The Wife He Forgot Was The One He Loved Most Chapter 11
The last day of the separation period, Ethan arrived at Ashwood first thing in the morning.
I was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, torn, holding two coats up in turn. One cream, one pale grey. He leaned in the doorway watching for a moment, then said, “The cream.”
“Why?”
“You look good in cream.” His tone was final. “I remember.”
My hands paused. I almost told him I’d given that cream coat away three years ago. But he’d said remember with such conviction that I couldn’t bring myself to.
He took the coat off the hanger, shook it out, and draped it around my shoulders. “This one.”
We didn’t talk much on the way to the City Clerk’s Office. He drove one-handed, the other hand resting on the center console close to mine. At a red light, he reached over and took my hand.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Then why is your hand shaking?”
I looked down. It really was.
“…I’m cold.”
He laughed and turned the heat up another two degrees.
He parked outside the Manhattan Marriage Bureau, killed the engine, and turned to me.
“Whatever we’re here to do today—your call.”
I looked at his face. Still a little bloodshot around the eyes, jaw a bit thinner, but his gaze was clear, and the corners of his mouth were lifted slightly.
I took a deep breath and pushed the car door open.
“Withdraw the separation agreement.”
He froze for a second. Then he smiled. It had been so long since I’d seen him smile like that. Eyes crinkling, whole silhouette softening.
The clerk pulled up our file on the computer and looked up. “Your separation isn’t up yet. Today’s the last day.”
“Yes,” Ethan said with a nod. “We’re not here to file for divorce.”
“We’re withdrawing the petition.”
The clerk paused, double-checked. “Mr. Sinclair, to withdraw a separation petition, you’ll need to fill out a Withdrawal Form.”
“I have it.” Ethan pulled a completed form out of his briefcase, every field filled in neatly, the dates already signed.
I leaned over to look and couldn’t help asking, “When did you fill this out?”
“Last night.”
“You didn’t sleep?”
“No.”
The clerk took the form, reviewed it, and typed a few keys into the system. “All right. Withdrawal is processed. Your marriage remains in effect.”
The whole thing took less than ten minutes.
I turned the receipt over in my hands a few times. Ethan reached over, took it, folded it, and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat. “Stop looking. It’s not going anywhere.”
“I’m afraid I’m dreaming.”
He paused. Then he pulled me into his chest, chin resting on the top of my head, arms tightening.
“Not a dream.”
“Anna. Let’s go home.”
I fisted a hand in the front of his coat, buried my face in it, and burst into muffled sobs. He let me cry, hand patting my back gently.
“Ethan,” I said through the tears, voice a wet mess, “if you lose your memory again, I really am running off with the baby. Five million is enough for three lifetimes.”
He laughed, chest vibrating against my ear.
“I’ve had the assistant make three copies of the journal.”
“One in the office safe, one in the Ashwood study, one in your bedside drawer.”
“If I hit my head again, I’ll read it every day. I’ll memorize the thing if I have to.”
I laughed through my tears—crying and laughing at once, smearing snot on his coat. He bent and pressed a very light kiss to my forehead.
“Let’s go home.”