Married to My Amnesia Ex.

The Lie That Keeps Her Mine

(Ethan’s POV)

I’ve faced boardrooms full of sharks, lawsuits worth millions, and reporters digging for blood.

But nothing - nothing - scares me like the way Ava looks at me now.

Like I’m a stranger wearing her husband’s face.

She doesn’t remember. Not the divorce papers she signed.

Not the screaming nights. Not the way she walked out on me two years ago, leaving her wedding ring on the marble counter next to her goodbye note.

To her, we’re still married.

To me, she’s still the only woman I ever loved.

And that’s the problem.

The doctor’s words still echo in my head: “Temporary retrograde amnesia. Don’t push her memory. Keep her calm.”

But how do you stay calm when fate hands you back the woman you lost and demands you lie to keep her?

I step out of the hospital room, my pulse a hammer in my ears. The sterile hallway feels colder than ever. My assistant, Lucas, is waiting by the vending machine, phone in hand.

“She’s awake?” he asks.

I nod once. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And she thinks it’s 2021.”

He exhales sharply. “You mean before the separation.”

I don’t answer. My hands are shaking, so I shove them in my pockets.

“What are you going to do?” he presses.

What am I going to do? Tell her the truth that she hated me?

That our love burned out in a mess of ambition, betrayal, and silence? That she left because I chose my company over her heart?

I can’t. Not yet.

“She needs stability,” I mutter. “If she remembers too fast, it could trigger panic or worse. The doctor said”

“The doctor said ‘don’t lie,’ too,” Lucas cuts in, raising a brow.

I glare at him. “I’m not lying.”

He folds his arms. “You’re letting her believe she’s still your wife.”

“I’m protecting her.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue further. “Just… be careful. Lies have a way of bleeding through the truth.”

--------------------

When I return to her room, she’s half asleep, fingers twitching against the blanket.

Her hair is a mess wild brown waves that used to drive me crazy when she’d steal my shirts on Sunday mornings.

God, I’ve missed her.

I sit on the edge of her bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She stirs, her lips parting slightly. “Ethan?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever finish painting the guest room?”

The question hits me like a bullet. That room’s been empty for two years stripped bare, painted white, a monument to everything we lost.

“Not yet,” I whisper. “I was waiting for you.”

She smiles faintly, half-dreaming. “Good… You always hated doing things alone.”

If she only knew how true that was.

I watch her sleep for a long time. Every breath she takes feels like a promise I don’t deserve.

And yet, as I sit there, one selfish truth blooms inside me:

I don’t care if it’s wrong.

I’m not ready to lose her again.

So when the nurse walks in and asks, “Are you her husband?”

I don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m her husband.”

-------

The nurse hands me a clipboard. “Then you should sign the discharge papers, Mr. Ethan Hale. Your wife’s ready to go home.”

And just like that…

The lie becomes real.