When He Forgave, She Was Gone

"Scarlett, are you really walking away from Maxwell?" In the antique-filled study, Scarlett Anderson sat rigidly on an ornately carved mahogany chair, her fingers twisted together in her lap. After a heavy silence, she gave a slow nod. "Yes, Mr. Owen. Max and I... we're done." James Owen sighed deeply, but before he could speak, a voice sharp as shattered glass cut through the air. "Done? I announce my wedding date with Grace, and you come crying to my father? Scarlett, aren't you tired of these pathetic games?" Before Scarlett could even turn, Maxwell stormed in, his long legs closing the distance between them in angry, deliberate strides. Still reeling from the tense exchange, James tried to intervene. "Maxwell, Scarlett was just saying that she—" "Saying what? That she's playing the martyr? Or threatening to make a scene?" Maxwell's icy glare pinned Scarlett in place, every word dripping with contempt. "Grace wants you to plan our wedding. You'd better not screw it up." Scarlett's fists clenched at her sides, her eyes blazing with bottled-up fury. "Maxwell, I owe you nothing." "No. But your mother did." A thick envelope slammed against her chest. Her fingers trembling, she flipped through the yellowed pages and recognized it immediately—her mother Elena Anderson's old indenture contract with the Owen family. Fifteen years of unpaid service as a live-in housekeeper. In return, the Owens had covered her daughter's private school tuition and basic living expenses. The penalty for breaking the terms? Fifty billion dollars. Her throat constricted. Fifteen days remained until the obligation would be fulfilled. "A mother's debts fall to the daughter." Maxwell spat the words like venom and turned to leave. James slammed his coffee cup onto the floor, the porcelain shattering into shards. "Maxwell! Do you realize what you're doing to her? This is monstrous—you'll regret this!" Maxwell paused at the threshold, letting out a laugh colder than winter frost. "Regret? I wouldn't care if she dropped dead tomorrow." The door slammed shut behind him. Watching his retreating figure, Scarlett felt hot tears burn her cheeks—shameful, unstoppable. Even her death wouldn't move him? Of course not. How could a man with no past grieve a love he'd completely forgotten? For three hundred sleepless nights, she'd fought this war of heartbreak alone. Yet the proof of their love was etched into her memory like scars. When she was fourteen, her alcoholic father set their apartment on fire. Maxwell had charged through smoke and flames to drag her and her mother out. When she was eighteen, shattered by Elena's death from cancer, it was Maxwell's steady hands that held her together. When she was twenty, when his family called her nothing but a housekeeper's daughter, he'd taken ninety-nine lashes across his back and spent three days kneeling on cold marble to prove she was worth the fight. Through the agony, he'd gripped her hand and declared, "I don't care who her mother was. She's mine. From now on, I've got her back." When he proposed at twenty-four, the mighty Maxwell Owen had crumpled into a sobbing mess the moment she whispered yes. Even their first time together, he'd trembled like he might die without her. Scarlett had believed she was Cinderella, swept from the ashes straight into a fairy tale. Until the car crash a year ago stole everything—his memories, his love, their future. She'd given blood until her vision blurred, her body buckling from the loss. When he finally woke, she'd rushed to his bedside, tears streaming as she grabbed his hand. "Maxwell! You scared me to death—I thought—" He'd wrenched his hand free. "Who... are you?" His cracked lips barely moved, his gaze hollow and empty. No flicker of recognition. None at all. Her heart had stopped. She seized his hand again, desperate. "Max, it's me! Scarlett—your fiancée!" But he'd recoiled, disgust flashing in his eyes. "Get away from me." He clasped another woman's hand and held it tight. "This is my fiancée. Grace Carter." The words split her open, leaving her raw and bleeding. She pleaded, thrusting photos and love letters at him, even the engagement ring he'd slipped onto her finger. But he'd stared through her like she was a stranger. She screamed, thrashed against the betrayal, but the man who owed her answers remembered nothing at all. Doctors called it traumatic amnesia—his fractured mind too fragile to be pushed. A cruel twist of fate. Even now, the memory still gnawed at her like a festering wound. Her body heavy with grief, she dragged herself from the study. Then her breath caught. There, in the parlor below, their bodies pressed together in the dim light. On the sofa, Maxwell cupped Grace's head in his hands, their lips locked in a passionate, all-consuming kiss that shut out everything else. When they finally broke apart after what felt like an eternity, Grace nestled into his arms, breathless, fluttering her lashes. "Max... Scarlett was so persistent before. Are you sure she'll really handle the wedding preparations?" Maxwell's lips curled into a cold smirk. "Of course. Even a dog knows its master's commands. She doesn't have the right to refuse." A searing pain lanced through Scarlett's stomach as she clutched her abdomen. He was right. She truly had no right to refuse. Fifty billion dollars in penalties wasn't exactly small change. This love, doomed from the very start, had destined her to be the one left humiliated. Their meeting had been undignified, and now their parting was no different. But none of it meant anything now. She was dying. Staring at the warm blood pooling in her palm, she let out a mirthless, broken laugh. Maxwell didn't know. He couldn't. Fifteen days from now... His wedding would double as her funeral.