THE HUSBAND WHO FORGOT ME

The first time I saw my husband after three years, he asked me if we'd met before. I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because if I didn't laugh, I was afraid I would break right there in the middle of the hotel lobby. He stood behind the reception desk of Blackwell Grand, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, one hand resting casually against the polished marble. Three years. Three years since I'd last seen that face. Three years since the police had knocked on my mother's door and told us there had been an accident. Three years since they told me Adrian Blackwell was probably dead. There had been no body. No funeral. No grave. Just an empty coffin and a marriage certificate that suddenly felt like a cruel joke. And now he was standing ten feet away from me. Alive. Beautiful. Unchanged. Except for the look in his eyes. There was no recognition. Not even a flicker. “Mrs. Carter?” I blinked. The hotel manager beside me was waiting for an answer. “Yes?” “Mr. Blackwell will conduct the final interview himself.” I looked back at Adrian. He was studying my résumé. My hands suddenly felt cold. The job interview. I'd almost forgotten why I was there. After three years of struggling to rebuild my life, I had finally found an opportunity to start over. Blackwell Holdings was one of the largest companies in the city, and the position I had applied for could change everything. I hadn't known Adrian would be here. I hadn't known the company belonged to his family. I hadn't known the dead man I'd spent three years mourning was alive. Adrian lifted his eyes. Our gazes met. My heart stopped. His eyes were exactly the same. Dark brown. Almost black beneath certain lights. The same eyes that had once watched me from across our tiny kitchen while I burned breakfast. The same eyes that had softened whenever I was upset. The same eyes that had looked at me on our wedding night and promised me that no matter what happened, he would always come back to me. He had broken that promise. Or perhaps someone had broken it for him. “Please,” the manager said quietly. “Take a seat.” I moved toward the chair. Adrian's eyes followed me. I sat down. He remained standing for a moment before taking the chair opposite mine. “Mrs. Carter.” My breath caught. He knew my name. Of course he knew my name. It was written across the résumé in front of him. Still, hearing him say it made something inside me ache. “Your résumé is impressive.” “Thank you.” “You've worked in financial management for several years.” “Yes.” “You left your previous company six months ago.” “Yes.” “Why?” I looked at him. Because I couldn't keep working in a place where everyone whispered about the woman whose husband disappeared. Because every time someone mentioned his name, I couldn't breathe. Because I was tired of being the woman whose life had stopped three years ago. Instead, I said, “I wanted a fresh start.” Something changed in his expression. Barely. A tiny crease appeared between his brows. “A fresh start?” “Yes.” He looked at me for several seconds. Then his gaze dropped to my left hand. I instinctively pulled it closer to myself. I still wore the ring. I'd tried taking it off dozens of times. I always put it back on. His eyes remained on it. “Are you married?” The question struck harder than it should have. I swallowed. “I was.” His eyebrows lifted. “Was?” “My husband died.” Silence. Adrian stared at me. “I'm sorry.” Two words. Polite. Professional. Completely unfamiliar. I almost wanted to scream. You don't get to say that. You are the husband. You're supposed to remember. You're supposed to look at me and know me. You're supposed to ask why I'm still wearing your ring. Instead, he simply looked confused. “How long ago?” “Three years.” “I see.” He looked back at my résumé. I couldn't take it anymore. “Adrian.” His hand stopped moving. The room became painfully quiet. He looked up. “How do you know my name?” My heart was pounding. I realized I'd said it without thinking. I had called him Adrian thousands of times. Before we were married. After we were married. During arguments. During laughter. In whispers. In anger. In love. He leaned back slowly. “It's written on the company website.” I stared at him. “No.” His expression hardened slightly. “What?” “You're Adrian Blackwell.” “Yes.” “My husband was Adrian Blackwell.” For the first time, something like uncertainty crossed his face. Then he gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Mrs. Carter, I think there has been some misunderstanding.” I stood. “No.” My voice shook. “You're him.” “I don't think—” “You have a scar above your left eyebrow.” He went still. “You got it when you were fourteen after falling off your father's horse.” His face changed. “You hate coffee unless there's too much sugar in