I don't believe there is no parting sorrow in the world

The hospital room door swung open, and a crowd poured inside.

Violet stared blankly, her eyes wide. “Who are you?”

Standing at the center of the group, Vincent stiffened. His voice caught—an uncharacteristic stumble. “…Violet?”

Her gaze drifted past his face, empty and lost, before she shrank further into herself.

“I don’t know you. Where am I?”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the reporters, the shutter clicks growing frantic.

Someone spoke up. “Mr. Vincent, it appears your ex-wife has lost her memory.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed, his scrutinizing stare fixed on Violet.

With an air of innocent curiosity, Nancy tilted her head. “What are the odds? Not that I’m doubting Violet, of course. It just feels so… theatrical.” She clung to Vincent’s arm, her smile gentle and sweet.

Vincent had always said he was drawn to innocent, uncomplicated girls.

Violet had thought he meant her.

Now, looking back, she realized his eyes hadn’t been on her at all when he said it.

He’d fallen for someone else as early as their first year of marriage.

No.

Maybe even earlier.

The Vincents had taken Nancy in as their ward during her high school years.

Vincent had complained to Violet about it countless times, suspecting his father of some shady business—why else take in a girl so suddenly?

Violet had told him not to overthink it. *It’s for charity. A kind thing to do.*

He’d pulled her into his arms, indignant. “Aren’t you even a little worried this ‘foster sister’ might steal me away?”

Violet had laughed. “If you’re that easy to steal, I promise I’ll leave faster than you can blink.”

A joke from years ago, now turned prophecy.

Violet pulled herself from the memory just as Vincent turned to Dr. Arthur. “What’s going on?”

With his secret in someone else’s hands, Dr. Arthur—however reluctant—quickly supplied an explanation.

“It’s a manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder. The patient is actively erasing painful memories—a self-preservation mechanism.”

“When she woke, Ms. Violet was remarkably calm. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She just kept asking who I was and where she was.”

“All signs indicate she is currently experiencing genuine amnesia.”

Dr. Arthur was greedy for fame and fortune, but he did have skill. He’d happily built himself a minor social media following, becoming something of a medical influencer. His word carried weight.

Most of the room accepted it.

Even Vincent’s skeptical expression began to fade.

Violet looked at him, her fingers curling into a tight fist inside her sleeve. “You’re my ex-husband? Why did we divorce?”

Vincent met her gaze, his dark eyes cold and hollow.

“Violet, even without your memory, the mistakes you made aren’t erased. I won’t hide your crimes for you.”

“If you hadn’t maliciously bullied others, the victim wouldn’t have held a grudge, and this kidnapping wouldn’t have happened. You brought all of this on yourself.”

“You ask why I divorced you? Because you never learned. You still use your status to bully the vulnerable.”

Vincent’s torrent of accusations left Violet stunned.

Her mind reeled. A memory surfaced—before she learned the truth about her daughter’s death, a bullying video from over a decade ago had appeared online. The poster claimed the girl using a curling iron to burn someone was the current Mrs. Vincent.

Though only the perpetrator’s back was visible, the rumor mill was merciless. Nancy had taken plenty of heat.

Now Violet understood.

The bullying was real. So he was desperate to find a scapegoat for Nancy.

Violet, the former Mrs. Vincent, now had only one value left: to take the fall.

She meant to laugh, but tears spilled down her cheeks instead.

Vincent faltered, his brow knitting again.

“Why are you crying?”

“Or… have you remembered something?”