Chapter 2: The Ghost of the Man I Loved

"Am I hallucinating, or did the actual CEO of Ellis Designs just walk through the front doors?"

Claire barely had time to take off her sunglasses before her secretary, Maya, was practically hovering around her. Maya was holding a stack of folders, but her jaw was practically on the floor.

"Close your mouth, Maya, you'll catch flies," Claire said, giving her a faint smile. "It's good to see you too."

"Good to see you? Boss, it's been nearly two years since you stepped foot in this building!" Maya followed her into the private elevator. "I mean, Mr. Henderson has been doing a great job acting as interim VP since your dad retired, but the staff misses you. I miss you. Are you finally done playing the perfect billionaire housewife?"

Claire stared at the elevator doors. Housewife. What a joke. She hadn't even felt like a wife, let alone a perfect one.

"Yes," Claire said simply. "I'm done."

Maya blinked, sensing the shift in her tone. "Wait. Really?"

"Really. Tell Henderson I’ll be taking over my old office starting today. And get me a very strong, very black coffee."

For the first two hours, Claire successfully buried herself in fabric swatches, architectural blueprints, and budget reports. It felt amazing. For the first time in five years, she wasn't waiting around a giant penthouse for a man who wasn't coming home. She was Claire Ellis again.

Then, her desk phone rang.

Maya rushed into the office, looking pale. She didn't even bother knocking.

"Claire," Maya said, her voice shaking slightly. She rarely used Claire's first name. "That was St. Jude’s Hospital. It's... it's about your husband."

Claire's hand froze over a blueprint. The air in the room suddenly felt very heavy.

"He's not my husband anymore," Claire said automatically. "We signed the papers last night."

"He was in a car crash," Maya breathed out. "On the highway. Last night in the storm. They said his car wrapped around a concrete barrier. He just got out of emergency surgery."

Claire stared at her secretary, her brain struggling to process the words. Crash. Surgery. Last night.

He had left the penthouse right after she did. Had he been chasing her? No, Raphael wouldn't do that. He had literally yelled that he wouldn't chase her.

"Do you want me to call your driver?" Maya asked softly.

"No." Claire looked down at her hands. They were trembling. "I'm not going. He has a whole team of assistants and a mother who thinks he's a god. They can handle it. I have work to do."

She picked up her pen. She drew a line on the blueprint. It was crooked. She tried to read a budget report. The numbers swam on the page.

Ten minutes passed.

Damn it, she cursed silently.

She threw the pen across the room, grabbed her coat, and practically ran for the elevator.

The VIP wing of St. Jude’s Hospital was eerily quiet.

Claire rushed down the polished white hallway, her heels clicking loudly against the floor. Outside Room 402, a small group of people was gathered. Raphael’s assistant, a few bodyguards, and sitting on a bench with her head in her hands, Vivian Kingston.

Raphael’s mother looked up when she heard Claire's footsteps.

Vivian was usually the picture of cold, aristocratic elegance. Today, her designer suit was wrinkled, her makeup was smudged, and her eyes were red-rimmed and furious.

She stood up immediately and marched toward Claire.

Before Claire could even open her mouth to ask if he was alive, Vivian’s hand swung through the air.

Smack!

The slap echoed sharply in the quiet hallway. Claire’s head snapped to the side, her cheek burning instantly.

"Where were you?!" Vivian screamed, her voice cracking with raw, terrified grief. She wasn't just a mean mother-in-law right now; she was a mother who almost lost her only child. "The police said he was drunk, Claire! Raphael never drinks and drives! What did you do to him? Why weren't you with your husband?!"

Claire slowly touched her stinging cheek. She looked back at Vivian, her eyes dull.

"I wasn't with him, Vivian," Claire said, her voice eerily calm, "because I was leaving him. We signed the divorce papers last night."

Vivian froze, the anger draining from her face, replaced by pure shock. "You... you what?"

"Mrs. Kingston?"

A tired-looking doctor stepped out of Room 402, holding a clipboard. He looked between the two women, sensing the heavy tension.

"Doctor, how is my son?" Vivian asked, quickly wiping her eyes.

"He's stable. Miraculously, there's no severe internal bleeding, though he has a mild concussion, a fractured rib, and some bruising," the doctor explained. Then, he looked directly at Claire. "Are you his wife?"