it.” Silence. “You sleep on the left side of the bed.” His jaw tightened. “You can't sleep when there's thunder.” His eyes narrowed. “And when you're nervous, you rub your thumb against your wedding ring.” He looked down. His right thumb was resting against his ring finger. He immediately pulled his hand away. Neither of us spoke. I took one trembling step toward him. “Adrian…” He stood. “Stop.” The word was quiet, but firm. I froze. He looked genuinely disturbed. Not angry. Not cruel. Afraid. “I don't know who you think I am,” he said, “but I am not your husband.” “You are.” “My name is Adrian Blackwell.” “Yes.” “I have never been married.” My heart cracked. “What?” “I have never been married.” I stared at him. Then I looked at his left hand. There was no ring. Of course there wasn't. My eyes dropped to his right hand. Nothing. He wasn't wearing one. But I remembered our wedding. I remembered putting the ring on his finger myself. I remembered him kissing my forehead afterward. I remembered him whispering, Now you're stuck with me. My vision blurred. “You're lying.” His expression softened. “I don't think you're well.” I flinched. He immediately looked regretful. But he continued. “You should see a doctor.” I laughed again. A horrible, broken sound. “A doctor?” “Mrs. Carter—” “My husband's name was Adrian Blackwell.” “I understand.” “He disappeared three years ago.” “I understand.” “He was declared dead.” Adrian stared at me. “And now you're telling me you've never even been married?” “Yes.” “Then explain this.” I reached into my handbag. My fingers trembled as I pulled out my phone. I opened the photograph I had looked at almost every night for three years. Our wedding photo. Me in a white dress. Adrian beside me. His arm around my waist. His smile soft and private, as though the rest of the world didn't exist. I placed the phone on the desk. Adrian looked down. His face drained of color. For several seconds, he didn't move. Then he picked up the phone. His fingers tightened around it. “Where did you get this?” “My wedding.” He stared at the photograph. Then at me. Then back at the photograph. “That isn't possible.” “Why?” He didn't answer. “Adrian?” His breathing had changed. He zoomed in on the photograph. His eyes fixed on the ring on his finger. The same ring. The ring I had bought for him. His expression became unreadable. Then he whispered something I almost didn't hear. “I've seen this.” My heart jumped. “What?” “I've seen this photograph.” “When?” He shook his head. “I don't know.” “Where?” “I don't know.” He pressed his fingers against his temple. Suddenly, his breathing became uneven. “Adrian?” He closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked like he was fighting a terrible headache. Then he whispered: “Rain.” I froze. “What?” “There was rain.” His eyes remained closed. “And a red dress.” My breath caught. I wasn't wearing red in the photograph. I was wearing white. “What red dress?” He opened his eyes. He looked frightened. “There was a woman.” “What woman?” “I don't know.” “Adrian, what are you remembering?” He stared at me. Then his expression changed completely. Coldness replaced confusion. “Leave.” I blinked. “What?” “Leave this hotel.” “Why?” “Now.” His voice was low. “You don't understand.” “Then explain it to me.” “I can't.” “You owe me an explanation.” He looked directly into my eyes. “I don't owe you anything.” The words hurt more than I expected. I picked up my phone. My hand shook. “Fine.” I turned toward the door. “Mrs. Carter.” I stopped. I didn't look back. His voice had changed. “Don't come back here.” I turned slowly. “Why?” He stared at me. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then: “Because whoever made me forget you will know you've found me.” My blood ran cold. “What did you say?” He looked toward the closed office door. Someone was standing on the other side. I couldn't see their face. Only the shadow beneath the door. Adrian's expression became terrifyingly serious. “Go.” The shadow moved. Someone walked away. I stared at Adrian. “You knew someone was there?” “Yes.” “Who?” He didn't answer. “Adrian—” “Go home, Elena.” My entire body went still. He had called me by my first name. The name only my husband used when he was angry. Or scared. Or in love. Adrian seemed to realize what he'd said. His face went pale. I whispered, “You remember me.” “No.” “Then why did you call me Elena?” He didn't answer. I stepped closer. “Adrian.” His eyes met mine. And for the first time since I had walked into that room, I saw something behind them. Recognition. A flash. A memory. Then it disappeared. He looked away. “Go home.” I walked toward the door. My hand was on the handle when he spoke again. This time, his voice was barely a whisper. “Whatever you do…” I turned. “Don't trust my family.” Then the lights went out.