My Husband Wanted Me to Lose My Memory. So I Pretended I Did.

The iron gates of the Sinclair estate loomed ahead, tall and unyielding. The matte-black Porsche glided through them, the tires crunching softly against the gravel drive. I stepped out into the night air, the familiar chill of the grounds settling into my bones.

Alexander Sinclair waited on the front steps. He stood perfectly straight, his dark suit blending into the shadows of the massive stone facade.

"You made good time," he said, his voice carrying over the empty courtyard.

I handed him my phone. "Listen to it."

He pressed play. The audio of Ryan and Vanessa played out, sharp and damning in the quiet night. As Ryan's voice detailed his plan to induce a coma and wipe my memory, Alexander's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

He handed the phone back, his eyes freezing over. "He’s not just cheating. He’s preparing to illegally imprison you."

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. I wrapped my arms around myself. "I gave up my inheritance for him. I cut ties with my father. I thought I was choosing love." I shook my head, staring at the ground. "I was just a joke."

"You were a target," Alexander corrected. He turned and walked into the house. "Follow me."

I followed him into the sprawling study, the scent of old leather and polished wood hitting me instantly. He walked to the mahogany desk and picked up a thick, bound dossier. He tossed it across the surface. It slid to a stop right in front of me.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Financial audits," Alexander stated. "Whitmore Group has been quietly siphoning cooperative funds from Sinclair Group for the past three years. We knew it was happening, but he buried the paper trail well. We lacked hard evidence."

I flipped open the cover. Rows of numbers, shell companies, and redacted transfers stared back at me. I traced the edge of a page.

"Then we give him the evidence," I said, my voice steadying. "We let him think his plan is working."

Alexander leaned against the edge of the desk. "He wants to stage an accident. We control the stage."

The next morning, Ryan smiled at me over his coffee cup.

"Charlotte," he began, his tone bright and overly sweet. "You’ve been looking stressed lately. Why don’t we take a drive out to the canyon today? Just the two of us. Get some fresh air."

I kept my face perfectly blank. I nodded. "That sounds nice, Ryan."

The winding mountain road was slick with morning dew. Ryan drove his silver sedan a little too fast, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the steep drop-off to the right.

"Beautiful view," Ryan commented, glancing at me.

"Yes," I agreed.

The car suddenly jerked. The engine whined loudly.

"The brakes!" Ryan yelled, his voice laced with entirely fake panic. "The brakes are gone!"

He yanked the wheel hard to the left, then overcorrected to the right. The car skidded toward the guardrail.

"Get out!" he screamed, reaching over and shoving the passenger door open.

Before I could brace myself, his hands slammed into my shoulder. He pushed me out.

I tumbled out of the moving car, rolling down the grassy embankment exactly where Alexander had mapped it out. The slope was steep but clear of jagged rocks. I hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop near a cluster of pine trees.

Above me, the screech of tires echoed, followed by a loud crash as the car hit the barrier.

Within seconds, a pair of hands grabbed my arms.

"Ms. Sinclair, we have you," a medic whispered.

They hoisted me onto a stretcher, rushing me toward a black van hidden in the tree line. As the doors closed, I heard the distant wail of sirens. Ryan was already calling the police, playing the devastated husband.

Three days later, the stark white walls of the hospital room blurred into focus. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

The door clicked open. Ryan walked in, holding a bouquet of white lilies. His eyes locked onto mine, searching for any sign of recognition.

I sat up slowly, pulling the thin blanket up to my chin. I stared at him, keeping my expression entirely hollow.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice weak and trembling.

A sharp, unmistakable flash of excitement crossed his eyes. He quickly masked it with a look of deep concern.

He rushed to the bedside, dropping the flowers onto the table. He reached out and grabbed my hand.

"Charlotte," he said softly, squeezing my fingers. "I'm your husband."

I tilted my head, furrowing my brow. I let my eyes wander around the room, then back to his face. I nodded slowly, playing the part of the blank slate he wanted so badly.

In the upper corner of the room, the tiny red light of a hidden camera blinked steadily.