My CEO Husband doesn't remember me

~Hospital~ Emma had been sitting outside the operating theatre for nearly four hours, but time had long since lost its meaning. The digital clock mounted on the white wall continued to tick forward, indifferent to the storm tearing through her chest. Her fingers tightened around the silver wedding band hanging from the chain around her neck. She had slipped it off hours earlier when she kept twisting it so hard it left angry marks on her finger. Across the hallway, Noah's mother sat silently, her face buried in a handkerchief. His younger sister paced from one end of the corridor to the other, stopping every few minutes to glance anxiously at the doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. No one spoke. There was nothing left to say. Emma lowered her head and stared at the blood drying beneath her fingernails. It wasn't hers. When the police officer had called earlier that afternoon, she had been halfway through tasting the pasta sauce simmering in their kitchen. Noah had promised

The morning sun streamed through the hospital windows, casting the lights across Noah's face. He looked better today. The doctors had removed the breathing tube, and he was sitting up slightly, propped against pillows that Emma had fluffed without thinking. She caught herself and pulled her hand back. Jessica was already there, curled into the chair beside Noah's bed like she belonged there. Her manicured fingers intertwined with his, and she smiled at him with sweetness. "Good morning," Emma said softly, setting the breakfast tray on the rolling table. "I brought you some tea. Chamomile. It helps with—" "He doesn't drink chamomile," Jessica interrupted, her voice dripping with false concern. "Noah prefers Earl Grey. Every morning. Strong, with a splash of milk. Isn't that right, baby?" Noah nodded. "Yes. Thank you." He glanced at Emma, then quickly away, as though she were nothing more than a piece of furniture. Emma set down the tray with trembling hands. "I'll remember that."

Emma woke before dawn. The guest room was cold, the sheets unfamiliar against her skin. She had barely slept, her mind racing through the night, replaying every cruel word Jessica had thrown at her. Every cold glance from Noah. Every moment of her erasure. She rose quietly, padding barefoot through the silent penthouse. The kitchen was empty, the city lights still glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. She moved on autopilot, her hands finding the kettle, the tea canister, the mug Noah had used every morning for the past three years. She paused, her fingers hovering over the canister. Jessica had said he preferred Earl grey. That was a lie. Noah had loved chamomile for years—it was the only tea he ever drank. But after he met Emma, everything changed. She had introduced him to chamomile on their first date, the smoky bergamot flavor reminding her of her grandmother's kitchen. He had fallen in love with it instantly. It tastes like you, he had said, smiling at her across