"I am," Claire said. Technically, it was still true until the lawyers filed it.

"He just woke up," the doctor said. "And he is only asking for you. He refuses to let the nurses check his vitals until he sees you."

Claire swallowed hard. She nodded, giving Vivian a final, unreadable look, and followed the doctor into the room.

The heart monitor beeped rhythmically. The room smelled of antiseptic and rain.

Raphael was lying in the hospital bed. He had a bandage wrapped around his forehead, and his arm was in a sling. He looked pale and exhausted.

But when he heard the door open and turned his head to see her... he smiled.

Claire stopped dead in her tracks.

It wasn't his usual smirk. It wasn't the cold, polite curve of his lips he used for the cameras. It was a wide, genuine, breathtaking smile. It reached his dark eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. It was a smile so full of warmth and absolute relief that it felt like a punch to her stomach.

She hadn't seen that smile in five years.

"Claire," his voice was hoarse, raspy from disuse.

He looked at her standing frozen by the door, and his smile faltered slightly, replaced by a look of deep concern.

"Claire... why are you crying?" he whispered.

Claire reached up and touched her face. She hadn't even realized tears were spilling down her cheeks. He hadn't said her name that gently, with that much love, since their honeymoon.

"I'm... I'm fine," she choked out, wiping her face quickly.

"Come here," he said softly, patting the empty space on the mattress beside his hip.

She walked closer, her legs feeling like lead, but she stopped about two feet away from the bed. She couldn't get too close. This felt like a trick. Just last night, he was yelling at her.

Raphael frowned at the distance. He reached out with his good arm, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her forward.

"Hey," she gasped as she stumbled, landing right on the edge of his bed.

He kept his hand on her waist, pulling her close so her leg pressed against his hip. It was such a possessive, natural, intimate touch that Claire’s breath hitched.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Raphael, you're hurt..."

"I don't care," he murmured, reaching up to cup her cheek. His thumb gently brushed away a stray tear. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "Why are you looking at me like I'm a stranger, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

Claire’s heart actually stopped.

"What happened?" he asked, looking around the sterile room with a frustrated sigh. "My head is killing me. Did I crash the car? Tell me I didn't crash the Aston Martin. I just bought that for us."

"For... for us?" Claire stammered. He bought the Aston Martin five years ago, right after they got married.

"Yeah, for our first anniversary trip to the coast next month," Raphael smiled, running his thumb over her bottom lip. "Please tell me I didn't ruin our anniversary, Claire. If I did, I'll buy you that ridiculous giant diamond ring you saw in the magazine to make up for it."

Claire stared at him, absolute horror washing over her.

First anniversary.

He thought it was their first anniversary.

Before she could form a single word, the doctor gently pushed the door open. He looked at Claire and made a subtle 'come here' motion with his hand.

"I'll be right back," Claire whispered, pulling away from Raphael's grip.

Raphael looked instantly displeased at the loss of contact, catching her hand before she could fully pull away. He kissed her knuckles gently. "Hurry back. I don't like this place."

Claire stumbled out of the room, her head spinning. She pulled the door shut behind her and stared at the doctor.

"What is wrong with him?" she demanded, her voice barely a whisper. "He thinks... he's talking about things from years ago."

The doctor sighed, looking at his chart. "Mrs. Kingston, your husband suffered significant head trauma. We ran a CT scan. The physical damage isn't life-threatening, but the psychological impact..."

"Just say it," Claire begged.

"Retrograde amnesia," the doctor said softly. "His brain has essentially blocked out recent history to protect itself from the trauma. Based on what he's been saying to the nurses... your husband has lost the last five years of his memories."

Claire backed up until she hit the cold hospital wall.

Five years.

He had forgotten the cold nights. He had forgotten the endless arguments. He had forgotten the miscarriage that destroyed her.

He had forgotten the divorce.

Suddenly, Raphael's voice called out from the other side of the door, loud and clear, echoing into the hallway.

"Claire? Hey, sweetheart, did you end up calling the contractor about the spare room upstairs? We really need to get that nursery finished before we start trying for a baby!"

Claire slid down the wall, putting her head between her knees as a suffocating panic set in.

The husband who broke her was gone.

And the man who loved her had just returned.