It was the fourth year of my marriage to my arch-nemesis when he got into a car accident. He lost his memory, his mind resetting to the time before we were married. When his eyes landed on my wedding ring, his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Who had the misfortune of marrying you?" 1 I glanced at the gauze wrapped around his head and thought, Pal, if I told you that someone was you, I was genuinely worried you’d have an aneurysm on the spot. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't you." "When did you get married?" "Four years ago." "And what did I do?" A sly smile spread across my face. "You gave me a huge wedding gift. A very fat check." His gaze dropped, a flicker of something like melancholy crossing his handsome features. "That's impossible." Even with amnesia, he was still impossible to fool. Given our history, he would never have given me a generous gift. He would have been more likely to spike the punch at the reception, just to turn my wedding into the biggest joke of the century. Watching him stand there, lost in thought, my hand moved faster than my brain. I reached out and pinched his cheek. "Come on, let's go home." "Home?" His eyes suddenly lit up, as if he'd just been handed a sliver of hope. I quickly fabricated a story. "Right. The Thorne family business went bankrupt, you know? You're my servant now." Bart Thorne, who had always seemed unbreakable, finally shattered into a million pieces. I committed to the role completely, calling ahead to brief the household staff. I even cleared it with his parents, explaining that we'd keep up the pretense for a while to let him recover without the stress of worrying about the company. So, as we sat in the car, he clung to one last shred of hope. He called his parents to confirm. The voice on the other end was grim. "Son, it's true. We've lost everything." He lowered the phone, his eyes rimmed with red. The golden boy, the prince of the city, was now a penniless nobody. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice low. "So, what exactly do I do at your house?" "Oh, all sorts of things. Laundry, cooking, serving tea… and washing my feet." He turned his head to stare out the window, his sharp, handsome profile now etched with a profound sense of loss, giving him a kind of broken beauty. Anyone would have looked at him and thought, Oh, that poor, handsome devil. Inside, I was about to burst with glee, but I managed to keep a straight face. You have to understand, the usual Bart Thorne was the imperious, untouchable ice king. His life had been a gilded path, a destiny written in the stars. He moved through the world like he owned it. I once joked that the only time I'd ever see Bart Thorne get misty-eyed for me would be at my funeral. The comment got back to him, of course. He'd just smirked and said, "Don't flatter yourself. The only thing I'd bring to your funeral is fireworks." Seeing him this vulnerable now? It was absolutely priceless. I spent the entire ride home fighting back a triumphant grin. 2 When we got home, I went straight to my study to deal with a pile of paperwork. Later, when I returned to my bedroom, I found Bart standing there, a basin of water for washing my feet placed neatly on the floor. He was frozen, staring at something in his hands. I followed his gaze and my stomach dropped. It was his pajama shirt. For all his arrogance, he was surprisingly sentimental about some things. He’d worn the same pajamas since college, even after four years of marriage. He turned to me, his eyes clouded with confusion. "You're married. So why are my things in your room?" I sauntered over, a wicked smile playing on my lips. I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him close. His ears turned a bright, tell-tale red, and he quickly averted his eyes. "Wh-what are you doing?" My fingertips traced lazy circles on his firm chest. "My husband… he’s been abroad for a long time. You know how it is. A girl gets lonely. I have certain… needs that require attention." His eyes widened in shock. "So… I'm your affair? Your lover on the side?" "Or is 'plaything' a more accurate term?" I mused. I opened my mouth to continue, but stopped. He had lowered his head, his eyes shadowed with a deep, weary sadness. His voice was a choked whisper. "A plaything… Fine." For a moment, a pang of guilt hit me. He looked so lost, so utterly pitiful. Had I gone too far? Bart Thorne was a man defined by his pride. Waking up to find himself a bankrupt servant and now a clandestine lover… was it too much of a blow? But before I could second-guess myself, I was yanked into a fierce embrace. His mouth crashed down on mine, a brutal, all-consuming kiss that left no room for negotiation. It was a kiss of desperation, a reckless, all-or-nothing assault. 