My Amnesiac Husband Cheated in the Hospital I Owned

I didn't go back to the rehab center for seven days.

I spent them in a glass conference room with Vaughn, two forensic auditors, and every piece of paper that had ever had Rhett's name on it. There was the prenup, the share registry for Apex Velocity, the sponsor contracts, and three years of bank statements.

On the fourth night, the lead auditor, Dana Kowalczyk, slid a printout across the table.

"Who's Maddox Motorsport LLC?"

I frowned. "Never heard of it."

"Your husband has." She tapped a column of numbers. "Formed eighteen months ago in Delaware. Rhett is the sole member. It's taken in money from six different places. None of them make sense."

Vaughn leaned over my shoulder and went quiet.

"This one," Dana said, pointing to the bottom of the page. "Two point four million. It came from the Apex Velocity sponsorship account."

My coffee went cold in my hand.

Apex Velocity was our racing operation. I'd closed its twelve-million-dollar title-sponsor deal myself, in Monaco, with a fever of a hundred and two.

"That money was for the new chassis," I said.

"Well, it bought something." Dana shrugged. "Just not a chassis."

Vaughn rubbed his jaw. "Marlowe, I can freeze every one of these accounts by morning."

"No."

They both stared at me.

"Freeze them and he knows," I said. "Freeze them and Bianca moves whatever's left. I want to see how deep this goes. Every dollar, every transfer, every name."

"So we watch," Dana said slowly.

"You watch. You copy everything. And nobody touches a thing until I say so."

Vaughn exhaled through his nose. "You sound like your father."

"My father would've buried him already." I stood and picked up my coat. "Draw up the divorce agreement. I'll deliver it myself."

---

A week later, the VIP suite smelled like coffee and expensive cologne. The lilies were gone.

Rhett was sitting up in bed with his phone. He spotted me in the doorway and grinned like he'd just won a bet.

"Look who finally caved."

"Hello, Rhett."

"Seven days." He set the phone down on his chest. "Bianca said you'd last five. I said three. Guess you've got more pride than I thought. Not much more, though."

"I'm not here to fight."

"Sure you're not." He laced his fingers behind his head. "So what is it today? Crying? Photo albums? You going to tell me about our honeymoon again?"

Before I could answer, there was a soft knock. Teresa, the night aide, stepped in with a covered tray. Steam curled out from under the lid.

"Mr. Calloway, your soup."

Rhett's eyes slid from the tray to me. His smile went flat.

"You made it."

Teresa blinked. "Sir, the kitchen sent—"

"Don't lie for her." He swung his arm out and swept the tray off the table.

The container hit my hand first.

The broth was scalding. It soaked across my knuckles and down my wrist before the plastic bowl bounced to the floor. I sucked air through my teeth. My whole arm shook. Within seconds the skin on the back of my hand went bright red, then shiny. A blister rose near my thumb, round and white.

Teresa gasped. "Mrs. Calloway! Let me get cool water—"

"Leave it," Rhett snapped. "She's fine. She's always fine."

He looked at my hand. Then he looked away, bored.

"This is what you do, isn't it?" he said. "Cheap food and big wet eyes. You think if you feed me enough soup and cry enough times, I'll wake up and want you."

I clenched my burned hand into a fist. The pain flared white.

Three nights before the crash report came back clean, I'd stood in my kitchen at two in the morning. I chopped carrots too fast and sliced the tip of my finger open. I wrapped it in tape and kept going. When I lifted the lid to check the broth, the steam caught my wrist and left a pink stripe that still hadn't faded.

I knew he'd refuse anything from me. So I'd handed it to Teresa and asked her to lie.

"Tell him it's from Laurent's. The place downtown."

The next morning, Teresa called me.

"He finished every drop," she said. "He told me to thank the chef. He said whoever made it really knows how to take care of a sick person."

Same soup. Same recipe. Same hands.

This time he hadn't tasted it. He'd only suspected me, and that was enough.

"Nothing to say?" Rhett asked.

I bent, picked up my bag with my good hand, and took out a thick white envelope. I set it on the blanket next to his knee.

"What's this?"

"Read it."

He pulled out the first page. His eyes moved across the top line, then stopped. For a second, maybe two, he didn't speak.

Then he laughed.

"Divorce." He waved the paper at me. "That's new. I'll give you points for creativity."

"It's not a trick."

"Of course it is." He tossed the page onto his lap. "You can't stand that I don't remember you. So now you threaten to leave, hoping it shocks something loose in my head. Very dramatic, Marlowe."

"Is that what you think?"

"You married a champion driver and you like being his wife. The parties. The cameras." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "So let me be clear. You're not getting my team. You're not getting my house. And you're not touching a cent of my endorsement money."

His team.

His house.

I felt it start low in my chest. It wasn't tears. It wasn't rage either, not anymore.

I laughed.

It came out soft at first, then louder, until Teresa took a nervous step back toward the door.

Rhett's jaw tightened. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." I took the pen from my coat pocket and uncapped it with my teeth. Pressing the agreement against the bedside table, I signed my name on the last page. My burned hand throbbed with every letter.

"There," I said. "My part's done. Take your time. Find yourself a good lawyer."

"I don't need time."

"You'll want it."

I walked to the door. At the threshold, I turned back.

Above his bed, a brushed-steel logo hung on the wall. *Lindqvist Medical & Rehabilitation.* My great-grandfather's name, the same name painted on the side of every car Rhett had ever driven for us.

He thought the team was his. It was mine. My family had built it, and I held seventy percent of the shares.

He thought the house on the bluff was his. I bought it four years before I met him, and my prenup said so in plain ink.

He thought this was just a nice private hospital.

He was lying in my bed, in my building, on my dime.

"Get out, Marlowe," he said. "And send someone to clean this up."

"Teresa will handle it."

In the hallway, I held my blistered hand away from my body and dialed with the other.

"Lindqvist Medical, billing department. This is Gail."

"Gail, it's Marlowe Lindqvist."

A pause. Her voice straightened. "Ms. Lindqvist. How can I help?"

"Room 7 VIP. Rhett Calloway. I'm the guarantor on his account as his spouse."

"Yes, ma'am. Everything's covered through you. Full rehab, the Boston specialist, all of it."

"Not anymore." I watched the blister on my thumb swell tighter. "Terminate my payment tonight."

Gail went quiet for a long moment.

"Ms. Lindqvist, his outstanding balance is already over four hundred thousand. Someone has to pay it by morning or he's discharged."

"Then I guess," I said, "we'll find out tomorrow who he calls."