I Forgot My Cheating Husband, Then He Begged

When I woke up, the doctor told me I had fallen down the stairs.

A stranger stood beside my bed and said he was my husband.

I didn't know his face. But I remembered loving Julian Hawthorne.

Later, my ten-year-old son held me and whispered, "Mommy, are you still going to hide and cry because of Daddy?"

In that moment, I made up my mind. I would take my son. And I would take back the fifteen years I had poured into this marriage.

...

"Mrs. Kessler, can you tell me your name?"

The doctor's penlight burned my eyes. My skull throbbed.

"Maren," I rasped. "Maren Ellery."

"Kessler," a man corrected from the foot of the bed. "It's been Kessler for fourteen years."

He was tall and expensive. He wore a charcoal suit and a watch that cost more than a car. His face was handsome in a cold, finished way, like a magazine ad.

I had never seen him before in my life.

"Who are you?"

His mouth thinned. "Grant. Your husband. We have a son. Milo. He's ten."

Ten.

The word slid right off me. But my shoulders had climbed toward my ears, and my fingers were knotted in the sheet. My body knew this man, even if my mind didn't. And it was bracing.

"Retrograde amnesia," the doctor said. "It may be temporary."

Grant checked his phone. "Fine. I have a call." He paused at the door. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Maren."

Then he was gone.

...

Twenty minutes later, a woman with a messy blond bun burst in and hugged me so hard my ribs ached.

"Tessa," she said when I stared at her blankly. "Your best friend since college. You don't remember me either?" She laughed, and it cracked halfway through. "Okay. That's okay."

"Tell me," I said. "Tell me who I am."

She sat down slowly. "You really want the truth? All of it?"

"Yes."

"You were an architect. A brilliant one. You had the Paris project, Maren. The museum annex. You turned it down because Grant said a wife who lived on planes wasn't a wife."

I blinked. "I closed my studio?"

"You closed it. Then Kessler Group almost went under in year three. You sold part of what your grandparents left you to keep him afloat."

"And the company survived."

"The company thrived." Her voice went sharp. "The Halden Hotel, their flagship? Your design. Every curve. His name is on the plaque. Yours isn't anywhere."

Something hot crawled up my throat.

"There's more," Tessa said. "On your last anniversary, he left you alone at the restaurant. Dahlia Marchetti called him. She had a headache."

"Who's Dahlia?"

"His friend." She made the word ugly. "Last winter he had a stomach flare-up at the office. You drove there in a storm with his medicine and waited in the car for five hours. He never came down. He was with her."

I stared at the IV in my hand. "Why would I do that?"

Tessa's eyes went wet. "Because you thought if you loved him enough, he'd love you back."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice.

"You used to lock yourself in the bathroom and cry. Sometimes you hurt yourself. Milo would sit outside the door and call for you. Over and over."

The room went very quiet.

I didn't cry. I laughed. One short, awful sound.

"That woman," I said, "sounds like a stranger."

"She was," Tessa said softly. "You disappeared a long time ago."

...

Milo came that evening.

He stopped just inside the door, a small boy in a school blazer, clutching his backpack straps. He had my eyes. Gray and too serious.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart."

He didn't run to me. He inched closer, studying my face the way you'd study the sky before a storm.

"Does your head hurt?"

"A little."

"I can get the nurse. I know which button." He pointed. "I already did my homework. And I ate dinner. Mrs. Patel made pasta. You don't have to worry about me. I'll take care of myself."

My chest folded in on itself.

Ten years old. And he was reporting to me like a soldier, making sure he wasn't a burden.

"Milo," I said. "Can I have a hug?"

His lip trembled. "Are you sure? You won't get tired?"

"I'm sure."

He climbed onto the bed so carefully, like I might shatter. Then his arms locked around my neck, and he buried his face in my shoulder.

"Mommy," he whispered. "Are you still going to hide and cry because of Daddy?"

I held him tighter.

"No, baby. Never again."

...

Grant returned at eight. He didn't glance at Milo.

"Get dressed. You're coming home."

"The doctor wants me overnight."

"The doctor isn't running my household." He tossed a bag of clothes on the chair. "And call Dahlia on the way. Apologize."

I stared at him. "For what?"

"You were rude to her before your fall. She was only worried about our family."

Milo shrank against my side.

I kept my voice flat. "I don't even remember who you are. And you're already teaching me how to please your mistress?"

His jaw flexed. Then he smiled. It was worse than shouting.

"Clever. Very clever, Maren." He leaned on the bed rail. "You'd do anything to keep me. Crawl, beg, cry. Remember? Of course you don't. How convenient. But this amnesia act? It just makes you pathetic."

"Then you shouldn't mind if I leave."

"Leave?" He actually laughed. "Where would you go?"

I pressed the call button. When the nurse appeared, I said, "I'd like to discharge myself, please."

Grant's smile froze.

...

By ten, Milo and I were in a hotel suite downtown, paid for with a credit card I found in my purse. Milo fell asleep in his clothes, one hand fisted in my sleeve.

My phone buzzed. Grant.

Stop sulking. Be home by noon. The Aldridge dinner is tomorrow night. Handle the menu and my suit like always.

Like always.

I turned the phone face down.

It buzzed again.

I almost ignored it. Then I flipped it over.

Julian Hawthorne.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I heard you woke up. Whenever you need me, I'll be there.

Fifteen years were gone. My husband was a stranger. My son was a stranger's child.

But Julian?

I remembered his laugh. The way he tucked a pencil behind his ear. The rooftop where he'd said my name like it was a promise.

I remembered loving him like it had happened yesterday.

My thumb shook over the screen.

Julian, can we meet?

I hit send before I could stop myself.