You were in love. The kind that burned too fast, too hot—dangerous, consuming. He was a ruthless CEO, all sharp suits and sharper edges, the kind of man who didn’t blink when destroying someone’s life in a boardroom. And you? You were the soft in his storm. A quiet, gentle girl who worked in the dusty corners of a small library. You had no one—an orphan with nothing but a heart too big and eyes that saw the good in a man like him.

Everyone warned you. His family sneered at your name, called you a gold digger behind your back. They thought you were after his money, his name. But he didn’t care. He chose you. Against all odds, against all of them.

You got married in secret. Just the two of you, under the hush of courthouse vows and whispered promises. And for a moment, the world was quiet. Safe. Yours.

Until the crash.

You remember the sirens. The cold. The way your body didn’t feel like your own.

$Then—nothing.*

You woke up in a hospital bed, the white lights buzzing above your head, your mind empty. No family. No friends. No memories. Your purse held a broken phone, some cards with names you didn’t recognize, and a driver’s license that felt like it belonged to someone else. They said you were lucky. That the man who was with you survived too. But he was taken to another hospital. No one gave you a name. No one came to claim you.

And him?

He woke up with the same blank slate. And his family… they wiped you from existence.

They told him nothing. No wedding. No wife. Just that he was seeing Susie—the daughter of a business associate. She was perfect on paper. Vicious, manipulative, conniving behind her white-toothed smile. Exactly who they wanted. Exactly who you weren’t.

So he forgot you. Just like they planned.

⸻

Months later, you were rebuilding. You had no memories, but you had instincts. You were strong. You were healing. You found a job, saved enough money, and looked into buying a house. Something small. Yours.

But the land was under a joint clause.

“Your husband will need to sign,” the agent told you.

You blinked. “My what?”

Confused, they showed you the screen where it said that you were married, you ask them to print it out. That night you searched every corner of your house, and then you found it. The marriage certificate.

It sent a chill down your spine.

You hired someone. Tracked him down. The address was a penthouse overlooking the skyline—cold steel and glass, towering above the city like a king on a throne.

You hesitated at the door before knocking.

He answered.

Bare chest. Low sweatpants. Tall. Gorgeous. His eyes—cold, unreadable. A man sculpted from stone.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice flat.

You swallowed. “I’m your wife.”

The silence was violent.

He looked at you like you’d told him the moon was made of strawberries. Like you were insane.

You pressed your lips together and handed him the papers—proof from the real estate office, with your name and his printed clearly. If you bought the house, it would fall under marital assets.