Husband Chooses Ex Over Me

I stared at the manila envelope in Connor's hands, my fingers trembling slightly as I reached for it. Ninety-nine days. Just ninety-nine days since we'd exchanged vows, since I'd promised to love this man through sickness and health, till death do us part.

"What is this?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears, hollow and small in our suddenly too-large living room.

Connor's face was a mask of clinical detachment, his blue eyes—the same eyes that had looked at me with such tenderness on our wedding day—now cold and distant. He adjusted his tie, a nervous habit I'd once found endearing.

"Divorce papers," he said flatly. "I need you to sign them."

The envelope slipped from my fingers, landing with a soft thud on our marble coffee table. "Is this a joke?"

"I wish it were." Connor ran a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. "Lyla Collins has returned."

Lyla Collins. The name hit me like a physical blow. Connor's college girlfriend. The woman he'd been with before me, before the earthquake that had brought us together when I pulled him from the rubble.

"She's suffering from severe amnesia," Connor continued, his voice taking on the professional tone he used with patients. "A car accident. She doesn't remember the last five years. She's extremely fragile, Sylvia."

"And that's my problem because...?"

"I need to divorce you temporarily." He didn't meet my eyes. "For her sake. Her psychiatrist says any stress could worsen her condition."

I felt the room tilt slightly. "You want me to believe that your ex-girlfriend suddenly has amnesia, and you need to divorce me to help her?"

"It's complicated," Connor sighed, that familiar phrase that always meant he didn't want to explain. "Think of it as a therapeutic intervention. Once she stabilizes—"

"Once she stabilizes?" I echoed, my voice rising. "And what about our marriage? What about the vows we made?"

He finally looked at me, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the man I'd married. "It's just temporary, Sylvia. You have to trust me."

* * *

Three days later, Lyla Collins stood in our entryway, clutching a small suitcase. She was exactly as I remembered from photos—petite with delicate features and wide, innocent eyes. But there was something off about her, something that made my skin crawl.

"Connor," she whispered, her voice breathy and childlike. "Is this... is this where I'm supposed to be?"

Connor's entire demeanor changed. The cool detachment vanished, replaced by a tenderness that made my heart constrict. "Yes, sweetheart. You're safe now."

She stepped inside, her eyes darting around our home before landing on me. For just a second, something sharp and calculating flashed across her face before it melted back into confusion.

"You're Sylvia," she said, her voice still innocent, her eyes still wide. "Connor told me about you. You're our... our..."

"Friend," Connor supplied quickly. "Sylvia is our family friend."

Lyla nodded, then reached for Connor's arm, her fingers curling around his sleeve. "I'm scared," she whispered. "Everything is so confusing."

"Connor will help you," I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

When Connor turned away to carry her suitcase upstairs, Lyla's eyes met mine again. The confusion vanished, replaced by a cold smile that didn't reach her eyes.

* * *

I stood frozen in the doorway of our bedroom—our bedroom—watching as Connor carefully removed our wedding photo from the wall.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Lyla needs a calm, familiar environment," he explained, replacing our photo with one of him and Lyla from college. "These will help her memory."

All around our home, evidence of our marriage was disappearing. Wedding photos replaced with old pictures of Connor and Lyla. My carefully chosen decor removed to make room for items Connor claimed would help her recovery.

"Connor," I said quietly, "this isn't right."

"This is what she needs," he insisted, not looking at me. "You need to understand that."

Later that evening, I found them in the living room, Lyla curled against Connor on our couch—the couch where we'd spent our first night together as a married couple.

"Remember our senior year spring formal?" Connor was saying softly. "You wore that blue dress..."

Lyla giggled, her head on his shoulder. "I wish I could remember."

I backed away silently, feeling like a ghost in my own home. From the hallway, I watched as my husband recreated romantic memories with another woman, while I was forced to play the role of concerned family friend.

And all the while, Lyla's eyes occasionally found mine over Connor's shoulder, watching me with the calculating gaze of someone who had found exactly what she wanted.