Wife Uncovers Husband's Fake Amnesia Scheme

The elevator doors opened to the familiar marble lobby of Gordon Industries, but everything felt different now. Three days had passed since I'd filed for divorce, and walking into Matthias's company felt like entering enemy territory. The receptionist's smile faltered when she saw me, her thoughts immediately accessible: *Oh no, Mrs. Gordon looks terrible. Is it true about the divorce? Mr. Gordon said she was having a breakdown.*

I straightened my shoulders and walked toward the executive floor. My heels clicked against the polished stone, each step echoing my newfound determination. When I reached my office—or rather, my former office—I found Sarah Mitchell waiting with boxes and packing tape.

"Mrs. Gordon," Sarah said, her voice carefully neutral. "I prepared everything you requested."

But her thoughts told a different story: *She deserves to know what I overheard. Those phone calls Mr. Gordon made... 'taking care of the Ariella problem.' I should have said something sooner.*

"Sarah," I said quietly, closing the door behind me. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

She froze, her hands stilling on the box she was packing. "I... what do you mean?"

*She knows. Somehow she knows about the calls. But how could she?*

"The phone calls," I said simply. "About taking care of the Ariella problem."

Sarah's face went white. "You heard about those? But I was the only one who—" She stopped, realizing what she'd just admitted.

"Tell me everything," I said, settling into my chair for the last time.

Sarah's voice shook as she spoke. "Two weeks before the accident, Mr. Gordon was on a call with someone. He thought I'd left for lunch, but I came back for my phone. He was saying things like 'the Ariella situation needs to be resolved permanently' and 'make it look accidental.' I thought maybe he was talking about firing you, but after the crash..."

Her thoughts filled in what she couldn't say aloud: *I think he tried to kill her. My boss tried to murder his own wife.*

"Who was he talking to?" I asked.

"I don't know. But he was writing notes, tearing them up after. Very secretive."

A knock interrupted us. James Morrison from Hartwell Investments peered through the glass door. When I gestured him in, his thoughts preceded his words: *If she's really leaving Gordon Industries, we're following her. Matthias is nothing without the Davis family connections.*

"Ariella," James said warmly, "I heard you might be making some career changes."

"That's right," I replied. "I'm resigning from Gordon Industries effective immediately."

"Well, when you decide on your next move, Hartwell would be very interested in maintaining our business relationship. With you, specifically."

As word spread through the building, a parade of clients and partners appeared at my door. Each conversation revealed the same truth through their thoughts: they were here for me, not Matthias. The Davis family name, my strategic mind, my relationship-building skills—these were what had built half of Gordon Industries' success.

By afternoon, Matthias appeared in my doorway, his face a mask of controlled fury. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Collecting my belongings," I said calmly, continuing to pack.

*She's destroying everything. Morrison, Chen, the Blackstone account—they're all following her. This will cost millions.*

"You can't just steal my clients," he said aloud.

"I'm not stealing anyone. They're making their own choices." I looked up at him. "Interesting how they seem to prefer working with me."

His jaw clenched. *Without her family connections and her client relationships, the company will lose forty percent of its revenue. Lorelei won't want to be with someone whose business is failing.*

That evening, I sat in the Gordons' dining room for what I knew would be the last time. Mrs. Gordon had insisted on a family dinner, despite the circumstances. Matthias sat across from me, still maintaining his amnesia act, while Lorelei perched beside him like a beautiful, poisonous flower.

"Lorelei, dear," Mrs. Gordon said with false sweetness, "tell us about your time in Europe. What exactly were you doing there?"

Lorelei's smile was radiant, but her thoughts were venomous: *These old fools are so easy to manipulate. Just need to spin some romantic story about finding myself.*

"Oh, I was exploring art and culture," Lorelei said dreamily. "I spent time in Paris, then Monaco..."

*Actually spent time bleeding rich old men dry. That banker in Monaco was particularly generous before his wife found out.*

"How wonderful," I interjected. "What galleries did you visit in Paris? I love the Musée d'Orsay myself."

Lorelei's pause was barely perceptible. "Oh, all the famous ones. You know how it is."

*Shit, I never went to any galleries. Too busy shopping with Heinrich's credit cards.*

"And Monaco?" Mrs. Gordon pressed. "Such an expensive place to live. You must have had a good job there."

*If you call sleeping with married men a job,* came Lorelei's bitter thought.

"I was... consulting," Lorelei said vaguely.

Mr. Gordon leaned forward. "What kind of consulting?"

The questions continued, each one forcing Lorelei deeper into lies while I listened to her increasingly frantic thoughts. By dessert, she was shooting me suspicious glances, somehow sensing that I was the source of the uncomfortable interrogation.

As we prepared to leave, Mrs. Gordon pulled me aside. "That woman is poison," she whispered. "I don't know how, but you exposed her tonight. Thank you."

The next morning, Charlie drove me to Murphy's Auto Repair, a small shop in a questionable neighborhood. "Tom Murphy's the best forensic mechanic in the city," Charlie explained as we pulled up to the garage. "If there was sabotage, he'll find it."

Tom Murphy was a bear of a man with grease under his fingernails and thirty years of experience in his weathered face. He led us to where my mangled car sat like a broken skeleton.

"Already found what you're looking for," he said grimly. "Brake lines were cut clean through. And see this?" He pointed to the steering column. "Steering mechanism was tampered with. Someone wanted this car to crash, and they wanted the driver to have no control when it happened."

His thoughts were crystal clear: *This wasn't an accident. This was attempted murder. Clean, professional job too. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.*

I stared at the evidence of Matthias's betrayal, my hands shaking. He hadn't just wanted to divorce me—he'd wanted me dead. Our unborn child too.

"Can you document everything?" Charlie asked, his arm steadying me.

"Already have," Tom replied. "Police will want to see this. This is evidence of attempted murder."

As we drove away from the garage, the full weight of Matthias's betrayal settled over me like a suffocating blanket. But beneath the trauma, something else grew—a cold, determined fury. He'd tried to kill me and failed. Now it was my turn to destroy him.