The Wives He Forgot Novels & Stories

“It really doesn’t sound like you’re joking.” “I’m not!” I defended. “Then what’s going to happen now? How much does he remember?” I leaned against the seat and took a deep breath. “Well, let’s just say that he doesn’t remember our marriage at all.” “What? Then how did he treat you? Did he treat you like a stranger?” “I honestly thought that he would, but what’s strange is that he acted more like a stranger when he remembered everything about our relationship. Now that he doesn’t remember at all, he acts more like my husband— he’s cuter.”

The last thing he wanted to do was to offend the nuns, so he raised his voice and called out to his wife, “Fifi! Fifi! I know you still remember me! I’m back, Fifi, and I promise—I’m never going to do anything life-threatening ever again! Please… Please don’t be mad at me. Come on, let’s go home!” Faye remained on her knees, her hand never once missing a beat as she tapped the wooden fish to an unfaltering rhythm. Zayn’s words seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Zayn watched her reaction—or lack thereof—as his heart sank. Had Faye really forgotten about him?! “Sir, it seems to me that Wang Que is not your wife after all. I am giving you a final warning; please leave us be.” Zayn’s eyes never

Years later, when everyone had forgotten. That someone like Henry ever existed in their lives, he surfaced.... In a completely different country; Country B However.... This time, he surfaced as a different person. He had completely forgotten about them.... He had forgotten all about her. His only memory was of his maid.... His maid who had worked for him eight years ago..... Quinn.... This was the only memory he had.... He didn't remember them getting married at all. How were they going to unite again??? Even if they did, how were they going to remain the same as before?

My hands gripped the chair tightly, trying to reassure myself. If the memories he lost couldn’t be remembered, they could be made again. A spark of hope began to rise in my chest. After all, Sebastian didn’t push me away at all. He still trusted me as his wife; he still let me stay close to him. Yes. This was a good sign—he would regain his memory as we revisited the moments we had shared before. And if not, then we would create new memories together.

Her teasing smirk is back within seconds as she dramatically dusts off imaginary lint from her shoulders. "Well, I am pretty awesome, after all," she muses, flipping her dark curls over her shoulder with exaggerated confidence. "You both are lucky to have me." A collective giggle sounds from all of us, the warmth of our friendship wrapping around me like a comforting hug. Just then, my phone buzzes against the table, the screen lighting up with a familiar contact name. A slow grin stretches across my lips. Hubby: "Did you know my wife completely forgets I exist the moment she’s with her friends? It’s like I’m nothing but a distant memory. She even turned down my lunch invitation—cold, heartl

If I show him that this bothers me, he will continue to do it. Before entering Max’s room, I knock on the door. When I don’t get a response, I slowly open it and say, “Maxwell, you will need to get up or you will be late for work. I am making breakfast for you and your friend. Here are her clothes.” I drop the clothes just inside the door. Maxwell groans, and the woman asks, “Who is that?” Max is quick to respond, “That’s my wife. I would introduce you, but I forgot your name.” The woman leaves in a huff.

Whenever Damien Blackwood looked at me like this, my body remembered things I wanted to forget. His mouth on my neck, his hand slid up my thigh under the dinner table while we smiled in front of guests. The way he once pressed me against the wall in this house and whispered against my lips, “You drive me crazy.” I hated that my skin still remembered him, that even now, with divorce papers in front of me, my pulse still jumped when he looked at my mouth for one second too long. His voice then dropped lower. “You know why we’re here.” “Do I?”

“You’re crossing a line.” Nathaniel held my gaze. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then I said, deliberately, “Don’t say my wife’s name.” I warned. The word wife came out automatically, as if she was still mine. As if we weren’t in the middle of a very messy, very public divorce. Nathaniel noticed, and somehow that seemed to irritate him even more. “Your wife,” he repeated, “was treated like an inconvenience in her own home.” “That is not your problem.”

A lot of it. She blinked hard, trying to focus, her breathing shallow and ragged. Where was she? How did she get here? Fragments of memory slammed into her like broken glass. She had been following a lead. A quiet meeting with a former Hartley employee who claimed to know the truth about the “disappeared” wives. The man had been nervous, whispering about the Circle, about rituals, about how the family didn’t just control wealth … They played God with their lives. Then pain.

Love does not excuse control. Fear does not excuse stalking. Regret does not erase the consequences. I looked at him one time. I had no tears left. No resentment, no hope. Just certainty. My voice stayed steady as I looked him in the eye. "You lost the right to know where I am the day I stopped calling you my husband."