All Chapters of The Wife He Forgot: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

POV: Damian --- The ballroom was a cage of crystal and gold, and Damian Ashford had been trapped in it for three hours. He stood near the windows on the east wall, as far from the crowd as he could get without actually leaving. His wife—Celeste, his wife of three years, though the word still felt foreign in his mouth—was somewhere behind him, working the room with the precision of a woman who had been born for this. She was good at it. She was good at everything. That was why he'd married her, apparently. He didn't remember falling in love with her, but he must have. Everyone said he had. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt something real. The scotch in his glass was warm. He'd been holding it for half an hour without drinking, watching the amber liquid catch the chandelier light. Around him, Manhattan's elite performed their ritual dance of money and influence. He'd grown up in rooms like this, had learned to navigate them before he could walk, but tonight the perfo

POV: Scarlett ---The nightmare came for her at 3:17 a.m.Scarlett knew the exact time because she had been staring at the clock when sleep finally pulled her under—the red digits on the bedside table pulsing in the darkness like a heartbeat. 3:17. She had lain awake for hours after leaving her studio, after covering the painting of the two hands, after promising Adrian she would come to him if something was wrong. She had lain there and listened to his breathing deepen beside her, slow and even, the breathing of a man who had no trouble sleeping.And then she was falling.The dream came without warning, without transition. One moment she was in her bed, staring at the ceiling. The next moment she was falling through darkness, her hands reaching for something she couldn't see, couldn't touch, couldn't hold. The wind screamed past her ears. The ground rushed up from below, vast and invisible and inevitable.She was falling.And she was not alone.A man was falling beside her. She coul

POV: Scarlett---The meeting was scheduled for 10 a.m. in the Ashford Grand Hotel's executive conference room, and Scarlett had been dreading it for exactly seven days.She stood in front of her closet that morning, staring at the row of dresses Adrian had chosen for her over the years. Cream silk. Navy crepe. Black wool. Each one beautiful, expensive, perfectly tailored. Each one a costume she wore to perform the role of Mrs. Adrian Laurent. Her hand drifted toward a deep burgundy dress—something about the color felt right this morning, felt like armor—but she stopped herself."The cream one," Adrian said from the doorway.She turned. He was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, his smile warm and approving. He was already dressed, impeccable in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month. His blond hair was perfectly styled. His blue eyes were gentle and attentive."The cream one brings out your eyes," he said. "Wear the cream one."Scarlett's ha

___POV: Damian---The safety deposit box had sat untouched for five years.Damian didn't know why he was opening it now. He had left his penthouse that morning with no particular destination in mind, driven by a restlessness he couldn't name and couldn't shake. The photograph he had found—Scarlett Hale, one week before his fall, smiling at someone off-camera—had been burning a hole in his mind for days. He had looked at it every night, searching the pixels of her face for something he couldn't quite grasp. A memory. A feeling. A reason why a woman he had never met felt like someone he had known his entire life.And now here he was, standing in the private vault of First Manhattan Bank on a Tuesday morning, staring at a metal box he had not opened since before the accident. He didn't remember making the decision to come here. He had simply found himself in the car, then at the bank, then signing the access forms with a hand that was not quite steady. Some instinct had driven him her

___POV: Scarlett---Scarlett packed her bag with shaking hands.The penthouse was silent—that heavy, velvet silence that came after midnight, when even the city outside seemed to hold its breath. Adrian was asleep in the bedroom they'd shared for five years, his breathing slow and even, his body sprawled across the sheets like he owned them. Like he owned everything. Like he owned her.Not anymore.She shoved the photograph into her bag—the one of her and Damian, younger and happy and looking at each other like they were the only people in the world. The letter. The death certificate with her name on it, stamped and signed and so coldly official. The voice recorder with Victor Ashford's voice still echoing in her memory: Hale deceased per records. Neither will remember.She zipped the bag closed and turned toward the door.Adrian was standing in the doorway.He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, silk robe hanging open just enough to show the planes of his chest. His hair w