddenly didn’t want to keep pressing.
“Have you eaten?”
He paused.
“There’s stuff in the fridge. I’ll make you a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”
His lips moved. He didn’t speak.
I turned and opened the fridge, pulled out chicken breast, a couple of carrots, a handful of parsley. When the water came to a boil I heard the soft sound of him sitting down at the dining table—quiet, careful, like he was afraid to disturb something.
“You’ve made me noodles before,” he said from behind me.
My hands kept moving. “Mm. When you got home late from work I’d make you a bowl.”
“I don’t like parsley. Extra broth.”
My fingers stilled for a second. Steam rose and blurred my vision.
I set the bowl in front of him. He looked down at it for a long time. Steam curled up against his face. He lifted his fork, twisted a mouthful of noodles, and chewed slowly.
“This is real bone broth,” he said suddenly. “Simmered.”
I went still.
“I remember the taste.”
He took another bite, then looked up at me. The rims of his eyes were red.
“Anna. I think I… I remember the taste of your noodles.”
My tears came in a rush and fell straight into the cup of milk sitting in front of me. I fumbled for a napkin to press over my eyes. “Please. A bowl of noodles and you’re bought.”
He didn’t say anything. He kept his head down and finished the entire bowl, broth and all.
“Stop eating this rich at night from now on.” My throat was tight.
“Mm.”
He stood up and walked to the foyer. His hand paused on the door handle.
“Anna.”
“Yeah?”
“I was going through the journal today. There was one entry. The old street at dusk—the photograph you’d tucked into your résumé that first day.”
“I saw it.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw you standing on an overpass, camera raised, your profile very focused. The clouds at the horizon were orange-red.”
“I don’t remember where I saw it,” he said, still with his back to me, voice quiet. “But the image is very clear. You were thinner then. Hair a little longer.”
He pulled the door open. Night air, damp with rain, rushed in.
“Good night.”
The door closed.
I stood where I was, hands over my face, shoulders shaking. Tears streamed through my fingers and dripped onto the marble counter.
He was remembering.
Even if only a little.
He remembered the taste of my noodles. He remembered me standing on an overpass, photographing the sunset.
He would remember all of it, in time.
I reached down and touched my belly. Whispered.
“You hear that? Your dad isn’t lost. Not entirely.”