All Chapters of UNTIL YOU REMEMBER ME: Chapter 281 - Chapter 290

(Adrian) The nausea had roots now. Deep ones. It wasn’t just the mornings anymore. It came at odd hours — during a board call, in the middle of reviewing contracts, even while standing at the window watching rain streak the glass like it had the night everything fractured the first time. My body remembered what my mind had tried to lock away. The miscarriage. The sterile hospital room three years ago. The way the world had narrowed to a single, devastating monitor beep that never came back. I was in the study when the worst wave hit yet. No warning. One moment I was staring at the city skyline, the next I was on my knees, retching into the wastebasket because the bathroom felt too far. Kathryn wasn’t home — a late strategy session at the AG’s office — so there was no one to hide it from. Just me, the rain, and the memory that refused to stay buried. I closed my eyes and it was there again. The private OB ward. Fluorescent lights too bright against white walls. Alessa lying

(Adrian) I can’t stop talking to myself. The words spill out in the quiet hours, low murmurs that bounce off the glass walls of the study like accusations I can no longer dodge. “What if she already knew?” I whisper to the empty room while another wave of nausea rolls through me. “What if the baby was already there, growing, when the insecurity started eating her alive?” The thought loops endlessly. A life inside her — our child — quietly steering her emotions, amplifying every doubt until she became someone I barely recognized. I pace the length of the study, rain hammering the windows in steady sheets. “She acted like a child,” I mutter, gripping the back of the leather chair until my knuckles whiten. “No sense of the repercussions. Tearing contracts, filing accusations, posting our divorce like it was some victory lap. She didn’t see how it would ripple — how it would hurt Reyes Holdings, how it would hurt her father’s legacy, how it would eventually hurt the child she was

(Adrian) I set the phone face-down on the desk, trying to end the spiral. A soft vibration hummed against the wood almost immediately. My stomach dropped. I flipped it over, heart already hammering, and saw the notification. Message sent. The dummy account. The one that used to comment “hi honey.” The one I had hovered over for weeks, whispering to myself that I wouldn’t cross that line. But I had. Somehow, in the motion of turning the phone down, my thumb must have brushed the send button on the half-typed message still sitting in the draft. A single line I hadn’t even finished: I saw the old photos. Your name still has Reyes on the architects page. Are you— It went through. “Fuck,” I whispered, voice cracking in the empty study. “What did I do?” I tapped the bubble hard, long-pressing, searching desperately for the option. Delete for everyone. My finger shook as I selected it. A small notification popped up: Messages deleted. But I knew how these things worked. S

(Alessa) I had been in bed for a week. The morning sickness had turned vicious, no longer content with brief waves in the early hours. It came in slow, rolling tides that left me too weak to stand. One moment I could sip water, the next I was curled on my side, dry-heaving into the basin Marcus kept beside the bed, my entire body trembling. Even lifting my head felt impossible. The room spun whenever I tried to sit up, so I stopped trying. I simply lay there, sheets tangled around my legs, staring at the ceiling of my old bedroom at my father’s estate. Daddy thought it was the flu. He came in every morning with herbal tea and worry lines etched deeper than I remembered, pressing his palm to my forehead like I was still a little girl. “You’ll be fine, princesa. Just rest. The body fights hard sometimes.” He kissed my hair and left me to sleep again, never suspecting the truth growing inside me. Marcus was the one who really took care of me. He brought cool cloths, bland broth

(Adrian) The nausea had origins I could no longer pretend were random. This morning it hit at 4:17 a.m., yanking me out of a half-dream where Alessa was still in our bed, her hand resting on the slight curve of her belly. I barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach emptied itself again — nothing left but bile and the bitter taste of guilt. I stayed on my knees, forehead against the cold marble, breathing in shallow gasps while the city outside the penthouse windows slowly turned from black to bruised gray. This wasn’t food poisoning. This wasn’t stress. This was the first miscarriage, coming back to punish me in the only language my body still understood. I closed my eyes and it was there again, three years ago, vivid as the day it happened. The private OB ward. The too-bright lights. Alessa lying pale against the pillows, her fingers limp in mine while the doctor spoke in careful, measured sentences. “No heartbeat at eight weeks. We’re very sorry.” The ultrasound s