3 Even with his memory gone, his skills in this department hadn't diminished one bit. He’d been in the hospital for two weeks, which meant I’d been on a dry spell for just as long. The moment his lips touched mine, it was like lightning striking dry tinder. In a dizzying haze, we ended up tangled in the sheets. He was more intense than usual, almost frantic, leaving me begging for him to slow down. In the pale moonlight, his eyes burned with a raw, possessive hunger. He nibbled on my earlobe, his voice a low, rough growl. "Like this?" "Yes… just… gentler…" "Me or your husband… who's better?" "..." "Answer me." "Ah…" He bit my neck, his movements urgent and demanding, pressing for an answer. My mind was a fog. It wasn't that I didn't want to answer; it was that I honestly didn't know how. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I felt someone pull me into a tight embrace. "Why him," a voice murmured against my hair, "and not me?" Turning and burrowing into his arms had become a deeply ingrained instinct. I nuzzled against his chin and whispered, "Husband…" The body holding me went rigid. The next morning, I woke up and instinctively reached for the person beside me, only to find the space cold and empty. My eyes flew open, and I shot out of bed. My heart only settled when I saw him downstairs at the dining table, bustling about. It’s terrifying how quickly you can get used to someone. When I sat down, Bart and the rest of the staff stood to the side, waiting. I reached out and tugged on his arm. "Come on, eat with me. Aren't you hungry after last night?" Teasing him had become second nature. He sat down, looking a bit awkward. Halfway through his meal, he asked, his voice laced with a pained reluctance, "Your husband. Is it… Leo Vance?" I almost spat out my milk. I managed to swallow, forcing myself to remain calm. But seeing the utter desolation on his face, it was clear that the name Leo Vance had left a deep and painful scar on his memory. 4 Leo, you could say, was my first love. Back in college, he was a senior assigned to help with freshman orientation. He was the complete opposite of Bart. From the time we were kids, Bart was the golden boy our parents always compared me to. We became mortal enemies after a massive fight over who got to be the 'emperor' while playing make-believe. Somehow, our lives followed the same trajectory, and we were constantly in each other's orbits, competing over everything. I took up piano; his family bought a new Steinway. I started oil painting; he took up sketching. I said I was aiming for Auden University; he said he could get into Blackwood. In the end, he scored thirty points higher than me on the entrance exams, and we ended up at the same damn university. I called it a curse. He called it fate. On campus, we went our separate ways. I was quickly swallowed by the crowd. As I drifted aimlessly, I looked back and saw Bart. His height and striking looks made him stand out like a beacon. I opened my mouth to call his name, but a girl with flushed cheeks rushed up to him, nervously asking for his number. The sunlight caught in his eyes, turning them gold. The words died in my throat. I turned away, never finding out if he gave her his number or not. And that was when I met Leo. He smiled at me, a gentle, welcoming smile. "Hey, freshman. What's your major?" He was nothing like Bart. He was a world away from the constant competition and antagonism. I confessed my feelings to him after a club outing to an amusement park. "Let's have an archery contest, Leo," I'd challenged him. The prize for winning was a little stuffed animal. "I bet you can't win more than me." As night fell, the park lights softened everyone's edges. The wind rustled his hair as he smiled that easy smile of his. "Of course you'll win in the end. Because all of my prizes… are going to you." I froze. It had never occurred to me that someone would concede so easily, just because they knew I wanted to win. That night, I told him how I felt, and he said yes. Leo was a wonderful boyfriend. He'd bring me breakfast and a bouquet of my favorite flowers on every date. Even when he was swamped with his studies, spending countless hours in the lab, he always found time to surprise me. If it weren't for what happened later, Bart and I might never have found our way to each other. Lost in thought, I glanced at his profile. My silence was its own answer. When no denial came, Bart let out a quiet, defeated, "I see." I was so used to his arrogant, swaggering confidence. Seeing him like this, looking like a kicked puppy, softened my heart. "You know, actually, you—" "I know," he cut me off, his gaze fixed on the ceiling with a tragic, ninety-degree tilt of his head. "I'm just the other man. I have no right to ask for more."
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