chapter 3: A Stranger's wife

The drive back to the Blackwood mansion was silent, suffocating even. The hum of the car engine was the only sound Amelia could hear, and yet every beat of her heart pounded in her ears louder than the tires on the road.

She sat stiffly beside Damien, stealing glances at him when she dared. His profile was sharp, distant, the same as it had always been—but the way he looked out the window now was different. Not cold, not calculating, but lost. He wasn’t glaring at her, wasn’t scowling in irritation the way he had during their marriage before the accident. No, this Damien didn’t even acknowledge she existed.

And somehow, that hurt even more.

When they arrived, the mansion’s grand doors opened as though the house itself was holding its breath. The servants bowed respectfully, murmuring greetings of “Welcome home, sir… Madam…” But Damien’s steps didn’t falter, not even when Amelia’s name was spoken. He walked inside without a word, without so much as a glance at her, and Amelia felt like a ghost trailing behind a man who had once been her husband.

Her husband.

The word felt heavy on her tongue, bitter even. How could she still call him that, when he had just told her in the hospital room, “You are not my wife.”

Dinner that evening was unbearable.

A long mahogany table stretched between them like an ocean, and Amelia sat at one end while Damien occupied the other. Silverware clinked softly as servants set plates before them, but neither touched the food. The silence pressed down on Amelia’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, Damien spoke, his voice calm, almost too calm.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he said, his eyes fixed on his untouched glass of wine. “But I will not be deceived. If you truly were my wife, I would remember you.”

Amelia’s fork trembled in her hand. “I am your wife, Damien. We were married two years ago. The wedding—”

“The wedding?” His eyes flicked up, sharp and disbelieving. “All I remember of that day is… is someone else.”

Her chest tightened. He didn’t remember her. He remembered another woman.

Her hands balled into fists beneath the table, nails digging into her palms to keep from crying. “You think I would stand here, endure all of this humiliation, if I wasn’t telling the truth? Look at the marriage certificate, the photographs—”

“Documents can be forged. Photographs can be altered.” His tone was cutting, final. “But my memory cannot lie to me.”

Tears burned Amelia’s eyes, but she forced herself to hold her ground. “Then your memory is wrong.”

The servants froze, wide-eyed, at her boldness. Amelia herself could hardly believe she’d said it, but something inside her snapped. She had endured his neglect, his cold shoulders, his silent contempt for two years. But to now be erased completely from his life? To be called a liar to her face? That was too much.

Damien’s gaze darkened, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Yet, instead of lashing out, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

“You will remain here,” he said at last, his voice low. “Until I uncover the truth of who you really are. But do not think for a moment that I will accept your… claims.”

That night, Amelia lay awake in the cold, cavernous bedroom. Once, she had dreamed of a home filled with warmth, of a husband who might one day see her as more than a convenience. Now, she realized she had been chasing shadows.

She curled on her side, clutching the silk sheets as though they could anchor her, but all she felt was the emptiness of the bed beside her.

In the hallway beyond, she heard footsteps — Damien’s heavy, deliberate steps. He hadn’t come into the room at all since they arrived. He was avoiding her, even under the same roof.

And yet, despite everything, Amelia’s foolish heart whispered for him. The man she had married was cruel, yes, but he was hers. The man walking these halls now… didn’t even know her name.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she whispered into the dark, “Damien, please… don’t forget me.”

The next morning, Amelia awoke to find the staff already bustling about, their whispers following her wherever she went. She could see it in their eyes — pity, doubt, curiosity. They, too, were wondering if she truly was Mrs. Blackwood.

At breakfast, Damien was already seated, crisp in a tailored suit, his presence commanding as always. He didn’t look up when she entered. Didn’t acknowledge her.

Amelia sat quietly, every muscle tense. Then, in the middle of his coffee, Damien spoke without glancing her way:

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Her spoon froze midway to her lips. “Who?”

He finally looked at her, his eyes sharp and glinting with something unreadable. “The woman I remember. The one I believe is my wife.”

The words were knives, each syllable stabbing deeper into Amelia’s chest.

And just like that, she understood. He hadn’t only forgotten her. He had remembered someone else. Someone real.

Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming fast, but she forced herself to lift her chin. “Then I’ll meet her,” she said, though her voice trembled.

Damien’s lips curved — not in a smile, but in something colder, a warning. “Careful, Amelia. Truth has a way of destroying illusions.”

As he rose from the table and left, Amelia sat frozen, her fingers clenched tightly around the spoon.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew the battle for her place as Damien’s wife had just begun.