After Amnesia, My Husband Went Crazy

After a near-drowning incident, I woke up to a shock—my college crush, the guy who had every girl swooning, was now my husband. But our wedding day turned into a nightmare when a call from his old flame sent him running to her, leaving me at the altar despite my desperate pleas. Everyone said I was a glutton for punishment, that I'd take him back no matter how much he broke me. They claimed I was madly in love with him, unable to let go. But with my memory of him gone, all I could do was laugh. I had no clue who this playboy was, and if he was a jerk, he could take a hike! I filed for divorce without a second thought. Post-divorce, I embraced a life of glamour and freedom, never looking back with regret. My ex, however, was a different story. He regretted our split, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and constantly bickering with his so-called true love. Then, one dark night, there he was on my doorstep, his eyes bloodshot, begging for a second chance as he knelt with a humility I'd never seen in him before. "Baby... please, just one more look," he pleaded. With a smile, I sent him packing: "Go to hell!!" ****** 01 "Jesus Christ! Mrs. Hewitt just tried to kill herself!" That shriek was the first thing I heard as they dragged me out of the water. Dripping wet, I sat on the edge of the pool, looking around in a daze. Lush grass, colorful flowers, and me, sitting here in a wedding dress. ‘Wait…Am I… getting married?’ My brain felt like it was swimming. I looked around, trying to make sense of anything. Ruth Mendez, the woman who'd raised me, rushed over, wrapping a towel around me while she rambled into her phone. "Mr. Hewitt, Mrs. Hewitt has killed herself! You need to come back right away!" A cold, deadpan voice replied, "If she's that keen on dying, I'll book her a damn grave. Don't bother me with crap." Then he just hung up. Ruth broke down, sobbing. "Mrs. Hewitt, Mr. Hewitt doesn't give a s**t about you! He's off with that s**t, even on your wedding day! Why would you ever try to end it over a bastard like him?" I gaped at her, bewildered. "Ruth, who the hell is Mr. Hewitt?" Her eyes went wide as she put a hand to my forehead. "Mrs. Hewitt, did you hit your head? Mr. Hewitt is your husband! Today is your wedding!" "What? I'm only eighteen! And why the hell would I marry some asshole who'd ditch his own wedding?" Ruth looked just as stunned. "But… you've been after Mr. Hewitt for six years! You even drugged him to get him to marry you!" ‘Six years?’ I quickly looked up and rushed to the nearby banquet table. A decorative mirror reflected my face back at me. It was still me, but older, maybe in my mid-twenties, with a strange, melancholy look in my eyes. ‘What the hell? I’m supposed to be eighteen! Could six years really have passed? This is insane!’ Completely lost, I let Ruth lead me back to a room, still dazed and shivering. As we sat down, Ruth filled me in. Apparently, I'd married Gresham Hewitt—the same Gresham who had once been the campus heartthrob and student council president back in college. I'd heard his name around campus, but we'd never even met. Yet, according to Ruth, after joining the student council and getting to know him, I fell head over heels for him. Then I'd spent the rest of my college years chasing him, refusing to take "no" for an answer. And after graduation? I forced my way into his company, hell-bent on making him mine. I spared no expense in showering him with affection, trying every trick in the book to grab his attention. But all it did was make him hate me even more. Gresham's family and friends saw me as a joke. No one liked me, but that only made me more determined. I even went so far as to get Gresham drunk and sleep with him at Sybil's birthday party—his precious childhood sweetheart. That stunt got me the title of his girlfriend, and eventually, I pressured him into marrying me. Today was the wedding I forced him into. One phone call from his so-called "true love" during the ceremony, and he left me standing there without a second thought. I became the laughingstock of everyone around me, and in a moment of utter humiliation, I tried to drown myself in the pool. Even now, I could barely believe it. I kept thinking I must be hallucinating. But everything in my room—my diary, my phone, all my things—told me it was real. I really had been with Gresham, and somehow, I'd lost the memory of the last six years. I read through my old diary entries, every word dripping with the heartache and frustration I felt towards him. Becoming his girlfriend didn't get me any closer to his heart; instead, he just kept giving me the cold shoulder, brushing me off like I didn't matter. I'd tried every trick, every ploy to get his attention, only to be met with his indifference or, worse, his disgust. His friends and colleagues even bet on how long it would take before he dumped me. To Gresham, I was nothing more than a pathetic clown. That was my life before I lost my memory. I couldn't wrap my head around it. I was stunned—and pissed. I hate lovesick idiots more than anything! Sure, Gresham might be handsome, rich, and talented, like a damn Greek god, but no one's worth losing your self-respect over! The whole thing was just ridiculous. I lay in the master bedroom of the bridal suite, staring at the ceiling. The doctor had checked me over, said I was physically fine, and left. Ruth, sensing how shattered I was, didn't say much, just gave me space. Staring up at the fancy chandelier, I couldn't help but get up and look around the room. It was luxurious, sophisticated, and—let's be real—cold as hell. Definitely Gresham's taste, not mine. I like things with a little more warmth and a little more flair. I opened the walk-in closet. Everything in there was black, white, and a bunch of drab, professional clothes that looked like they'd suck the life out of anyone. What kind of life had I been living? I'd twisted myself into someone completely unrecognizable. The thought of me being so lovesick and desperate that I'd try to kill myself made my blood boil. Even looking at these lifeless clothes pissed me off. After a moment, I grabbed a red dress and peeled off that damn wedding gown. As I was buttoning up, I heard a low, icy voice behind me. "Willa, still using the same pathetic tricks? God, it's just so… revolting." I spun around to see the man himself, staring at me with that cold, handsome face twisted in disdain. ‘So… this is the bastard I've married?’