He Faked Amnesia to Swap Me for His Step-Sister at the Altar

She'd blamed herself—the overtime, the irregular hours, the chemical exposure in the lab.

She'd cried all night, drowning in guilt.

It never occurred to her there could be another reason.

She didn't answer him. Instead, she met his eyes and spoke, word by word:

"Ethan. Was my miscarriage really an accident?"

Panic flickered across his face.

"What nonsense is this? I don't even know you!"

"Tell me!"

She grabbed his collar. In the struggle, her hand connected with his cheek—a sharp, ringing slap.

The room went silent.

He stared at her in disbelief. When had anyone ever humiliated him like this?

"You've lost your mind. Who would want a child with a woman like you?" His voice turned cold. "Get this lunatic out of here!"

He waved his hand. She lost her balance and slammed into the corner of a table. Blood ran down her forehead.

She didn't feel the pain. She laughed instead—laughed until tears spilled over.

No wonder he hadn't looked sad when she miscarried. He'd only said, with that calm face:

"You're still young. There will be other children."

So he'd never wanted their baby at all. He'd killed it with his own hands.

Looking at her ashen face, Ethan felt something twist in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak—

Security arrived.

She let them haul her up like a puppet, her body slack, her eyes vacant.

"Ethan, my hand hurts so much…"

Nina's voice came from behind him.

He stopped mid-step. Turned around.

"Hurry and bandage it. The wedding has to continue."

Nina wasn't about to waste this chance.

He shoved down the inexplicable unease clawing at him and fixed his attention on her. He'd almost forgotten—today's main characters were him and Nina.

As for Clarissa, she could calm down first.

They threw her out like trash.

Even her glasses were smashed.

She picked them up, wiped the lenses, and raised her eyes to the sky. Gray-white, like her heart.

There had once been a piece of flesh growing on that heart—a piece called Ethan Vance. Now it had rotted through.

Time to cut it out.

Her phone buzzed. A calendar reminder: the closed experiment was about to begin.

This phase had been designed specifically to develop treatment for Ethan's hand condition. Cases like his—psychologically induced—were rare. She'd never been able to gather enough volunteers for drug trials, so she'd been stuck running animal tests.

This wedding was a reminder. Maybe it was time to shift her research direction.

After all, research was her livelihood. The love affairs needed to be set aside.

Sterling's proposal deserved serious thought.

Her advisor texted, urging her back to the lab.

She replied: There's one last thing. After that, I'll officially start the experiment.

She took a cab to the cemetery.

Her child was buried there—the one who'd never taken shape. The last bond between her and Ethan.

She was going to say goodbye. To the baby. To the past fifteen years.

The sky darkened. Cold evening wind cut across her face, icy and damp. She climbed hundreds of steps, her legs growing heavier with each one.

The headstone had no name. No photo.

The urn beneath it was pitifully small. When they'd cremated the remains, that handful of ashes hadn't even filled her palm.