THE WIFE HE CHOSE TWICE

YOU DON’T REMEMBER ME

Sleep eluded me.

Or at least, any real form of it. My thoughts kept circling back to one thing: Ethan Blackwell.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the contract. It felt like something pulled from a different reality.

A two year marriage agreement, fully paid for. It was completely illogical; none of it added up.

By 6:12 AM, I stopped trying to force myself to rest. I got up, showered, and got dressed. It

wasn't that I was prepared to face the day; I just couldn't sit still anymore. The silence only made

the noise in my head get louder.

---

The antiseptic scent of the hospital greeted me, as it always did. It was sharp, clinical, and far

too sanitized for the heavy, suffocating pain I carried inside. I walked past the nurses, who no

longer glanced up or offered words of sympathy; they didn’t need to ask why I was here. They

knew the routine by heart Ward Seven, Room 14. My mother.

As I stepped into her room, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors filled the void. I used to find

that sound reassuring, but now, it felt like a ticking clock, counting down time I didn't actually

have. She looked exactly as she had yesterday motionless, fragile, and so pale that her life

seemed like a borrowed thing, ready to be reclaimed at any moment.

I sat down by the bedside, closing my eyes for a brief, desperate moment. I let myself pretend

that everything was normal. I pretended that the mountain of debt didn't exist, that soul crushing

contracts didn't appear out of thin air, and that mysterious men like Ethan Blackwell didn't pull

you into impossible, life altering situations.

"Are you her daughter?"

The voice shattered my brief escape. A nurse hovered in the doorway, looking hesitant. That

was unusual; the staff here had long since grown immune to the tragedies in this ward.

"Yes," I replied, standing up.

"There is someone here to see you," she said, her tone cautious.

My stomach knotted. "Who?"

She glanced down the quiet corridor. "I think you’d better see for yourself."

Her demeanor unsettled me. I wiped my palms on my jacket, took a breath, and followed her

out. The hallway seemed longer than usual, stripped of its typical noise. At the very end of the hall stood a figure in a grey suit. He possessed an air of absolute command, a stillness that was

both familiar and chilling.

The nurse stopped abruptly. "I'll leave you two," she murmured before practically vanishing.

Of course. She was terrified of him.

The man turned, his gaze locking onto mine. He didn't look surprised or curious; he looked like a

man who had all the time in the world. Being the object of that kind of patience was far more

unnerving than any outburst could have been.

"Clara Hart," he said, my name carrying a strange weight in his voice.

I pulled my arms tightly across my chest. "If you're here about the contract"

"I am," he interrupted, his voice devoid of warmth.

"I’m not doing it," I said, my voice shaking but firm.

A brief pause followed, and then he said, "You already are."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "That makes no sense."

"It does," he replied calmly. "You just haven’t seen the full picture yet."

His confidence made my skin crawl. He wasn't threatening me in the traditional sense; he was

exerting a level of control that suggested I was already trapped in a web I hadn't realized I’d

walked into.

"I want to speak clearly," I said, stepping closer. "You are talking in riddles I don't understand."

His expression shifted a microscopic tremor of something hidden behind his eyes. "You don't

remember me," he observed.

That simple statement stopped me cold. "That’s impossible," I countered.

"Is it?" he asked.

"I would know if we had met," I insisted.

He waited a long, heavy moment before speaking again. "That’s what I thought, too."

The words landed with a sudden, dull thud in my chest. It wasn't an accusation; it was

something far older, and far more unresolved.

…

I looked him over more closely. There was a sense of familiarity about him, though not in his

appearance. It was something deeper a feeling of recognition that lacked any context, like

staring at a word you know you’ve learned but can no longer define.

"That's impossible," I whispered, though my conviction was fading.

Ethan didn't acknowledge my doubt. Instead, he drifted a step closer. He didn't crowd me, but

he deliberately bridged the gap between us.

"You’re searching for logic in a situation that never followed any," he said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he paused, "that what we had wasn't standard. And neither was the aftermath."

My throat tightened. "Stop speaking like that. Like I have lost time."

He stayed silent. That word lost carried more weight than I anticipated, and his refusal to deny it

made my stomach churn.

I glanced away, finding the hospital hall suddenly suffocating and claustrophobic. When I turned

back, I hardened my tone. "If we really knew each other, just say it plainly. Stop using riddles."

Ethan held my gaze. "You used to say exactly that," he replied softly.

The pressure in my chest spiked. "Stop it. You aren't helping."

"I'm not trying to help," he countered.

I was taken aback. He waited a moment before adding, "I’m trying not to overwhelm you."

That sentence lingered in the air. It didn’t feel like comfort; it felt like a line he had rehearsed

countless times before. To me.

I let out a shaky breath. "This is absurd."

"Yes," he agreed.

That stopped me cold. He didn’t fight, didn’t try to steer the argument. He simply agreed. It

caught me off guard. "So, what do you want from me?"

His expression shifted, as if he were carefully selecting his next move. "I want you to stop

dismissing everything before you’ve actually looked at it."

I frowned. "Look at what?"

He didn't answer right away. Then, he said, "Your own history."

The words felt heavy and incomplete. Before I could retort, a doctor strode past us and gave

Ethan a polite nod. It was a gesture of recognition too familiar by far. The realization hit me late,

and when I turned back, Ethan was peering at me again, perfectly still, as if he had anticipated

every single reaction I’d had.

"I don't trust you," I stated bluntly.

"You aren't required to," he replied.

"What?"

"I never asked for your trust."

"Then what are you asking for?"

He paused, long enough for the silence to feel intentional. "Time."

That word again. It was becoming a rhythm I didn't care for. I took a half-step backward. "If this

is some kind of mind game"

"You think I want you to believe me?" he interrupted.

"No," he continued calmly, "I expect you not to."

This silenced me. He wasn't being defensive or trying to persuade me. His tone was one of

controlled acceptance, as if he already knew exactly how this entire conversation would play

out.

I scrutinized him one last time. That strange feeling of recognition remained unsettling and

unresolved.

"I don't know you," I said firmly.

He paused for a long second, then replied quietly, "You used to."

And for the first time, he didn't sound like he was trying to convince me of anything. He sounded

like he was simply reminding himself.