THE WIFE WHO FORGOT

CHAPTER 9: THE PRICE OF TRUST, PAPER MARRIAGE - PART 2

Rose stares at papers in frant of her.

JASON: — every word a hard blow —

“No contact with Jonathan. Ever. Not a text. Not a call. Not a word. Nothing! Or I send every page of this to Sam tonight. Your choice.”

Silence crashes back then — heavy, brittle, only the low roar of the ocean outside filling the space between them.

Rose glances at her phone on the table. Once. Twice. No messages. No calls. Nothing.

He sees it. His jaw tightens another inch. That small, innocent glance twists in his mind — becomes confirmation. Every little thing is proof now.

Then he steps closer, right into her space, close enough she can feel the heat and the anger rolling off him. His voice drops, raw and hollowed out.

JASON: — quiet, broken, final —

“So it was never me. Not even once. You never chose me. You chose the business. You chose the rescue. You chose saving them — and I was just the price you paid to do it.”

Inside Jason: My mother said the same things. “It’s better this way.” “For the family.” All while she packed her bags and walked out. And now Rose… she’s doing exactly the same.

"Stop it!" she shouts and picked up her phone and throws it in frustration, where it landed on the bed somewhere.

Inside Rose: If I don’t sign — Sam loses her baby. Her business. Everything. If I DO sign — I lose him anyway. Either way… I lose.

Her hand closes around the pen. It does not shake.

Rose signs her name — firm, unwavering — and SLAMS the pen down hard on the table.

ROSE: — voice flat, dead inside —

“There. You got exactly what you wanted.”

KNOCK. KNOCK.

A knock at the door.

VOICE (from outside):

“Mr. and Mrs. Hartley. all your items and luggage have been places and are ready use. Dinner will be served at six.”

Rose doesn’t look at him. She walks straight past him. Head high.

INT. BEDROOM — NIGHT

High ceilings. Ocean breeze. One king-sized bed in the centre of the room. Her ivory dress hangs by the window. Two suitcases side by side. Separate.

She drops her veil. Unclasps her jewellery. Grabs extra blankets from the cupboard and makes herself a nest on the wide leather sofa across the room. Clear boundary.

"Paper marriage. Paper bed. That’s the deal."

She changes into a soft cotton nightgown — simple, modest — and sits curled on the sofa, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders.

He turns away. Leans against the balcony frame. Stares out at the endless black waves. Sees nothing.

"I can’t believe you think these things about me," she says quietly into the quiet. "It’s twisted."

No answer.

LATER THAT NIGHT — MOONLIGHT

The villa is silent. Only the ocean breathing outside. Moonlight spills silver across the floor.

Rose wakes — cold. The blanket slipped off sometime in the dark. She sits up, shivering. She needs another one from the cabinet. Rose remembers seeing a thick one when she took the one she is using out.

She stands, barefoot on the cool floor, and walks quietly to the cabinet. She pulls an extra blanket free — and as she turns back, she see a light pop up from beside Jason on the bed where he slept. She realised that was her phone the light popped out from.

Her phone. Resting right on the bed, beside his pillow — where she’d flung it earlier, trembling and angry, too hurt to care where it landed. there it was — on HIS side, right by HIS pillow.

She glances over. He’s still — too still — lying on his back, face turned toward the window. His breathing even. Asleep.

Slowly, quietly, she walks toward the bed. Barefoot. Silent. Moonlight paints her silhouette against the sheets.

She stops beside him. For a moment she just stands there — looking at him. The strong line of his jaw. The dark lashes against his skin. The man she’s loved her whole life.

She leans in, reaching — her fingers brush the phone — and her balance shifts. She slips.

One hand flies out to steady herself — lands firm on his chest. Her other arm catches his shoulder. She’s half over him, breath caught, bodies inches apart.

His eyes fly open — dark, wide, locked straight on hers. He can feel the warmth of her through the thin nightgown. The rise and fall of her chest so close. Her hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder.

Neither moves. The air between them thickens — heavy, charged, humming with everything they’ve buried. His heart hammers beneath her palm. Hers races in her throat. He doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t pull back. For a long, suspended moment — he just looks at her. Really looks at her — like he’s seeing her for the first time in years, like he’s starving for it.

Slowly — so slowly she barely dares breathe — his hand rises. Fingers brush her cheek, tuck that fallen strand of hair gently behind her ear. His touch lingers — warm, deliberate, burning — thumb grazing the line of her jaw like he’s memorising it.

"Go to sleep, Rose."

His voice comes — rough, low, strained — barely holding on, every word thick with want and war. His hand doesn’t drop right away. It rests there, cupping the side of her face for one heartbeat too long — fire blazing in his eyes, dark and hungry and fighting every single step. His eyes shifted onto her lips he leaned in like he was about to kiss her.

Then he pulls back — just an inch — breaks the spell. Turns his face away, jaw tight with the battle he’s losing.

"Go! Please, before - "

She grabs her phone and blanket, stumbles back to the sofa.

Both lie awake. Hearts still racing. Separated by a bed and sofa in one room that feels miles wide — and impossibly small all at once.

PART 5: THE MORNING AFTER

Sunlight spills soft and gold through the glass. It finds Rose first — curled tight on the sofa, blanket pulled up over her head as if she could block out the day itself.

She wakes slowly. Heavy. Eyes stinging. Every muscle aching. She automatically looked over to the bed.

The bed is empty.

She sits up fast, heart lurching — but he’s just standing by the far wall, looking out at the ocean. Already dressed. Suit crisp. Tie knotted perfect. Like nothing happened. Like they didn’t hang suspended in the dark, breathing the same air, burning with something neither would name.

He turns at the sound of her moving. His face is calm. Closed off.

" Good morning mrs Hartley, slept well i hope..." He gestures. "Tea and coffee are both on the side table," he says, quiet. "Exactly how you like it. Choose your poison"

Jason witty in the morning. No mention of last night. Is he feeling okay? Rose though to herself

Rose stands slowly, smoothing her nightgown, wrapping her arms tight around herself. She walks to the table — steaming cup, just right. No note. No nothing.

"Thank you," she says, barely above a whisper.

He nods once. Turns back to the window.

"We need to talk about what comes next," he says, not looking at her. "About appearances. About the family."

Rose sits on the edge of the sofa, wrapping both hands around the warm cup. "What about them?"

"The show must go on Rose for the family and the world, They expect happy. They expect in love. They expect us together — everywhere, always. We give them that. We keep the peace. We keep Sam safe."

"And us?" Her voice shakes. "What do we get, Jason?"

He doesn’t answer. Just stares out at the waves.